by Lian Dolan
I worried that if my mother was feeling colder that meant she was also getting older. But seeing her in my kitchen in her boyfriend jeans, silver clogs and wearable-art wool-and-feather “kimono” warmed my spirits and calmed my worries.
“Well, you’re very brave,” she sighed, taking in the half-packed kitchen and the bare walls of the family room, stripped of the fairly decent California plein air oils that had gone to the dealers for auction. I missed them, too. “You are so very brave. To do everything you’ve already done. Very brave. Isn’t your mother brave, Aiden?”
Despite his discomfort, Aiden did his best to acknowledge my mother’s emoting. “Yeah, Nell. Yup. My mom’s great.”
It was not a Fairchild tradition to call attention to one’s feelings or single out others on their good work, other than the occasional, “Good work.” One of the reasons I was attracted to Merritt was his lack of willingness to let it all hang out, a trait my family did not share. But I appreciated that Aiden played along when my parents were in town by trying to tap into his feelings. We’d laugh about Crazy Nell Castor later.
“You’re both brave. I’ve been thinking a lot about the two of you during my meditation. I can see you’re coping, but not thriving. How about some Kamboucha mushroom tea?”
“What’s that?” I asked skeptically. Every time I saw my mother, she was pushing a new super-food or supplement. She may have given up pot, but she still believed in miracle drugs. Echinacea, ginkgo biloba, açai—if it had dubious origins and no medical science behind it, my mother ingested it. And usually long before it went mainstream and ended up in smoothies at Jamba Juice.
“It’s a tea with live active cultures made from organic mushrooms. It’s like liquid detox. The cleansing properties are, whew, amazing!” she said, whipping around the stove, flicking on burners and nearly setting her feathers aflame. “I’m telling you. Helen, it will renew you inside and out. Look at my skin. And you won’t believe the bowel movements. I had to smuggle it through airport security in a three-ounce shampoo bottle.”
“Is it tea or a hallucinogenic?” I asked nervously, mainly wanting to change the subject from bowel movements before Aiden started howling with laughter.
“Tea! But it’s alive! Not dried, but full of active cultures. You cultivate it from starter, like sourdough.”
Aiden and I exchanged Crazy Nell looks. “No thanks! I’ll stick to orange juice,” Aiden called from the couch, putting in his ear buds and returning to what looked like Baz Lurhmann’s Romeo & Juliet on his laptop. Great, anything to pass that last English test, even if it meant learning Shakespeare from Leonardo DiCaprio.
My mother waved her illicit tea enticingly, her face so hopeful. Who couldn’t use a little detox every now and then? “Sure! Why not? Cultivate me a cup.” Maybe it would be good for me to have my mother around. I was lonely in the house, and she always brought a certain amount of life with her.
She handed me a mug of what smelled like steaming sauerkraut juice with a touch of mud. “Breathe it in, then drink it down. Then please tell me what the big deal is about going to a private school. Why are you both so uptight? You went to public school, got a wonderful education, and look, now you’re an archaeologist.”
Maybe it wouldn’t be such a picnic having her around. A week sounded like enough time.
To buy a few seconds to form a response that my mother could understand, I took a big swig of the Tea of Great Bowel Movements. How is it possible that it tasted worse than it smelled?
“Slowly! It’s a blessing. Receive it as such,” my mother said with a straight face and her signature wild hand gestures. “Now, why is this school thing such a big deal?”
I looked at Aiden to make sure he was embedded in the silent world of electronics. I didn’t want to make him self-conscious while I explained the private school ethos. The truth is, if he didn’t get into Ignatius, he would be going to a local public school. And as much as I hated to admit it, my mother was right. I’d gone to a standard public high school and turned out just fine, at least academically. How could I ever explain to her the attitude in Pasadena—that a public-school education wasn’t a risk that most parents who could scrape the money together were willing to take? Or something that longtime Pasadena families like the Fairchilds had not considered since the dawn of time. It was simply not an option.
So I lied. I repeated the prepared speech I had given to the admissions director, the Monsignor and Billy Owens when begging for mercy after the botched interview. “It would mean a lot to Aiden, and to me and all of Merritt’s family, if he could continue in the Ignatius tradition. The values that Merritt lived by were the values instilled at Ignatius. Going to Merritt’s alma mater would be almost like having his father here by his side.”
My mother, her mind detoxed by the tea, was suspicious of my little speech. “Well, I think he’s a great kid. And he’ll do fine anywhere. Why does he need all the la-di-da?”
That’s what really bothered my mother: the la-di-da. That was her phrase for all the money, social jockeying and zip code mobilization. La-di-da. One thing I’d always admired about my mother was her inability to see class, in a good way. Maybe it was all the drug-sharing back in the day. You holding? You’re in. She didn’t buy into the notion that money bought respect. She treated everyone with the same warmth and kindness. It had won her dozens of admirers in Sisters, Oregon. In a world full of hypocrites, my mom was the genuine article.
Ironically, my mother-in-law Mitsy was, too, in the complete opposite way. Mitsy believed deeply in the class system, understood exactly where she sat (right on top) and treated everyone as was appropriate to their station. No apologies, no fake smiles. And she had her own legion of admirers. Go figure.
“It’s just the way it is here, Mom. I didn’t make the rules,” I said, trying to end the conversation with a cop-out. But she wasn’t letting go.
“You know, you could move back to Oregon. It would be such fun, having you there. Aiden could go to your alma mater. There are values there, too.”
Yeah, like skipping exams for fresh powder on the mountain or the beginning of hunting season. And let’s not forget the bountiful crystal meth production in the suspicious trailers on the outskirts of town. But I held my tongue. Until Aiden perked up on the couch.
“Really, Nell? You want us to move there? Mom, we could do that! I love Oregon. I’d move there is a second. It’s so much fun there. Much more fun than here.”
I hadn’t heard that kind of enthusiasm for any high school in Pasadena, never mind Ignatius. I wanted to wring my mother’s neck. I’d worked so hard to get Aiden through everything: moving out of his childhood home into a smaller place, applying to high school despite his obvious disdain, going to water polo practice come rain or shine, readjusting to life without a father. How could she suggest a gigantic move, like she was suggesting a weekend camping trip?
It would be fun?
Yeah, fun for about five minutes until he realizes that there is no mall, one movie theater and no water polo team. It’s a small town in the middle of a small state. Not Pasadena, a small town in a big cosmopolitan city. He’d end up befriending the girl with dyed black hair and a nose ring and her tall, skinny emo boyfriend. What would happen then?
I gave my mother a hard look with raised eyebrows, which she ignored, while I spoke to Aiden in my best faux-understanding tone, “Aiden, let’s see what the mailman brings, okay? That’s a huge decision that we’ll need to talk about when we know all the facts about your future.”
My mother pretended she hadn’t heard me at all. One of her least admirable qualities, forging ahead with her agenda despite objections from others. Her aging hippie appearance could mask her tenacity. “We’d love to have you, Aiden! And you could get that dog you’ve always wanted. Everyone has a dog in Sisters!”
Now she was a dead women. A dog was the Holy Grail to Aiden, forbidden because Merritt had allergies.
Just then the tell-tale metallic clank of t
he antiquated mail slot sounded. From the sound of the struggle, Tran the Mailman was trying to shove a large, fat envelope into the slot designed in 1926 before business-size envelopes were invented. Tran and I had bonded when I hung a red and gold Happy Lunar New Year banner on the front door several years ago. Aiden had made it in class, and Tran, originally from Vietnam, appreciated our cross-cultural efforts. From that initial conversation, we moved on to good restaurants, $20 foot-massage emporiums and the lack of public transportation for the newly immigrated.Tran had a tendency to talk my head off about USC football, so occasionally I hid in the kitchen when he delivered the mail to avoid a half-hour discussion about the merits of the BCS system. But today, he held Aiden’s future in his hands. I bolted for the front hall, tore open the door and lunged at the mailman.
“Stop. Just hand me the mail. Don’t fold the envelope! I’ll take it,” I screamed, scaring the poor man into paralysis. He held out the stack of letters and the one glorious fat, white envelope with the Ignatius seal on the front. He was in. Thank God, he was in! Thank you, Monsignor. And thank you, nice admissions man. Schools wouldn’t send the official calendar along with a rejection, everybody knew that. I hugged the mailman. “Thank you, Tran. Thank you.”
“It’s a big day, yes?” he said, the mailbag over his shoulder weighing twice his bodyweight. “Everybody happy to see me today. Oh, some not so happy. I understand.”
“Well, it’s just that some kids are waiting to hear from schools.…” I tried to explain, feeling suddenly uncomfortable for my brutish behavior. Poor Tran. La-di-da.
“No, I understand. My son Bernie got into Raleigh. Lots of money for high school but he got scholarship. I was so worried. I sneak into work, look hard and found the envelope at the post office last night!”
Oh my God. Wait till I tell Candy that the mailman’s kid got into Raleigh. Second thought, maybe I shouldn’t tell her that.
”That’s great, Tran. Congratulations to Bernie. You must be very proud.”
“Yes. It’s hard to get into Raleigh when you are Asian. Because there are so many smart Asian kids that apply. That school could be all Asian kids. White kids have much better chance to get in. Okay, go open your letter. I see you going for Ignatius. Good school. Good luck, Missus.”
I shut the heavy oak front door. La-di-da indeed. Then, I focused on the task at hand, calling out in a singsong. “Aiden, there’s something here for you!”
“You can open it,” he called back. But I didn’t. I wasn’t going to take this moment away from him. I skipped back into the kitchen and handed Aiden the envelope. I gave my mother the thumbs up. Aiden took it casually, then got distracted with his movie again.
“Open it now. Or I will kill you,” I threatened.
“Okay, Mom. Geez!” He tortured me by opening the seal as slowly as possible, then staring at the words on the letter for a long time. Or at least, it seemed like a long time to me.
“What does it say?” my voice escalating with every second.
“The Brothers of Ignatius would like to welcome me into the class of 2013,” Aiden announced with weariness in his voice. I was sure it was just an act. Wasn’t it? “I’m in. See, you had nothing to worry about, Mom.”
Then, I suddenly teared up. Actually, teared up and then sobbed in full, the weight of his future off my shoulders. I did it. He did it. We did it. I gave Aiden a painfully tight hug, but I couldn’t speak in between the sobs. He hugged me back, as much as he could, given that I had squashed his arms and the magic letter with my gratitude and enthusiasm.
My mother surrounded us both with her feathers and wool. She rubbed my back as she reassured Aiden, “They are lucky to have you.”
Aiden pulled away from the group hug. He’d reached his touchiness limit. “Thanks, Nell. I’d still rather move to Oregon and get a dog.”
“Mariah was fucking waitlisted at Raleigh. Can you believe it? Waitlisted!” Candy’s outrage came through the cell phone. “You know who got in? Those freakin’ twins—Layla and Madison St. Clair. Both of them got in, the Dimwit Twins. And not Mariah! Waitlisted!”
No, now would definitely not be the time to mention the mailman’s son to Candy. Or the fact that the Dimwit Twins were both on the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center’s National Junior Diving team and Olympic hopefuls. So while their test scores were not outstanding, their degree of difficulty far outweighed Mariah’s. That being said, she did have a point. Mariah was a powerhouse. If a school didn’t want her, it’s a wonder anyone got in.
I was about to offer my condolences when Candy’s ire reared up again. “It’s me. It’s those goddamn Playboy pictures. If this were a school in North Hollywood, they would take Mariah because of the pictures. Oh, but not here in Pasadena. Twenty years later and I’m still apologizing. Now she has to pay for my mistake—THAT I MADE AT 19! I hate these people.”
By “these people,” I think Candy meant the admissions staff, the current parents, the new parents, anyone associated with the Tournament of Roses, pretty much anyone who had ever heard of the nationally renowned Raleigh Prep, including her friends, family and readers. I couldn’t say that I blamed her. Plus, I felt awful for Mariah.
“But she’s in somewhere, right? Sacred Sisters is a wonderful school where she will get a good education. I know it doesn’t have the same, um, the same academic reputation as Raleigh. But those SacSis girls are very solid. Mariah will thrive anywhere. But vent to me, not to Mariah. She needs a positive spin on this,” I cautioned.
“You’re right. I can’t believe it. All that money spent on Millington and for what? To get waitlisted at Raleigh? And SacSis is fine, it’s just not, not … it’s not Raleigh. It’s a chain school.”
“Candy, it’s not a chain,” I corrected, somewhat annoyed. “The Order of the Sacred Sisters has been around a thousand years. I know you are not Catholic, but please, it’s hardly the DeVry Institute. It’s a very fine school. And apparently, the nuns have no problem with your past transgressions. That says a lot about their interpretation of forgiveness. You’re not getting that at Raleigh.”
“It’s just … it used to be a sure thing, getting into Raleigh with good grades from Millington. Now you never know who they’ll take.” She drew in a big breath and exhaled. I thought of Tran’s son, the new ideal Raleigh candidate, whether Candy liked it or not. “Lilly got into Martindale, of course.’”
“I heard. Tina texted me.”
“And I assume Aiden got into Ignatius?”
Candy’s assumption threw me. I thought everyone perceived my position as precariously as I did. “He did.”
“And is he so thrilled to be an Ignatius Crusader?”
“He is!” I lied. But I wasn’t sure why.
Apparently, Candy bought my false enthusiasm, because she was off. I could barely keep up as she spit out the names of kids and the lists of accepted and rejected schools. Meryl (Mean like her mother!) into Martindale. Donovan (loaded!) into Ignatius. Aiyala (Looks like Vanessa Williams and sounds like Michelle Obama! Rose Queen potential!) into Raleigh. Brandon (Dumb Jock. How’d he get in?) into Andover. Carter (super smart but zero personality) into Hotchkiss. Kennedi (I’d go to boarding school, too, with that messy divorce) into Cate. Cade (good kid) into Raleigh, Morgan into Harvard-Westlake (Ashton Kutcher coaches JV football there). Natalie into Crossroads (How pretentious. Why drive over to the westside every day when we have perfectly fine schools here? You might as well send her to boarding school, stuck in traffic all afternoon!) And the commentary went on and on. Her sources were everywhere, texting, Facebooking, calling. I tuned it all out.
When had I stopped caring about other people’s children?
Then I had an urgent thought. “You’re not going to write about this on candysdish, are you? That would be suicide for the Raleigh waitlist.”
“I don’t know. It will kill me not to do my annual rundown of kids and school admissions. It’s always a big traffic day. Sponsors love it. Last year, when I did that blind item ab
out Katie Entwhistle, of the Perfect Entwhistles, not getting into any kindergarten, the site crashed.” Candy was clearly grappling with the duel demons of good for business/bad for family.
I spoke up, “It’s not over at Raleigh for Mariah. Don’t say something now you might regret. You know the Raleigh people will hear about it. I’m sure they monitor candysdish.”
“If they were so worried about my commentary, they should have accepted Mariah. Plus, I hate to disappoint my readers.” Candy was heading into “cut off your nose to spite your face” territory.
“More than Mariah? You gotta work that wait list with all you got. Remember how you got yourself into that Vanity Fair Oscar party? You know everybody. You’ll get her in. Just don’t piss off the school now.”
“You’re right. Okay, gotta go. Call on the other line. Go Crusaders!” And with that, she was gone.
I knocked on Aiden’s door. Again, the quick page switch when I entered the room. When Merritt was alive, I had a strict “no computers in the bedroom” rule, thanks to the many features on Good Morning America about the danger of predators on the Internet. One day they’re watching YouTube funny animal videos, the next they are stripping for strangers and broadcasting it via webcam! As a single parent, I didn’t have the energy to fight the battle every night when Aiden asked to take his laptop upstairs. Now, rather than sitting around with me, he could retreat to his room. I knew he was getting the scoop on where everyone had gotten into school.