The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus

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The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus Page 11

by Sonya Sones


  I TURN TO RUN OUT THE DOOR

  And nearly mow down—

  Michael!

  “Whoa, there…” he says,

  catching me in his arms.

  “Where are you going in such a hurry?

  Did someone let the cat out of the bag?”

  I pull away from him

  and croak, “What did you just say…?”

  But Michael doesn’t answer me.

  He just flashes me a huge, dopey grin.

  I don’t get it.

  He’s so busted.

  And he seems to know it.

  How can he be smiling at a time like this?

  Then, he reaches into his jacket pocket

  and pulls out a small paper bag.

  Out pops the tiny sleepy face of the most

  adorable fuzzy white kitten imaginable.

  “Holly, I’d like you to meet Secret,” he says.

  “Secret, this is Holly.”

  He lifts her out of the bag

  and places her into my hands.

  Secret gazes up at me

  with big, wise, solemn blue eyes,

  and says, “Mew?”

  AT WHICH POINT

  I begin weeping.

  I mean seriously bawling my eyes out.

  Michael’s face falls.

  “Don’t you like her?’ he asks.

  “Are you kidding?” I sob. “I’m crazy about her.

  Where did you get her?”

  “From Brandy’s shelter,” he says.

  “She’s been helping me find you

  the perfect cat for months now.”

  This,

  of course,

  only makes me weep harder.

  Though Michael

  will never

  know why.

  LATER

  When

  I call Alice

  to share

  the amazing news with her,

  she doesn’t say,

  “I told you so.”

  But I can hear her

  thinking it.

  THAT EVENING

  Michael’s sitting next to me on the couch,

  working on a sketch of Samantha—

  who’s sitting at her laptop

  working on another get well card.

  I’m stroking Secret

  with my right hand

  while biting the nails

  on my left hand,

  trying not to stress

  about the fact

  that I still haven’t heard

  the results of my mother’s biopsies.

  Suddenly—

  the telephone rings.

  I stop stroking Secret,

  stop biting my nails,

  and start

  scratching my hives.

  What if it’s Dr. Hack?

  What if the news is bad?

  The phone’s sitting right next to me

  on the coffee table.

  It rings. And rings.

  And won’t stop ringing.

  I’m just about to grab it

  and hurl it out the window,

  when Michael reaches over

  and firmly places it into my hand.

  IT IS DR. HACK!

  My heart

  pulses in my throat.

  He tells me the good news is

  that my mother doesn’t have cancer.

  “Thank God!” I say.

  Then I thank the doctor, too,

  and hang up

  fast—

  before he can tell me

  the bad news.

  THE THREE OF US DO THE “HAPPY BENIGN MASS” DANCE

  Then we call my mother

  on speakerphone

  and sing her a rousing rendition

  of “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

  She applauds our off-key effort,

  then thanks Samantha

  for sending

  the funny get well cards.

  “And those brownies…” she says.

  “My God! I told all the handsome

  young interns that I baked them,

  and got half a dozen marriage proposals!”

  We all crack up at this.

  I swipe at a tear—

  my mother’s cancer-free!

  And she sounds like her old self again…

  But then she says,

  “Of course, I told the interns

  I was unavailable.”

  “Unavailable…?” I say.

  “I had to be

  honest with them,” she says,

  suddenly dead serious.

  “I’m a married woman!”

  MY MOTHER IS NOT A MARRIED WOMAN

  My dad died

  when I was a kid.

  And she never remarried.

  But I can’t bring myself to tell her this.

  So I change the subject:

  “Is Dr. Hack treating you well, Mom?”

  “Oh, yes!” she cries.

  “That man is exquisite.

  He comes to see me every day.

  And he always brings me fish feet.”

  “He brings you…fish feet?” Samantha asks.

  “Bushels of them!” my mother boasts.

  “He has quite a crush on me, you know.”

  “No wonder,” Michael says.

  “You’re a knockout!”

  My mother giggles at this.

  But then she stops abruptly—and gasps.

  “What is it, Mom? Is something the matter?”

  “My head…” she moans.

  “It hurts like a radio upstairs.”

  “Like…a radio?” I ask.

  “Can’t you hear all those

  stations switching?” she says.

  “Uh…Not really, Mom.”

  “Can’t any of you hear all that awful static?”

  A shroud of silence descends on us,

  like the sullen eye of a storm.

  The only sound that can be heard is Pinkie,

  the neighbor’s dog,

  yapping in the distance.

  Then—

  Samantha clears her throat and says,

  “Hey…Wait a minute, Grandma…

  I think I hear it…Yes! I do!

  It’s so…so awful…and so…so staticky!”

  My mother heaves

  an audible sigh

  and says, “You are such a dear.

  What would I do

  without you, Samantha?”

  What will I do without you, Samantha?

  IS IT A BAD SIGN?

  Is it

  a bad sign

  if when you hear

  the next-door neighbor’s daughter

  singing “Now I Know My ABCs”

  it reduces you

  to tears?

  TRYING TO RESERVE THE FLIGHT THAT WILL TAKE SAMANTHA TO COLLEGE

  Automated Voice:

  Thanks for calling

  the American Airlines Advantage desk.

  Para Español, diga “Español.”

  Me:

  Automated Voice:

  What’s your Advantage number?

  Me:

  XDD5376.

  Automated Voice:

  That’s FBB5376. Right?

  Me:

  Wrong.

  Automated Voice:

  I’m sorry.

  Please say your Advantage number again.

  Me:

  X. D. D. 5. 3. 7. 6.

  Automated Voice:

  That’s FVV4367. Right?

  Me:

  No. You are not right.

  You are not even slightly right.

  Automated Voice:

  My apologies. I didn’t get that.

  Please say your Advantage number again.

  Me:

  XDD5376!

  Automated Voice:

  That’s STD5376. Right?

  Me:

  You have got to be kidding me…

  Automated Voice:


  I’m sorry. I seem to be having

  some trouble understanding you.

  Please say your Advantage number again.

  Me:

  Just let me speak to an agent!

  Automated Voice:

  Do you want to talk to an agent

  about travel within the United States,

  Puerto Rico, or the U.S. Virgin Islands?

  Me:

  Agent!

  Automated Voice:

  I understand you’d like to speak to someone.

  Let’s find out what you need first

  and then I’ll get you to the right place.

  Me:

  Agent! Agent!

  Automated Voice:

  Okay. Do you want to speak to an agent

  about travel within the United States,

  Puerto Rico, or the U.S. Virgin Islands?

  Me:

  Agent! Agent! AGENT!

  Automated Voice:

  I’m sorry. I didn’t get that.

  Me:

  Of course you didn’t get that.

  You’re a machine, for chrissake.

  You can’t “get” things.

  You have no ears.

  And in case you haven’t noticed—

  you have no heart.

  So quit telling me how sorry you feel.

  You can’t feel sorry.

  You can’t feel anything.

  Because you are nothing but

  A GODDAMN STINKING

  SHITTY HEAP OF HIDEOUSLY

  INFURIATING DIGITAL SOUND!

  Automated Voice:

  I’m sorry. I didn’t get that.

  A FEW WEEKS BEFORE SAMANTHA LEAVES FOR COLLEGE

  She is being

  a major pain in the butt.

  Bristling like iron filings

  whenever I walk into the room.

  Glowering at me

  when I speak to her.

  Slamming around the house

  like a racket ball.

  She pretty much

  can’t tolerate

  a single thing

  I do.

  I tell myself not to take it personally,

  calmly remind myself that she has to think

  I’m an incredibly irritating parent

  so she’ll be able to bear leaving in September.

  But then it occurs to me: maybe I actually

  am an incredibly irritating parent.

  And a shudder sweeps through

  the sudden canyon in my chest.

  A second later,

  she growls past me and out the front door,

  crashing it shut behind her

  like a prison gate.

  What a bitch,

  I find myself thinking.

  I can hardly wait

  till she leaves for college.

  But then a new revelation dawns:

  maybe I have to think

  that she’s incredibly irritating

  so that I’ll be able to stand separating from her.

  And maybe she knows this.

  Of course she does! She’s only

  acting this way to make it easier for me

  to say good-bye to her come September.

  What a dear sweet wonderful

  darling daughter! I think to myself.

  How am I going to bear it

  when she leaves for college?

  TRASHED

  Heaving the cutting board

  into the bin,

  suddenly thinking

  how like it I am—

  useless and warped,

  shredded and old,

  scarred from too many

  dull thwops of the blade,

  scuffed and stained,

  coming unglued—

  thinking of all

  the mistakes I’ve made.

  IN JUST A FEW MORE DAYS

  My daughter

  will no longer

  be living under

  my roof.

  The thin neck of life’s hourglass

  used to seem so mercifully clogged.

  But now the sand races through it

  like a rabbit late for a date.

  No time left to impart motherly wisdom.

  No time left to tell her all those deep things,

  those profound things that I should have been

  telling her all these years.

  The weight of my failure

  nearly flattens all four of my tires

  as I drive around town doing errands

  while listening to Little Women on CD.

  Now those girls had a mother.

  My own impoverished daughter

  had to snatch at the random bits

  I tossed her way:

  “If you pick your zits they’ll leave scars.”

  “Never wash reds with whites.”

  “Don’t pat strange dogs

  till you let them sniff your fingers.”

  What was I thinking,

  frittering away all those years?

  Now—

  there’s no time left.

  BUT HOW CAN THAT BE POSSIBLE?

  How can Samantha

  be getting ready to leave home already,

  when she’s only just arrived?

  How can seventeen years have passed

  since Michael and I carried our nestling

  across the threshold?

  The memory of that day,

  the trembling splendor of it,

  seems never to fade…

  We tucked Samantha into the basket

  we’d feathered with fleece, then hovered

  like a pair of wonder-struck doves,

  spellbound by each smile, each grimace,

  each frown that flickered like candlelight

  across her luminous face.

  Bewitched by every blink of her eyes,

  beguiled by every yawn,

  charmed by each luxurious stretch,

  we laced our fingers together,

  marveling at our little bird’s

  tiny chest—

  the way it kept

  rising and falling,

  rising and falling,

  each

  breath

  a masterpiece.

  SAMANTHA WAS AN INCREDIBLE BABY

  Fabulous

  from the moment

  she was conceived!

  And such a thoughtful little embryo…

  While all the other mothers-to-be leaned over

  the rolling ship’s rails of their pregnancies

  retching up their saltines,

  Sam took me sailing on a glassy sea.

  She polished me

  from the inside out

  till people said I glowed

  like a crystal ball;

  cast some kind of

  spell over my scalp

  so, for the first time in my life,

  I actually had a mane.

  She inhabited my body

  like a perfect roommate—

  happy to have

  whatever I served up for dinner,

  content to let me

  hold the remote

  when we sat together

  surfing the channels.

  I felt her surging within me,

  felt her head nudging

  the taut bowstrings of my rotunda,

  and felt so grateful that she’d chosen

  me.

  AND MICHAEL WAS GRATEFUL, TOO

  In fact,

  you might even say

  he was a little

  obsessed…

  After my first trimester,

  he bought a video camera

  so that he could record the weekly progress

  of my mushrooming midsection.

  I’d stand sideways,

  pulling my nightgown

  tight across my stomach,

  while he filmed my burgeoning bump.

  When I was further along,

  I’d lay back on t
he bed

  with my belly exposed

  so that he could videotape the baby kicking.

  He marveled

  at each undulation

  as it quivered across the surface

  of the Jell-O mold that I had become.

  He interviewed me on camera,

  asking how I felt about

  my imminent motherhood.

  “Thrilled…excited…terrified,” I told him.

  And when

  I turned the camera on Michael

  and asked how he felt

  about becoming a father,

  he reached forward

  to pat the bun in my off-screen oven,

  and said, “I just hope the baby’s healthy.

  And that she appreciates fine art.”

  ONE DAY

 

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