Minus Me

by Mameve Medwed

  This morning she snared the first appointment of the day at Cutting Edge. “Just a trim,” she told Dee Dee, “and a wash and blow dry.”

  Dee Dee raked a comb through her bangs and clipped the edges. “I know why you’re getting your hair done,” she said.

  “You do?”

  “Of course. Your mother’s all over the paper.” She evened out one side. “But Ralphie told me first.”

  “Ralphie?” Annie asked, sounding out the word as if it had been Sanskrit or Japanese.

  Dee Dee stopped. She held the brush suspended over Annie’s head. “In all honesty …”

  “Yes?”

  “… Ralphie’s taking me to the ceremony.”

  “Oh?”

  “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why would I mind?”

  “Because the first time you came to the salon, well, you know … Later, he said it didn’t work out.” She resumed her brushing. “And now we’ve had a few dates.”

  Annie lifted her chin so suddenly that Dee Dee jumped back. “Careful; I don’t want to leave a scar for your big day.”

  “My mother’s big day,” Annie corrected.

  “Ralphie told me what happened that afternoon at Michaud’s.”

  “Nothing happened. I’m married. Happily. You know I would never …”

  “Don’t worry, Annie. I can keep a secret. Discretion is a huge part of the job description for all hairdressers.”

  What Ralphie told Dee Dee, Annie could only imagine. No doubt a pack of lies, though the truth was bad enough. She cringed at the memory of the pot, the attempted kiss, the sight of the leopard-print briefs. Forget it, she instructed herself. At the moment she had other, bigger things to worry about. Let Ralphie date Dee Dee. Her red curls and perky breasts would be just up his pot-smoking, beer-guzzling, unwanted-advances alley. Besides, she was one person who could take care of herself. Not to mention age appropriate. Better Dee Dee than Megan. Better Dee Dee than her.

  “So, you don’t mind?” Dee Dee asked.

  “Not in the least. In fact, you both have my blessing.”

  “Phew.” Dee Dee adjusted an errant lock. “And, by the way, just in case your mother needs someone to do her hair …”

  * * *

  Now Annie checks the clock on the kitchen wall: 2:07. Her mother will be here within the hour. Unless—if only—her plane is delayed. No such luck; the sky is clear and bright even for February. The few clouds are fluffy and almost pink. She stands in front of the mirror. Well, she’s as prepared as she’ll ever be. Her hair looks good. She’s wearing a dress rather than her usual jeans, earrings, and a strand of silver beads. She’s invested in panty hose and shoes with heels.

  One good—goodish—thing: she’s been so busy, so anxious getting ready for Ursula, she has barely thought about her illness.

  Until this morning.

  Clasping her necklace, she felt a lump in her neck, a swollen node. Here we go, she groaned. She’ll deal with it as soon as her mother leaves. At least her appointment in Portland is just a few days away. Lucky for her, Ursula is staying only one night. She can get through this.

  Can’t she?

  * * *

  She’s sitting by the living room window when the car pulls into the driveway. Her heart does a loop-de-loop. Her legs liquefy. Chin up; get a grip, she tells herself; besides, compared to what she’s already facing, how much fear can a mere mortal like Ursula provoke?

  A lot.

  Annie smooths her hair, tugs at her dress. She watches Dr. Buckley climb out of the driver’s seat and open the trunk. She watches as he extracts three suitcases patterned with LVs. Classic Louis Vuitton antiques, her mother once explained, sought out by decorators to be stacked as coffee tables in penthouse living rooms. The way Dr. Buckley struggles with them, it’s clear they’re meant for redcaps in uniforms or liveried chauffeurs, not small-town doctors used to lifting nothing heavier than a stethoscope.

  Now the passenger side door opens; out peeks a sparkly high-heeled boot, followed by a few inches of fur, a pocketbook, a glove, the fringe of a scarf—until the whole Ursula comes into view, clad in her What becomes a legend most? mink coat and matching mink-trimmed chapeau. Cars in the street slow and lower their windows. A man on the sidewalk toting grocery bags stops to stare.

  And why not? No one can make an entrance like Ursula. All that’s missing is the roar of the audience. Or the splattered eggs of PETA picketers.

  There’s no turning back. Annie moves to the door. She opens it.

  “Darling,” Ursula calls. Projected to the farthest balcony, it’s a voice made to shatter glass. Or a daughter’s heart. In seconds, Annie is engulfed in fur and Shalimar. “My baby girl,” Ursula clucks.

  “Hello, Ursula,” Annie says. Even up close, her mother’s face is flawless; not a wrinkle mars her perfect skin. Are her cheeks fuller than usual, her mouth more plump? Has she undergone additional nips and tucks since the last time Annie saw her?

  Ursula holds her daughter at arm’s length. “Let me look at you, darling.” Her heavily lashed eyes sweep from Annie’s toes to her head and back again. “As for you, Arabella … you have not changed one bit.”

  A compliment? Or a complaint?

  “On the other hand,” her mother continues, “that is an entirely flattering coiffure. Surely not a product of”—she makes a moue of distaste—“Passamaquoddy?”

  “Actually, yes. A new hairdresser just moved here from …” She’s about to say New Jersey but changes her mind. “New York,” she finishes.

  “Which explains everything.”

  Inside the front door, Annie instructs Dr. Buckley to stack the suitcases under the hall stairs, assuring him that Sam will bring them to the guest room when he gets home. Though he protests, Dr. Buckley is clearly relieved to be free of what to Ursula is one day’s worth of luggage and to anybody else is enough for a year abroad. “Why don’t I leave you girls to get reacquainted?” Dr. Buckley suggests. He pulls out a handkerchief and daubs at his glistening brow.

  Ursula puts a hand on Dr. Buckley’s arm. “Ambrose, darling, I just adore that you refer to my daughter and me as ‘girls.’ ” Giggling girlishly, she places three kisses on each of Dr. Buckley’s cheeks. “À bientôt,” she says, and then translates: “See you soon.”

  Does Dr. Buckley’s face redden, or is he just reflecting a transferred layer of Ursula’s Crème de Chanel blush?

  Annie walks Dr. Buckley to the door. “Thank you for taking such good care of Ursula,” she says.

  “My pleasure,” Dr. Buckley replies. His expression turns medical. He studies her. “How are you, Annie?” he asks.

  “Great.” Reaching for the knob, she hesitates. Now is not the time to bring up new symptoms. She opens the door for him.

  He takes her hands in his. He presses his fingers against hers. “Tell her.”

  She pulls her hands away. “Impossible,” she says. “And don’t you dare.”

  “Only with your permission,” he promises. “Still, remember she’s your mother. She loves you. She cares about your welfare. She’ll want to do her best for you.”

  * * *

  After he leaves and after Annie has managed to poke her node a few more times, Ursula returns with a fresh coat of lipstick and a new layer of eyelash fringe. “What a lovely man,” she pronounces. “And rather handsome. So dreadfully unfair that age will always flatter men the way it never does women. Of course, it helps that he never went bald. A fine head of hair clearly enhances a man’s appeal. What a waste that I didn’t fully appreciate him when I lived here. Not that he didn’t catch my eye … but …”

  “But you were married?”

  “Yes, that …”

  “And he was married too.”

  “Not that true love can’t surmount a multitude of obstacles. However, to his credit and as a demonstration of his character, Ambrose was always exceedingly loyal to his wife.” She sighs. “You and that dear Sam of yours seem to have all the luck.”


  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your path to true love always appeared smooth as velvet.”

  “You think so?”

  Ursula must register the stunned look on Annie’s face, because she hurries to add, “Darling, so many women go through this loss.”

  “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  “I myself have had …”

  “You had what, Ursula? You had miscarriages? A stillbirth?”

  “No. Not precisely. But I did suffer …”

  “An abortion, you mean? Abortions? Plural.”

  “It wasn’t easy, Arabella. Not that I intend to criticize, but you can be highly judgmental.” She fingers her ropes of pearls. “No, what I mean, what I meant to say—which you rushed to misinterpret—was that your loss obviously has brought you and Sam closer.”

  “How would you, of all people, know?”

  “Because, if nothing else, your mother is extremely observant. It’s part of my training in the theater, darling. My studies at the Actors Studio. Why, Lee Strasberg himself praised my powers of perception.”

  Annie considers presenting her mother with a list of what she did not observe: the signs of appendicitis, of her husband’s unhappiness, of a shy and lonely child who couldn’t get her mother’s attention no matter how hard she tried. But what is the point? She’s tired of playing the prosecutor before a jury who will never find her mother guilty of anything but an excess of beauty, an excess of charm.

  Ursula bends over one of her suitcases and jabs it with the sharp toe of her boot. “Let’s move on to subjects entirely more pleasant. My plan for this visit is only peace and joy. Darling, I absolutely cannot wait one more second to show what I’ve brought for you.”

  She unfastens the suitcase. She lifts the top. From under layers of pale-pink tissue paper, she pulls out a silver box. The box is huge, tied with white satin ribbons, a sprig of lavender tucked into the bow. “Shall we take it into the living room and open it there?” Ursula asks.

  Side by side on the sofa, mother and daughter nestle against the Maine-themed pillows. Ursula passes the box to Annie. Annie unties the ribbons. She removes the cover and peels away more pale-pink tissue paper. Underneath lies a honeymoon’s treasure trove of exquisite lingerie: bras of thin translucent silk flaunt lace inserts placed strategically; garter belts display ruffles with satin streamers threaded through them; slips sport delicate embroidery and wispy straps; panties of lace and gossamer feel weightless; a brocade bustier is a wonder of engineering; a nightgown edged in garlands of organdy flowers could rival any runway bridal dress.

  Would a person actually sleep in this confection? Annie marvels. Aside from her long-ago wedding night, what occasion could live up to such delicate underpinnings? A trip to the store to assemble sandwiches? To the market? To the multiplex next to a mall? In bed, wouldn’t such delicacy induce fear of rips and tears and thus inhibit spontaneity? “Really beautiful,” Annie gushes.

  “Indeed! I just knew you’d appreciate my choices for you.”

  Yes, Annie thinks, the way you appreciate the Mona Lisa—from behind a braided rope. Would she wear them? She looks closer. Could she wear them? She picks up a bra. Could she squeeze her breasts into these fragile vessels? Could she slip these sweet nothings up over her thighs, let alone her big toe?

  “I had to guess the size,” Ursula confesses. “I hope …”

  “Perfect,” Annie fibs.

  “Made in Italy. And France. From a little shop on upper Fifth. I buy all my basics there.”

  “They look like they belong in a museum,” Annie says. “The costume collection of the Met.”

  “Thank you, darling. I trust you and Sam will enjoy delightful adventures while wearing them.”

  * * *

  Fortunately, Ursula declines Annie’s offer of tea and toast or a nip of something stronger. Fortunately, Ursula wants a beauty nap and a long soak in the tub before her big night. From another suitcase, Ursula extracts her pillow and scented candle. Annie ushers her up to the guest room.

  On the threshold, Ursula oohs and aahs. “How cozy. How sweet. Such a cheerful yellow color. And those Van Gogh sunflowers always remind me of my trips to Provence. I can practically smell the lavender, darling. I have a friend, one of those financial geniuses, who has an original Van Gogh in his guest bathroom, and every time I sink into that tub … Well, no matter …” She fingers the hemstitched border of a sheet, turns on a bedside lamp. “You’d almost never know that this once …”

  “Anytime you change your mind and want tea—or a drink—” Annie cuts in.

  “You are quite spoiling me. Such bliss, once again, to be under the same roof.”

  Annie refrains from mentioning that they were hardly under the same roof when, according to the census, they actually lived under the same roof. “Sweet dreams,” she wishes her mother, and closes the door.

  She tiptoes to her own bedroom, where she dumps the underwear on her bed. She arranges the silky pieces in proper anatomical formation. She steps back to admire her creation. Which, from a certain point of view, resembles a police outline of a murder victim, a rich murder victim. How funny to see something so French, so Italian, so erotic lying on top of their solid American log-cabin quilt. She starts to laugh.

  Until she remembers how little she has to laugh about.

  She sneaks into the study. She turns on the computer and Googles the Fifth Avenue lingerie store. Right away, the inventory, with prices attached, fills the screen. She gasps. One of the bras costs $288.97. The nightgown sells for over $600. Even the teeny tiny underpants are in the $200 range. If only she were the math student her mother boasted she is, she’d be able to figure the cost per skimpy square inch. Can she return them? Not if Ursula is the regular patron she claims to be. She bookmarks the site, then clicks on the icon for the manual.

  Note to Sam: Put the underwear Ursula brought me on eBay. Make sure you advertise it’s brand new and never worn. Made in France and in Italy. If you check out the prices online—Google the label—you’ll be shocked. But what a good chunk of dough to put toward buying Mr. Aherne’s annex. Though, I must admit, I’m sorry I won’t have the chance to model these for you in the privacy of our boudoir! Even if I could fit into them.

  She collapses on her bed next to the lingerie-outlined crime scene. She buries her head in a silk nightgown. Only twenty-four hours, she tells herself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Annie and Sam arrive at city hall, thirty minutes before the ceremony, the parking lot is nearly full. Unusual, since everything starts late in sleepy Passamaquoddy, especially functions open to the public. Though Sam warned her, Ursula insisted on getting there an hour early. “I must memorize the stage blocking and test the microphone,” she insisted. “And, of course, the lighting always requires vigorous fine-tuning.”

  As prearranged, Dr. Buckley came by to pick up Ursula. When Annie opened the door, he stood on the stoop gripping an orchid corsage, bashful as a prom date.

  “Have fun, kids,” Sam joked. “No hanky-panky. And remember your curfews.”

  Ursula looked stunning in a long silvery dress, cut low to reveal an acreage of snowy breasts and creamy shoulders. She wore diamonds in her ears, pearls roped around her neck, rubies sparkling from fingers and wrists. Her shoes, silver and buckled with rhinestone clips, added four inches to her height; her makeup confirmed the skill of a professional used to fussing over powders and emollients in backstage dressing rooms.

  “Wow,” Annie exclaimed. “Far too gorgeous for Maine.”

  “Nonsense.” Ursula twirled around to show the full effect. “Mrs. Astor herself would always wear her best Givenchy, her most lavish jewels, even when she greeted a museum’s janitorial staff or held a reception for the disadvantaged or visited a tenement. In fact, I remember her exact quote: ‘If I go up to Harlem or down to Sixth Street and I’m not dressed up or I’m not wearing my jewelry, then the people feel like I’m talking down to them. People expect
to see Mrs. Astor, not some dowdy old lady, and I don’t intend to disappoint them.’ ” Ursula shook her head in admiration. “She’s my inspiration.”

  Unlike her mother, Annie is no Mrs. Astor. Even in her purchased-for-the-occasion dress, she more closely resembles Ursula’s maid or a drab governess. “Don’t you have anything else to wear?” Ursula asked when Annie first appeared downstairs.

  “I bought this specially. Though the choices are kind of limited around here,” she replied, deflated.

  “My wife is beautiful,” protested Sam.

  “Which is the only opinion that matters. How lucky to have a husband who views one through rose-colored glasses.” Ursula clasped a ruby-and-emerald brooch onto Annie’s collar, instantly brightening the whole ensemble. She plucked a piece of loose thread from Annie’s shoulder. “Keep the pin.”

  “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, darling. This may surprise you, but it’s actually my second tier. Costume jewelry.”

  * * *

  Now Sam manages to squeeze their car between two pickup trucks with dice dangling from the windshields and rust patterns like mirror images of each other. He has already spent the afternoon here with Megan and a half dozen hairnetted ladies from the basement cafeteria arranging the mini Paul Bunyans on trays. He’s been able to track down some extra-strength toothpicks, which he hopes will hold the layers together long enough for them to make their way intact into the mouths of the citizenry. He’s nervous about how easily they may fall apart, considering he’s never chopped them into bite-size pieces before. “Though not as worried about my sandwiches as you are about your mother,” he concedes. He puts a hand on her arm. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m internalizing the little engine that could. I think I can. I think I can.”