The Makedown

by Gitty Daneshvari

  “How did you find me?” I ask pitifully.

  “Sweetie, I’m your Fairy Godmother. I always know where you are. It’s called caller ID,” Janice says flatly.

  “And they just gave you a key to my room? What if you were some stranger off the street?”

  “You’ve made quite the impression downstairs. They were taking bets on whether you’d jump out the window. Trust me, they were more than willing to let you be someone else’s problem.”

  “I’m already dead. Run . . . save yourself.”

  “Get up!” Janice barks authoritatively. “You’ve missed three days of work, run up a hotel tab that will take you a year of baking quiches to pay off, and from the smell of this place, I suspect you have done permanent damage to your gums. You need to get up.”

  “Janice, you aren’t listening to me,” I yell from under the blanket, “I am dead! Go away!”

  “I know you are dead inside. I’m not trying to diminish that. I simply want you to continue your journey to gingivitis in my guest room. I can keep an eye on you in case you decide to rethink the metaphorical death for a more literal one.”

  Janice’s guest room is painted a deep crimson, which seems somehow appropriate. I imagine that I am in the center of my own personal bloodbath. Janice tiptoes into the room, goes directly to the window, and flings open the curtains. Sunlight burns my corneas. It’s been days since I have seen natural light.

  “Please close the curtains,” I beg.

  “Not unless you take a shower.”

  “You said you would leave me alone.”

  “I have left you alone for days. You smell. Either sit in the sunlight or shower. It’s up to you.”

  “I’ll shower.”

  Janice hands me a toothbrush with toothpaste and walks me to the bathroom. She holds my greasy hair back while I brush my tongue vigorously. When I finish brushing, she turns on the shower and shuts the bathroom door.

  The shower pressure hurts my skin as it penetrates the protective layer of grime covering my body. My hair is vile and requires two washings to remove the grease. I run my tongue against my newly clean teeth. Only now, as I towel off, do I realize how nice it is to have found hygiene again. I leave the shower dressed in a white terry cloth robe and return to bed.

  I wake almost fifteen hours later to Janice. Once again, she leads me through the motions of brushing and washing. This time I change into jeans and a sweater. I attempt to apply makeup but stop after foundation, realizing it will smear when I cry. Who needs the mess?

  Alone with the paper, I scan the listings for available apartments. It is a painful reminder of the breakup: we no longer live together because he dumped me. Ben doesn’t love me, but I still love him. I want to know what Ben is doing at this very second. Is he eating eggs or reading the paper? Is he thinking of me? Does he miss me? The answer is no. He broke up with me. I am the woman he knows he doesn’t want. And what is worse, I can’t even blame him— I wouldn’t want me either.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  My downstairs neighbor plays scales on his piano. At first, I found it repetitive and annoying, but now I take comfort in it. This is my first Saturday night in my minuscule studio apartment on the least charming street in the East Village. And yes, I have my own bathroom. I bought a mattress and box spring and covered it with a crisp white duvet. I want to make the apartment as cheery as possible to combat my desperate feelings of loneliness. A few personal items along with posters given to me by Janice add a bit of life to the place. I like thin walls for the first time in my life. I enjoy the piano scales downstairs mixing with the college girls laughing next door. This is the only kind of company I can handle. My mind often finds its way to the lamest question any newly single woman can ask: “I wonder what he’s doing right now?” Late at night, when I would normally be driven to violent tantrums by noisy neighbors, I take pleasure in the distraction.

  For my first Saturday night dinner, I am preparing a tea party for myself. I have made fig tarts from scratch, coconut macaroons, cucumber sandwiches, chocolate chip cookies, and a pot of English breakfast tea. I lay a small pink and white sheet on the floor near the quiet neighbor and set up my tea party. I haven’t heard much from this apartment beside an occasional Enya song.

  With my first bite of fig tart in my mouth, Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares 2 U” starts playing next door. It’s impossible for me to cheer myself up with this breakup anthem playing. Maybe I should give in and release my sadness through a song. My duet with Sinead O’Connor feels amazing.

  “Will you shut the fuck up!” a man screams through the wall. “I didn’t invite you to my pity party.”

  I am too embarrassed to respond or even to stay awake. I chase an Ambien with three gulps of vodka, a recipe passed on from Mother. She claims her doctor recommends the combination, but Barney says she discovered it the old-fashioned way, crank-calling Dad. Apparently, half an Ambien and two large gulps of vodka was not enough to stop Mother from crank-calling Dad in her bad Chinese accent, saying, “I know you at Tiananmen.” However, a whole Ambien and three gulps put her straight to sleep.

  In this postapocalyptic state, I cannot remember life before Ben and I still can’t imagine life after him. There isn’t a definition good enough to describe the loneliness I experience. I check my messages, crossing my fingers that Ben has called. I shut my eyes. I pray. Please be Ben. I punch in my password and walk to the fridge to grab a mini Pellegrino. I buy Pellegrino because I like the way it looks in my fridge. It’s superficial, especially since it’s a mini fridge.

  “Anna, call me. I saw Ming at the grocery store. Oh, and I bought you a mood ring so you can monitor yourself. Best, Mother.” In the wake of being dumped, I recognize that Mother and I have more in common than I thought. I may not shop on QVC or coin inappropriate racial euphemisms, but I clearly inherited her relationship ignorance. Until Ben dumped me, I never had empathy for Mother and the pain she endured in the divorce. As a scarred woman, I realize that Mother could offer guidance. I need Mother. It’s strange to crave the woman I have most tried to escape. As I dial, I feel a strange excitement at the idea of returning home.

  “Hello?”

  “Mother, I’m coming home,” I say immediately.

  “To Ohio?”

  “Yes, Mother, unless you’ve moved. Can you have Barney get me at the train station at 6:00 p.m. tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Bring dark clothes. We may need to go on a stakeout.”

  The great lengths to which Mother has gone to harass Dad and Ming continue to shock me. Apparently, Mother and Barney have been participating in stakeouts outside of Dad and Ming’s house. They usually happen around 8:30 on a Friday or Saturday night. Dressed in dark hooded sweatshirts, Mother and Barney scope out the house, noting which lights are on. Mother then takes Barney to Dunkin’ Donuts before heading back, where they patiently wait for all the lights to go out. While waiting, the two play trivia games by the light of the console. This is family bonding at its most dysfunctional.

  On these missions, Mother calls Barney “Yun Lee” and Barney calls Mother “Soon Yi.” Mother’s reasoning is that if Dad hears them talking, he will think some of Ming’s Chinese gang-member friends are casing the house. However, for a couple of sheltered Ohio natives, the names are too hard to remember. More often than not, they call each other “Lee” and “Yi.”

  Having absorbed this information, I second-guess my decision to go home; however, there are no other opportunities for guidance on the horizon.

  After eleven hours on the train, I disembark in Norfolk, Ohio, smiling expectantly as I scan the landing for Barney. After five minutes, I accept that my stupid brother forgot me. I enter the station to call a cab when I spot Barney hunched over, shoveling lo mein into his mouth. He looks up at me, his face racked with guilt.

  “Don’t tell Mother about the Panda Express. She’ll kill me,” Barney says with food in his mouth. He’s wearing a sweatshirt that says “I Can’t Turn This
Off.” What exactly this refers to is totally beyond me.

  “Barn, relax. I have no interest in upsetting Mother’s strictly enforced Patriot Act.”

  Mother has declared a ban on Chinese food in protest of Ming. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell her that Ming’s family is from the Philippines or that Ming was born in the United States. Chinese food is strictly forbidden.

  Barney drives Mother’s brown station wagon through Norfolk. I stare out the window in silence. I turn toward Barney and realize how far I’ve come. It wasn’t so long ago that I had Barney’s profile, double chin and all.

  “How’s Mother?”

  “I suspect she’s posting things about Ming on the Internet.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I helped her do it. Mother’s not very computer savvy.”

  “Barney, you could get in a lot of trouble.”

  “No way. We refer to her as Ming and to Dad as Ned Forton. Get it? We switched the first two letters of his name.”

  “Actually, if you did it would be Nred, not Ned. Dad’s name is Fred, not Fed. See?”

  “Semantics, my dear.”

  “Next time you’re on the Internet, look up the definition of semantics. I think it might surprise you.”

  The car returns to silence as we enter Mother’s neighborhood. Living in New York, I appreciate the simple magic of tree-lined suburban streets. However, at this moment, I would rather approach someone else’s childhood home at the end of a tree-lined street. I am nervous to see Mother. What if she fails me in my quest for comfort?

  “Can you open up the glove compartment? I need the Scope and air freshener.”

  I hand Barney the items. He quickly covers himself with a lilac room spray and swallows some mouthwash. He catches my quizzical look and explains, “You would be surprised how much Chinese food sticks to clothes.”

  “Barney, this whole Chinese thing has gone too far. I am going to say something to her.”

  “Anna, I am going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Barney responds firmly.

  “Barney, Ming’s not even Chinese.”

  “Please don’t rock the boat. If you get any cravings, I know a place that will deliver to the back window in a KFC bag.”

  “I am speechless.”

  “By the way, sorry about Ben. I spent some quality time with him in the fort, and I really thought he was a keeper.”

  “So did I, but he ate a lot of Chinese food. It was a deal breaker— out of loyalty to Mother,” I deadpan. Sarcasm is my only hope of staying sane here. Not that Barney even takes it in, as he is too focused on the pressing matter of deception.

  “Quick, check my breath,” he gasps as we pull into the driveway.

  Mother’s house never changes. The moderately green grass never varies in color and the hedges remain as poorly trimmed as I remember. The one-story dark brown house with forest green trim is a monument to the prefabricated homes built after World War II. Mother’s appliances, like the furniture, haven’t been updated since the early 1970s. I follow the thin brick walkway from the driveway to the front door. A dilapidated barbecue still sits to the right of the door, waiting for someone to use it. Next to the barbecue is a large potted plant Mother bought for the sole purpose of hiding a spare house key. The entire neighborhood has seen Barney retrieve the key at least twice a week for twenty years. There’s no risk of robbery; it’s a well-known fact that we don’t own anything worth taking. The faded orange curtains in the front window communicate an important message to potential out-of-town burglars: “Cheap people live here.”

  My memory of home is tied to the smell trapped in these walls; an indelicate odor akin to Aqua Net meets mothballs with a splash of Irish Spring soap. I used to hate this smell, but as I approach the door, I look forward to it. Ben was my foundation, and without him, I must return to my former definition of home.

  Immediately upon entering the house, the smell triggers the sensation of cozy depression. This is the place where I sought refuge from the world while simultaneously feeling trapped by my family.

  Mother enters the living room in a mint green Jacqueline Smith pantsuit. She is overaccessorized with dangly zirconium earrings and a matching necklace. Before she even says hello, she points to her left hand like a newly engaged woman dying to show off her rock. It’s a pink marbled ring that clashes with her fake diamond ensemble.

  “Pink means happy! I must be happy you are home!” Mother has yet to hug me or kiss my cheek. Instead, she takes off the ring and shoves it onto my index finger.

  “Let’s see how you are doing.”

  “Mother, I’m not really in the mood for—”

  “You don’t need to tell me. I can see from the dark blue that this breakup is taking a toll on you. Poor little lady.”

  Mother finally embraces me, patting my back and whispering “there, there” into my ear as if I were crying. It’s nice to be hugged by someone other than Janice. Barney didn’t hug me at the train station. Maybe he was too preoccupied with the Panda Express.

  “Mother, I’m okay. Really. Thank you for the ring.”

  “Good job getting your sister, Lee,” Mother says to Barney.

  “Thanks, Yi,” Barney responds proudly. “We need to pick up Jennifer on the way to dinner.”

  Barney is unquestionably a loser, but I was shocked to discover that his girlfriend, Jennifer, is not. Well, at least not the complete loser I expected. She is neither fat nor maimed in any visible manner. She is able to converse fluently in English and she appears to have all her teeth. Jennifer is short and thin with a lopsided bob courtesy of the Norfolk Hair Shop. She dresses like every other middle-class girl in town: jeans and a sweatshirt. Barney hugs her from behind while we wait for the server to seat us, and once seated, Barney watches Jennifer read her plastic menu with obvious pride. It’s actually quite adorable. Barney and Jennifer’s cuteness makes me miss Ben. I yearn for Ben to be next to me at the table, holding my hand. However, I know that Ben no longer wishes to be near me; his friends probably avoid mentioning my name. I am going to cry. Sandwiched between Mother and Jennifer in a booth, I cannot extricate myself in time to hide the tears. I cough hysterically as if a large insect crawled up my throat.

  “Anna, arms up,” Mother says immediately. She slaps my back as mothers always do in films. While I’m sure there is a reason to do this, I haven’t found it.

  “I’m okay, thanks Mother,” I say quietly.

  “Jesus, Anna, what the F happened?” Barney asks.

  “Barney, don’t use the f word,” Mother reprimands.

  “I didn’t; I said F.”

  “Exactly, don’t use the f word.”

  “What? F is a bad word?”

  “It is when it’s a place holder for fuck.”

  “Mother, you can’t throw away letters that bad words begin with. Plus, you said the real f word, so you are not in any position to tell me what to do.”

  “I am an adult.”

  “So is Barney, Mother. Can we please drop it? I would like to get to know Jennifer, and the symposium on bad words is getting in the way,” I plead.

  Barney and Mother eye each other and nod their heads.

  “Jennifer, I understand you work at the multiplex.”

  “I am on concessions. That’s how Barn and I met. I gave him the employee discount on his popcorn because I thought he was cute.”

  “I had been eyeing her for a while. When I ordered the popcorn and she gave me the discount, I just kind of knew.”

  “I knew, too.”

  They stare into each other’s eyes, dreaming about the popcorn that brought them together. “And then I met Mary and, well, we both love QVC, so we started having shopping dates.”

  “In the house?” I ask stupidly.

  “Usually in the living room, but sometimes if Mary is tired, we’ll shop from the bedroom.”

  Mother’s recent addiction to the fast food of art, Thomas Kincaid, is the result of Jennifer’s refined eye
. Jennifer’s proclivity for home shopping exponentially increases her chances of surviving in the family. Being here with them all in Ohio, I see how ludicrous it was for me to try to bring Ben into my world. It’s far too pedestrian a place for someone like him.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Ben was in my dream last night. I don’t remember the dream, but the feeling of sadness and longing remains with me as I sit in my childhood kitchen. I wonder when the exact moment was that Ben stopped loving me. Was it when John told him about the snack visit, or was it weeks or months before? Did it take something jarring for him to admit it? Of course, he may not have ever loved me. He may have simply appreciated me as a companion.

  “Why are you crying?” Barney asks from the doorway.

  “I’m sad, Barney. Really sad.”

  Barney stares at me, unsure how to handle my overt emotions. He apparently decides to ignore them and says cheerily, “Not for long. You are looking at the man who made pigs fly, hell freeze over, dogs talk—”

  “ Barney—”

  “And Mother agree to dinner with Dad.”

  “Are you serious?” I say while blowing my nose.

  “I am Stone Cold Steve Austin serious.”

  “Barney, stop talking like that!”

  “Fine.”

  “Why did you do this?”

  “Jennifer and I have been in love,” Barney says with a wink, “for a while and it’s made me realize that unless Mother buries the hatchet, I will have to have two weddings, two baptisms. It’s going to be too rough on the grandkids. Imagine it: ‘Hey little guy, you don’t mind turning four twice, do you?’ ”

  “Barney, don’t you think you’re jumping the gun on all this—”

  “Anna, I don’t know if you’ve ever been in love, but let me tell you, it’s pretty awesome.”

  “Barney, you know just what to say,” I sniff, fleeing the kitchen for a private sob. I wish them every happiness. But maybe not right now, and not in front of me.