The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus

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The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus Page 4

by Sonya Sones


  yet somehow more serene

  than Buddha’s.

  Samantha reached out

  to pull Monkey’s face

  toward her own,

  as if for a smooch.

  She was too young to realize

  that her hands even belonged to her.

  But she seemed to know

  that Monkey did.

  NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION

  I, Holly Miller, hereby swear

  that I will never again

  allow myself to be lured away

  from my writing

  by clicking

  on those hideous headlines

  that litter my computer screen

  like landmines waiting to be stepped on.

  So I am not going to click

  on the article about the nasty insults

  that Anderson Cooper slung at a celebrity mom

  that prompted her to lash out.

  Though I’m dying to know which

  celebrity mom it was

  and exactly what she and Anderson

  said to each other.

  And I am not

  going to click on the article

  about the location

  of America’s greatest bathroom

  (which

  apparently was found

  when “Pros Flushed Far and Wide

  to Find the Best Spot to Tinkle”).

  And even though

  I do remember Ann-Margret

  and I’m yearning to see

  how she looks at sixty-seven,

  I am not

  going to click on the link.

  I am not!

  I am NOT!

  Wow…

  She looks good…

  WHICH IS MORE THAN I CAN SAY ABOUT MYSELF THESE DAYS

  I’m at Macy’s

  shopping for some new underwear,

  the walls of the fitting room closing in on me

  like the trash compactor in Star Wars,

  while I stand here, bug-eyed,

  observing my body

  from each devastating angle

  of the three-way mirror…

  When did my neck begin dripping

  off my chin like melted wax?

  When did my upper arms

  turn into my mother’s?

  When did my legs

  get so criss-crossed with spider veins

  that they started looking

  positively tie-died?

  And why on earth

  has it taken me this long

  to realize that I have dimples

  where nobody should have dimples

  and that,

  from the back,

  I could easily be mistaken

  for the Michelin Man?

  BUT WHAT I REALLY CAN’T FIGURE OUT

  Is why Michael doesn’t seem

  to have noticed any of this.

  In fact, he’s always telling me

  I’m just as cute as the day we first met—

  twenty-two years ago

  in front of the buffet table

  at an art opening,

  when our fingers bumped

  while reaching into a bowl of cherries

  and Michael said life was one

  and I laughed.

  Then, when he asked me how I liked the art,

  I confessed that I hadn’t even glanced at it—

  that I’d been passing by the gallery

  and realized I was famished,

  so I’d snuck inside to pilfer

  some cheese and wine and cherries.

  Michael claims I turned a deeper shade of red

  than the Bings I’d been scarfing down,

  when he told me I was lovelier

  than any of the paintings on display.

  And when I told him I didn’t think the artist

  would be too happy to hear him say that,

  he told me he was the artist.

  At which point,

  I nearly choked on a cherry.

  And a moment later,

  when he asked me to join him for dinner,

  I said yes without thinking twice.

  Because Michael wasn’t just a highly skilled flirt,

  he was toe-curlingly handsome.

  And he still is.

  The bastard.

  How come I keep getting more gray

  and he keeps getting more gorgeous?

  TIME FLIES

  The months of this year

  before Samantha leaves for college

  are blowing past like the pages of a calendar

  in some hokey film.

  One minute,

  the three of us are sitting by the fire

  singing “Auld Lang Syne,”

  watching the ball drop in Times Square…

  The next—it’s Valentine’s Day

  and I’m waking up to find, just like every year,

  a funny handmade valentine from Samantha

  taped to my bathroom mirror.

  I’m thinking,

  Next year, on Valentine’s Day,

  the only thing I’ll see when I look in the mirror

  will be my pathetic lonely mug…

  Then, suddenly, it’s Saint Patrick’s Day,

  and Samantha’s waking me up with a pinch

  because, like every year, I’ve forgotten to wear

  my green pajamas.

  “Ouch!” I say, swatting her hand away.

  Then I pull her in for a squeeze,

  thinking, Next year, on this day,

  there will be no pinch…

  no squeeze…

  CRYING JAGS

  It doesn’t take much to set off another one.

  I might see a lost birthday balloon

  tangled in the branches of our pepper tree.

  Or maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of Monkey,

  sad-eyed but still grinning from his lonely

  perch atop the toy box in Sam’s room.

  Or I might hear Michael, up in his studio,

  absentmindedly whistling the tune from

  the mobile that used to spin above her crib.

  Some of these flash floods

  feel purely hormonal,

  as though it’s simply crying season.

  Some of them

  feel considerably

  more justified—

  like when

  my editor Roxie calls

  to put the screws to me.

  Or when I glance at my face in a mirror

  and see that I look more wrinkled

  than laundry left in the dryer.

  Or when my mother confesses that all those

  aches and pains she’s been plagued with lately

  have been diagnosed as polymyositis—

  a muscle disease that makes her feel,

  she says, like a voodoo doll being jabbed

  with hundreds of white-hot pins.

  BECAUSE

  Because my father died

  when I was twelve

  and my mother never remarried,

  and because she lives alone in Cleveland

  and all her friends are at a funeral today

  (which she was in way too much pain to attend)

  and because

  I’m her only living relative

  (except for Sam and my cousin Alice),

  I’m the one she speed-dialed just now

  when she fell out of bed

  and couldn’t get back up off the floor.

  So I’m the one

  who’s listening to

  her shard-sharp screams.

  I’m the one whose heart

  is thrashing in my chest

  like some wild, caged thing

  while I try to get my mother

  to calm down and hang up the phone

  and call 911.

  But because she’s too scared

  and in too much agony

  to do what I’m telling her to do,

  an
d because I didn’t have the foresight

  to find out her new next-door neighbor’s

  phone number,

  I’m the one who’s standing here

  sweating clear through my T-shirt

  while trying to figure out

  how the hell to call 911 in Ohio

  when you’re dialing it

  from California.

  WHAT I FINALLY FIGURE OUT IS THIS:

  You can’t call 911 in Ohio

  when you’re dialing it

  from California.

  So you’ve got to Google

  the phone number of the police station

  nearest your mother’s house

  and then force your stuttering fingers

  to stop shaking long enough

  for you to dial the number

  and then pry open your locked jaw

  so that you can ask the police

  to send an ambulance

  and then you’ve got to

  call your mother back

  to tell her help is on the way

  and when

  she doesn’t answer

  her phone,

  you’ve got to

  fling yourself onto your bed

  and totally fall apart.

  WHEN MICHAEL RETURNS FROM THE FRAME SHOP

  He finds me

  quaking under the covers,

  surrounded by an acre

  of crumpled Kleenex.

  When I tell him about my mother,

  he gathers me into his arms,

  strokes my back,

  and presses his lips to the top of my head.

  He doesn’t tell me

  not to worry.

  He doesn’t tell me

  to cheer up.

  He doesn’t tell me

  that everything will be okay.

  And I love him for it.

  MOMENTS LATER

  Samantha comes home from

  her chorus rehearsal

  and, traipsing past

  our open bedroom door,

  she glances over

  and sees us snuggling on our bed.

  “Eeeooowww,” she says.

  “Can’t I leave you two alone for a minute?”

  Then she flounces off down the hall,

  calling back to us over her shoulder,

  “Remember, you two sex fiends:

  no glove, no love.”

  Michael and I

  exchange a glance.

  And both of us

  burst out laughing.

  MY MOTHER HAS BEEN ADMITTED TO THE HOSPITAL

  Her attending physician’s name is Dr. Hack.

  I do not consider this

  a good sign.

  Dr. Hack calls me to tell me

  that there is good news

  and there is bad news.

  The bad news is

  that my mother’s polymyositis

  is advancing more rapidly than he’d like.

  The good news is that he’ll probably

  be able to alleviate her pain

  and maybe even reverse her symptoms

  if he gives her

  enough steroids

  to kill an elephant.

  The bad news is that taking

  such megadoses of steroids might cause

  my mother to experience “roid rage.”

  They might even

  cause her to have hallucinations

  or manic episodes.

  He says

  one of his younger patients

  got so crazed

  that he bought an old car

  and deliberately drove it into a tree

  at forty miles an hour.

  “But the good news…” Dr. Hack adds

  with a shrill little chuckle

  that sets my teeth on edge,

  “the good news is that your mother

  is probably way too sick

  to get into that kind of mischief.”

  And the worst news of all,

  I think to myself, is that you, Dr. Hack,

  are my mother’s doctor.

  I HANG UP AND CALL MY MOTHER

  I tell her I’m going to hop on a plane

  and come to visit her.

  She tells me I’m going to do

  no such thing.

  When I protest,

  she forbids me to come.

  She assures me

  that she’s doing just fine.

  She says her doctor’s a dreamboat

  and that he’s taking excellent care of her.

  She tells me that my place is at home—

  with Samantha.

  She reminds me that my daughter

  will be leaving for college in the fall.

  She says I need to enjoy every second

  of her company while I still can.

  She warns me

  that once Samantha’s had a taste of the world

  she might flit home for a summer

  like a migrating bird

  or maybe breeze into town

  for a few days now and then.

  But after she’s built her own nest,

  mine will be emptier than a poor man’s pocket.

  THE KIND OF GIRL SAMANTHA IS

  Even though the season finale

  of Glee is airing tonight,

  and even though

  she’s absolutely dying to see it,

  and even though

  she’s been planning to go

  to a big finale-of-Glee party

  with Wendy, Tess, and Laura,

  a party which promises to be the

  social event of the television season,

  Samantha has opted

  to stay home instead,

  so that she can make a funny Photoshopped

  get-well card for her grandma

  and bake a batch

  of her famous butterscotch brownies—

  the ones her grandma loves

  better than anything.

  That’s the kind of girl

  Samantha is.

  AND WHEN SHE FINALLY FINISHES BAKING

  She doesn’t rush

  to the family room

  to watch the TiVoed episode of Glee.

  She brings me up a tray

  with a couple of warm brownies

  and a frosty glass of milk

  then hops onto my bed with me,

  grabs the remote, and says,

  “We’re gonna watch Roman Holiday!”

  Because

  she knows

  it’s one of my all-time favorites.

  But I happen to know

  that Samantha thinks Roman Holiday

  is terminally sappy.

  So I say,

  “If it’s okay with you,

  I’d rather watch the season finale of Glee.”

  And when she hears these words

  a smile lights up her face

  like a Fourth of July sky.

  AND SUDDENLY, A MEMORY WASHES OVER ME

  A memory of the very first time

  Samantha smiled at me.

  I mean really smiled.

  She was just a couple of months old…

  She was lying on her back in the center of our bed,

  one arm raised above her head,

  her first two fingers aligned

  as though she was a tiny pope, blessing me.

  I was sitting cross-legged at her feet

  in a state of photo-snapping bliss,

  her biggest fan,

  her most loyal subject,

  enthralled with the intensity of her gaze,

  so sober and intelligent,

  as though she was trying to send me

  a telepathic message of the utmost importance.

  Then—I sneezed.

  And her gummy grin opened before me

  like the pearly pink gates

  to my own private heaven.

  My baby smiled at me. She smiled!

  And
now that I’d stumbled on

  the magic spell,

  I would never stop chanting it.

  “Achoo!” I said.

  “Ah…choo!

  Ahh…choooo!

  Ahhh…CHOOOOO!”

  APRIL FOOL’S DAY

  Samantha tells us

  she’d like to be

  by herself

  when she opens them—

  those life-altering emails

  that she received today

  from all the college deans

  of admission.

  But before she sequesters herself,

  Michael and I remind her

  that what’s supposed to happen,

  will happen.

  That everything happens for a reason.

  That sometimes these reasons

  don’t present themselves

  until many years later.

  She smiles grimly,

 

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