“I think that was actually Caddyshack,” I said.
“Whoa! What happened to your face?”
My mother let out an audible sigh of disgust. “We were so very hopeful that you might be able to tell us that, doctor.”
I don’t know exactly why my mother despises doctors, but her skepticism for their ability to heal people is palpable. When Anjoli has a cold, which is pretty much all the time, she takes herbs, chants, and listens to her Sacred Place of Health CD. She drinks sixty-four ounces of distilled water and three ounces of wheat grass juice every day. (Her mouth isn’t the only orifice that consumes the wheat grass juice, if you catch what I’m saying.) She looks about my age, but feels as old as her grandmother most of the time because her immune system has been weakened by all of the pure foods she puts into it. I remember learning about how one generation of bugs could be wiped out by a dusting of pesticides that would have no effect on the next generation. The phenomenon was called resistance and resurgence. My mother desperately needed to have a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke to build up her resistance to the impurities in the world, New York City in particular.
Every weekend Anjoli attends workshops on energy healing, Qi Gong, chakra spinning, past life regression, future life karmic reparations, and skin care. A few years ago she got Lyme disease at a “total health” retreat in the Pennsylvania mountains. The weekend courses included Chanting for Total Health, White Light for Total Health and Lymphatic Drainage for Total Health. Never a word about tick repellant. Though Anjoli was weak from the Lyme disease and the much-protested antibiotics, I’d never seen her happier than when she had so much healing to do. Last year, she got into radionics, which is where you give a healer $500 to look at a photograph of you, and they do some behind-the-scenes hocus-pocus till you’re good as new. Shockingly, it didn’t work. This past summer, Anjoli went to an “exclusive” Brazilian healing center located at a “very powerful place on the globe.” Apparently the longitudinal and latitudinal bearings made it a perfect spot for healing. To apply for admission, she had to place her hand on a sheet of white paper for a half hour while she remained silent and as motionless as possible. She then mailed the blank paper to Brazil where a team of monks determined whether or not she needed healing. Guess what? She did. She was about as excited as when I was accepted at the University of Michigan. Anjoli made her airline reservation within ten minutes of receiving her call from the admissions office in the Amazon jungle.
Dr. Michaels looked at my face and scrunched with discomfort. “Does that hurt?”
“Only when I look in the mirror,” I said, still garbled. “Listen, can you give me the Bell’s palsy shot and make my face go back to normal? Please?”
“Gosh, I’m real sorry, but that’s not the way it works. These things take some time.”
“What do you mean?” I panicked.
“Most Bell’s palsy takes a few months to-”
“A few months?! A few months?! I’m having a baby in a few months. I can’t spit all over him when I sing lullabies. Think about it, doctor. Is this the first face you’d want to see coming out of the womb?!”
“Newborns can’t see,” he answered.
“Not my point! Isn’t there anything you can do?” I pleaded.
“I hate to bring this up right now, but I do need to let you know that some Bell’s palsy never goes away.”
“Oh my God!” I shouted in a bloodcurdling scream that surely alarmed the entire emergency room. Lowering my voice, I went into desperate insanity. “Doctor, please, please, I’m begging you. My face cannot stay like this. There’s got to be something you can do.”
“Lucy, calm down!” Anjoli shouted. “You’ll frighten the baby.”
Alarmed by my intensity, Dr. Michaels asked if I wanted him to call a neurologist who could better explain Bell’s palsy to me. “A neurologist?! There’s something wrong with my brain? What about the baby? Is the baby’s brain okay? Is his face going to be disfigured too? Oh my God, oh my God,” I kept repeating as Dr. Michaels left the room. A few minutes later, he returned with an Indian woman in a white coat.
“You’re in luck, Mrs. Klein,” Dr. Michaels exclaimed. “I found Dr. Gupta upstairs. She can tell you a lot more about Bell’s palsy than I’m able.” As happy as I was to see a new doctor, one who was purported to be knowledgeable about Bell’s palsy, I didn’t feel as though I was “in luck.” I think you’re permanently disqualified from the lucky category after four miscarriages, a virtual divorce, and a face that could scare small children.
“Are you a neurologist?” I asked. She nodded. “Is my baby okay?”
“That you will need to ask your obstetrician, but the Bell’s palsy should have no effect on your baby,” she said annoyingly calmly.
“Should?”
“It would be exceptionally rare,” she said.
I heard a voice from the past—a male voice without the accent. I’m afraid your baby has exceptionally rare fetal anomalies incompatible with life.
“How can we find out for sure?” I asked. “My baby isn’t due for another two months.”
“There is nothing that we know with entire certainty,” she said. This sparked a deep philosophical conversation with my mother. I grabbed my cane and hobbled toward the hospital exit so I could use my cell phone to call Jack.
As it turned out, Jack, being knowledgeable about most everything, had heard of Bell’s palsy. He disclaimed that he was not an expert on the condition. More important, after fourteen years of marriage, he was an expert on me. Jack assured me that the baby would be fine. “The baby is fine. I guarantee it.” For all of our troubles, I still loved him. He knew exactly what I needed—guarantees. I heard him tapping on the keyboard of his computer, researching Bell’s palsy. He read numerous excerpts from articles, all of which were exactly what I wanted to hear. The baby was fine. My face would go back to normal.
“Are you staying at Anjoli’s for a few days?” Jack asked. “I can still get around just fine,” I said. “It’s just my face that’s paralyzed, not my legs.” Then I reconsidered. “It is late, and I don’t feel like driving back right now, especially with the eye patch. I think I will stay in the city for a few days.”
“That’s wise,” he said. “I’m printing out facial exercises you can do to help rehabilitate your muscles. I’ll swing by your mother’s apartment tomorrow before I head to the gallery.”
“Thank you.”
“Lucy, the baby is fine. Your face will go back to normal in no time, I promise. What does Anjoli always say, ‘Conceive it and believe it, and so it is.’” We laughed. “Hang in there, kiddo. You’re going to come out of this fine.”
Kiddo? Did he just call me kiddo? When the hell did I become kiddo?
Chapter 6
The next morning, I heard the doorbell ring and Anjoli twitter that she was on her way to answer it. It was Jack with a brown bag of bagels, cream cheese, and lox, and a spelt bagel for Anjoli. He’d long since given up the idea that a whole wheat bagel was in the realm of things Anjoli would touch. “Where on earth did you find spelt bagels, darling?” Anjoli giggled from downstairs.
When I agreed to live together as friends and co-parents with Jack, one of my conditions was that we not disclose our new status to friends or family. I found the new deal more than a tad humiliating. It isn’t too often that you hear about couples where the wife announces she is pregnant and the husband replies, “Great, let’s be friends, shall we?” I know Anjoli would be accepting. God knows I had to deal with an unconventional home with her and David, her part-time live-in boyfriend, who also happened to have a wife and kids in Westchester.
My mother and David were together for five years before I found out their relationship was actually an illicit affair. I was always told that David was only with us three nights a week because he traveled a lot for business. At eight years old, I didn’t question this. At thirteen, I began to suspect there was another woman in David’s life. Never did I imagine it was his
wife. He also had two teenage daughters, which I learned about at the worst possible time in my life. It was less than a week after my father’s funeral when we ran into one of David’s colleagues lunching at Maxwell’s Plum. The guy was wearing an Armani suit and a tremendous smile when he approached David’s and my table. “Leslie!” the man approached me excitedly. “I haven’t seen you in years. You look terrific!”
David’s horrified expression filled me in on five years of deception. I’d never seen this man in the suit before, but smiled and said hello as if I knew exactly who he was. David looked relieved that I seemed willing to play along. “You remember Mr. Anderson, don’t you, Leslie? Without his company, Alloretics would have practically no distribution.”
“Practically no distribution?!” Mr. Anderson said jovially. “Y’ain’t runnin’ around with no other distributors behind my back, now are ya, y’old dog?”
Oh you have no idea what a tangled web we weave, Mr. Anderson.
“Of course, I do,” I smiled. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Anderson.”
“Y’lost weight, haven’t ya, Leslie?”
No, Mr. Anderson, I haven’t. You’ve unwittingly notified me that my mother’s boyfriend has another family, including a fat daughter named Leslie. Ten days ago my father overdosed on heroin, and within thirty seconds of your leaving this table, David is going to apologize by offering me an afternoon at Bloomingdale’s. I haven’t lost any weight. I’ve lost my childhood.
“Jeez, Lucy,” David said after Mr. Anderson left the table. “I’m sorry about that. What do you have planned for the rest of the afternoon? Want to do a little shopping?”
When Jack saw me enter Anjoli’s kitchen, he asked what my plans for the day were. “Going to do a little shopping in the Village?”
“I don’t think so,” I told him. “I was thinking maybe I’d do a little writing. Maybe I’ll start an outline for my book. I’m not sure yet. I definitely need a nap.”
Jack’s gallery didn’t open until ten and the Drama Queen opened at noon, so both my mother and faux husband were night owls. But I won the grand prize last night by staying up until 4:00 A.M. researching Bell’s palsy on the Internet. I was convinced that there really was a shot or pill I could take that would make my face go back to normal. Then, of course, I was in heavy contract negotiations with God, promising that I’d never complain about my appearance if he would just let me wake up the next morning with a face that functioned properly on both sides.
“Terrific, kiddo!” Jack said, self-consciously trying not to stare at my face.
“Jack, aren’t you going to say anything about my face?” I asked.
“Must dress, darlings. Do excuse me,” Anjoli said, as she and her sky-blue silk night ensemble dramatically ascended the stairs. Mother always wore something that looked like it was bought at the Norma Desmond House of Garb. She lifted her wide sheer sleeve to bid us farewell as though she were departing for a year in Europe rather than a trip to the loo.
“How are you hanging in there, kiddo?”
“How does it look like I’m hanging in there?”
“You seem tired,” Jack said.
“Jack! What about my face? Aren’t you going to say anything about this monstrosity of a mug I’m wearing?!”
“You look fine,” he said. “It’s hardly noticeable.”
“Hardly noticeable?! Jack, please don’t lie to me. I know it’s very noticeable. You don’t notice that half of my face is drooping? You don’t notice that I’m wearing an eye patch? You don’t notice that every time I speak, spit flies out of my mouth?!”
“I’m sorry,” he shouted, not sounding at all sorry. “I don’t want you to feel bad, that’s all.”
“Ahhhhh!” I screamed. “Jack, I already feel bad! Quite bad, in fact. Half of my face won’t move. I look like something out of a horror movie. The emergency room doctor was taken aback by the sight of me, Jack! I shocked the emergency room doctor. Do you have any idea how hard that is to do? The man sees gunshot wounds, dismembered limbs, shit oozing out of people’s brains, and my face, my ugly face was shocking to him.”
“Okay,” Jack said. “I’m not really sure what you want from me.”
“I want you to stop trying to deny every feeling I ever have, Jack. I want you to stop telling me not to feel bad when I already do. I want you to stop telling me I look fine when it’s so patently obvious that I don’t. I want you to stop being so uncomfortable when things aren’t perfect that you immediately start trying to pretend they are.” Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I realized how unfair I was being. Yes, I wanted for him to accept my emotional reality. But only when it suited me. I also wanted him to tell me that the baby would be fine when it was what I needed to hear. At least Jack was consistent. I was a nut job.
“Jack, I think I need a nap,” I said. “I’m sorry, but the last twenty-four hours have been a little overwhelming, and I can’t even eat a cupcake to cheer me up.”
With that, he laughed. “Come here, kiddo.” He opened his arms. “It’s been a rough pregnancy for you, I know. Soon as you deliver this baby, I’m going to make you the ultimate carbohydrate dinner: risotto, baked potato, Italian bread, and rice pudding.” I laughed as my tears were absorbed into Jack’s shirt. “Your face has seen better days, but it’ll get better. I downloaded a few articles I found on Bell’s palsy and a list of facial exercises that lots of people are saying speed up the recovery.” This is all he ever needed to say. Other than the “kiddo” part, Jack said exactly what I needed to hear. “I’ll bet if you do these religiously, your face will be back to normal by Kimmy’s wedding.”
Kimmy’s wedding! Those two words jarred me from the comfort of the moment. I’d completely forgotten about perfect cousin Kimmy’s perfect wedding to the perfect guy on the perfect date. Kimmy would be married on St. Valentine’s Day in the world famous St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue. Each year, three million people from all over the globe visit the Gothic church with its solid bronze baldachin, Tiffany-designed altars, and a spire that reaches higher than 300 feet. (Surely this majestic three-organ church would never allow Zoe’s Real Confessions to turn their confessionals into television recording studios.) I was scheduled to meet Kimmy there next week to go over some details with her wedding planner. With my distorted face and cane, I’d look like the Hunchbelly of St. Pat’s.
I absolutely had to get my face back to normal by Kimmy’s wedding. Her engagement party was like Fashion Week, with stunning women all wearing next season’s size zero fabulousness. Even the men were better groomed than I was. Kimmy’s queer brigade wears purposefully sloppy hair and uses special shavers that leave rugged day-old stubble. I’ve seen real day-old stubble on Jack on Sunday mornings. It’s kind of sexy, but it covers the entire face, not just parts specially selected to accentuate exquisite bone structure. Kimmy’s friends were warm and engaging. They all had the gift of making you feel as though you were absolutely fascinating, and that there was nowhere they’d rather be than talking to you. Charming and beautiful people were hard enough on the ego in the best of times. I imagined the manufactured smiles of Kimmy’s friends as they stared at my freakish face.
At Kimmy’s engagement party this past summer, Geoff, her fiancé, seemed like the kind of guy who was the president of the student body association in high school. His brown hair was combed neatly and he wore a jacket that matched those of several of the straight guys in the room. I later learned it bore the crest of a fraternal business organization to which they all belonged. He will make a great father, I thought. They’ll move to Connecticut and have a hunting dog named Raider who sits at Geoff’s feet as he reads Fortune. They’ll undoubtedly wallpaper the family room in the Burberry Nova pattern. When Geoff toasted “his Kimmy,” I thought it sounded a little possessive. Now that my pseudo-husband had taken to calling me “kiddo,” it sounded pretty good.
“Thank you for coming by with the facial exercises, Jack,” I said. “Your vi
sit has cheered me up.” I silently vowed that whatever the facial workout program suggested, I would triple it. I was going to have the quickest Bell’s palsy recovery the doctors had ever seen.
“Lucy, I know how you get when you’re down. Promise me that you’ll get out of the house today. Take a walk around the neighborhood. Check out the holiday lights. I know you can’t get too far with the cane, but don’t stay cooped up inside all day. Take advantage of the warm winter we’re having, okay?”
“Maybe you could come back after the gallery closes and we could walk down to St. Mark’s? Grab a bite to eat at Dojo’s?”
“Another time I’d love to, kiddo, but I’ve got plans tonight.”
“Big date?” I asked, half kidding, half hoping he’d be appalled at the very thought.
“Yep,” he nodded.
“That’s great! Good for you,” I forced. “Have fun.”
Who is she? What’s her name? Is she prettier than me? Without my handicap of the facial paralysis is she prettier than me? Is she skinny? What does she do for a living? Oh God, please don’t tell me she’s already written her novel! Please don’t tell me she’s a supermodel who just so happens to have won a Pulitzer for her eighth novel the critics all call “brilliant!”
“Anyone special?” I couldn’t help from slipping out.
“Not sure yet,” he said. “Remember, Lucy, no hermitage. Even if you just walk down to Ray’s for a slice, make sure to get out today.”
I can’t eat pizza, or these fucking bagels for that matter, you insensitive jerk!
“You don’t think you could’ve waited till I gave birth to start dating?” I snapped.
“Why? “ Jack asked.
“It’s not that I’m upset you’re getting a head start or anything, but don’t you want to be helpful with the pregnancy? I mean, if you’re so gung ho about father hood, how ‘bout being accessible to me in my time of need?”
“I think I’m very accessible.” Jack gestured at himself as if to say, I’m here, aren’t I?
Tales From the Crib Page 4