Want to go with me to the radiation therapy center? the mother asked the daughter.
Nah, I’d rather watch, the daughter said. Bear and Ivy’ll go, though. They’ve never been yet.
No, the mother said, they haven’t. She put on her lipstick, then dabbed off the excess with a Kleenex.
Kids, you ready to go? the mother asked, walking into the kitchen.
We are, said the older daughter.
Just remember to put on your shoes, will you? the mother said.
The older sister looked at her brother and grimaced, sucking in her cheeks and curling her tongue in a way that six out of every seven people can do. Then she touched the tip of her nose with the tip of her tongue, smiled, and said in falsetto, Yes, Mother dear.
In the car, the son, who was called Bear, lay down along the full length of the back seat. His sister, who was undergoing psychotherapy as part of her training to be a psychotherapist, was explaining that often children who have had abnormally close relationships with their parents are unable to break away from them when they become adults. Consequently, they deal with their aggression by “rebelling” over and over again, well into adulthood, rather than simply letting go, saying, my parents are this way, and I accept them this way. And that, she went on to explain, was why her old best friend Katie had done what she had done.
What she had done was go through the motions of a full wedding to her boyfriend when in actuality they had never even gotten a marriage license.
In addition, the ceremony had been questionable, what with each vowing to love, honor, cherish, and always be ready to fuck the other.
So you see, the daughter finished, it’s a very complicated situation when viewed psychologically.
The mother didn’t see it that way. Her main point was, what a rotten kid, what a rotten thing to do. Keith, Katie’s father, her father, she reasoned, is dying and he wants to see his daughter married before he goes. Is that too much? Is it? I always knew Katie was a sneak, the mother said. Out for herself. Selfish.
The daughter twisted in the seat and again stuck her tongue out. It’s more complicated, she said again. I don’t see anything complicated about it, the mother said.
Look, the daughter said. You know what I mean.
While she talked she played with the electric window.
Look, she said, Corinne’s in a weird way—
Don’t play with the electric window, it’s already been broken once this year.
Corinne, the daughter began again, is in a weird way jealous of Keith.
Corinne was Keith’s wife, getting a Ph.D. late in life.
Jealous! the mother said. Jealous of a dying man. She can’t wait until—
Look! Now the daughter began to play with the seatbelt. She almost wishes it was her dying because she thinks she’s so much more unhappy than he is, and she wants to justify her suffering. I think she’s actually glad Katie and Evan didn’t get married, even though she wouldn’t admit it.
I don’t buy it, the mother said. Corinne’s a sneak, too. Jealous! If she was jealous, why would she want to marry your father?
What?
The son, lying in back, sat up.
What? he said again.
It’s nothing, Bear, said the daughter.
Come on, Ivy, he’s old enough now, the mother said. All it is, Bear, is that once Corinne got drunk and told Daddy that when I died and Keith died they could get married.
The son laughed nervously, perhaps relievedly. You’re kidding, he said.
And don’t you dare mention this to anyone, the mother said, especially your little sister.
Of course I won’t, the son said, of course not.
By this time they had reached the radiation therapy center, which was new and modern and underground. They took an elevator down and emerged in a large, plush waiting room with carpeted walls.
Wow, the sister said.
Isn’t this nice? the mother said, smiling. She led them through. It was nice. All the tables had backgammon boards and chess boards built into them. There were Folons and O’Keeffes and Wyeths on the walls. There were books and magazines, toys and puzzles for kids. The colors were bright and cheerful, but not so bright and cheerful as to leer at the dying, the architect having conferred with a noted death-and-dying specialist on the design.
Isn’t this nice, Bear? the mother said. See through the glass? That’s where they do the treatment.
Behind a big glass pane—too big to be called a window—the son could see a flat, silver table that looked cold. It stood like an island in the center of a room behind the glass. Above it, a large machine, resembling a machine gun, pointed down from the ceiling.
They walked over to the nurses’ station.
Hello, Joanne, the mother said to the nurse.
Good to see you again, Gretl, the nurse said. These your kids?
They sure are, the mother said. This is Ivy, and this is George, but we call him Bear.
Your mom talks a lot about you, honey, the nurse said to the son. How’s the new lawn furniture? You get it yet?
We sure did, the mother said. It’s great. But you know, furniture you leave outside, it always gets ruined. I don’t count on it lasting more than a year.
Well, said the nurse, Frank and I have had the same set for almost three years now. Where’d you get yours?
The son turned from the conversation to watch an older man emerge from the row of dressing cubicles. His sister watched him watch. The older man had put on a white robe which tied around the back. He still had on his black business shoes and short black socks; his legs were skinny and white. Having taken a moment to light his pipe, he sat down in a corner and read a copy of Time.
Nearby a couple of little girls played Chutes and Ladders. He remembered his little sister told him, there were always kids to play with at the radiation therapy center.
Lurene was asking for you, the nurse said. Too bad you missed her.
Lurene was a character the son had heard of, part of his mother’s dinnertime monologue of her life at the radiation therapy center. She was old, a phone operator, and she had the same disease the mother had, only in the earlier stages. She was frightened because the doctors gave her contradictory reports. But the mother prevailed, took her under her wing, told her what was what, offered her whole living self as evidence that it could be got through.
Now Lurene knew what was what.
The mother had gone into a little cubicle to change, so the brother and sister sat down. The brother picked up a copy of Highlights; the sister chewed her hair.
Bear up, Bear, the sister said.
The son put down the magazine.
It’s just I don’t like this place. She pretends it’s so happy, why pretend she likes to come here?
People cope in different ways, the sister said, trying not to sound holier-than-thou.
I don’t know, the brother said. I guess I’ll feel better when Daddy gets home. Things are better when he’s here.
He turned back to the magazine. He started to read the “Goofus and Gallant” column.
Bear, the sister asked, are you still upset about what Corinne said?
Yes. No. I guess I am, the brother said. I don’t know. I just think, she put him through college. Three hundred sixty-five days a year, welding battleships to put him through college. It’d be nice if he didn’t have to travel so much.
He returned to the magazine.
You know they have problems, Bear, the sister said, big problems. There’s so much anger between them. But anger’s different than hate, Bear.
It’s not like she’s going to die in a year, the brother said from inside the magazine. Corinne wants to make Mama sicker than she is.
Bear . . .
Don’t say it, Ivy, the brother said, standing up. You think you know so much. I’ve lived with them. He does love her. More than you know. Maybe even more than he knows. I tell you, I’ve seen it. There are things none of us know, things you don’t—
Bear, when are you going to face the fact—
But he had turned from her.
The mother came out again, in a white hospital gown, smiling big.
Isn’t this the height of fashion, she joked, turning a pirouette. The son laughed. Through the slightly parted back of the gown, he could see small legs, her bra, her large flowered underpants—briefs, they called them in ladies’ stores, as opposed to panties.
She went behind the glass and lay down on the table. The son stood to watch. He thought he saw her flinch as her skin touched the cold metal. He could see on the far side of the glass a technician operating the controls.
Once, twice, the machine went over her in a dark sweep. She had to lie perfectly still. You couldn’t see it, the miraculous, burning radiation that was making the lumps go down.
I wonder how it works, the sister said. But her brother wasn’t listening. He had his whole face pressed against the glass. He was remembering stories his mother had told him, he thought, to anguish him. About the boy who stole her lunch every day for a year; about the doctor they said was going to just give her a check-up, but forced her down on the dining room table and tore her tonsils out; about the dog she had when she was first married, the dog named Brownie who was poisoned for no good reason by a psychotic neighbor, and that was why they never got a dog as children. And he remembered how a year ago she had told his father, maybe I’ll go to Italy with you this year, and the father, in some private hour, told her, no, he did not want her to go to Italy with him and she had said fine, fine, that’s just fine, I’ll stay here. I have the pool, my friends, everything I need, and when she told her son about it she warned him, don’t you dare tell your father I told you, I still have some pride.
No, the son thought, he would remember the other stories. Stories she told when she was drunk or happy. Stories of the docks where she welded. I was the best in my division, she had told him. But I was a woman, so I never got a raise. If it were today, I would’ve complained.
Then she modelled lady welder uniforms. The unions were crooked. Italian men traded her hot eggplant sandwiches made by their wives in the ghetto for her tuna on toast. And the son knew they wanted her in her tight metal suit.
All that was long ago, she would finish.
Why don’t you weld again?
I couldn’t ever. I’m too old, Bear, too set in my ways.
He looked at her through the glass. The machine passed over her again. He wanted very much to touch her through the glass. But of course he could not.
She still lay perfectly still. He heard his sister gasp. He turned, and she was bent over, her hand on her mouth, her eyes red, choking back a fit of tears that had come over her like a cough. Then the normal light went on. The mother got up. She came out.
Is that all? the son asked.
That’s it, that’s all. Simple as one-two-three.
I have to go to the bathroom, the sister said, running.
Eventually she came out. The mother got dressed. They left.
When they got home, the younger sister and the cleaning lady were watching “The Edge of Night.” The younger sister had been indulged, and had baked cookies, so the kitchen was filled with bowls and knives and pans, all sticky with grease and dried dough.
April doesn’t know Draper’s alive, and she’s gonna marry Logan, the younger sister said excitedly. And they’re gonna kidnap Emily to get Kirk’s money, but Kirk’s not Kirk, he’s Draper.
Oh, my God, the mother said, staring at the filthy kitchen. Goddammit, I told you never to do this unless you asked me first. You cook, and I have to clean up all your goddamned messes. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.
She lifted her hands toward them all, whether to push them away or embrace them none could tell. She looked at them, and her face twisted like when she had the palsy. Then she turned from them. They could hear her sobbing as she ran down the hallway.
Her children were stunned. Though they were used to her annoyance with them, they were not used to crying. They sat there. The younger daughter began to hum.
It’s funny how people on soap operas die on one show and come back on another, the girl said.
So on earth, in heaven, answered the cleaning lady.
The other two were silent. The son stood and walked to his mother’s room, ignoring the sister’s warnings.
Her bedroom door was closed. He stood outside it for what seemed a long time. Finally he knocked. She didn’t answer. He opened the door gently. On her huge bed the mother lay curled, very small, weeping quietly. He stood back from her.
Ma, he said.
She didn’t answer. The crying had stopped, replaced by heaves.
Ma, he said again.
She did not look up. It’s O.K., Bear, I’m all right, she managed to say.
The son wanted to hug her then, but he knew he couldn’t. Something held him back—what had always held him back. There were rules.
I hope you’ll feel better, Mama, he said. Then he left the room.
She nodded. She was glad he was gone. It annoyed her to have to comfort him in her suffering.
Once I knew a sailor, she sang to herself, a sailor from the sea . . . and she thought of her own mother, with too many children and no English.
Gradually she got up. She dried her eyes, blew her nose. Standing in front of the mirror, she pulled violently at the short hairs. None came out. Well, she thought, another day. Still, perhaps she would take her hairdresser’s advice and get a wig. Funny how with time one can grow accustomed to even the most frightening changes; how even the unimaginable can become manageable.
There, she would be fine. She would apologize and dinner would be fine. Why, just five years ago, the tests she now sat through routinely, without flinching, would have made her faint with pain. She would have vomited at the sight of the scars on her body. She would have wept for fear of death. No more.
But looking at herself in the mirror, she remembered the rebellious girl she had once been, and she was only sorry she could not find it in herself to be courageous.
Out Here
They line up, from eldest to youngest: Gretchen, Carola, Jill. Leonard frames them in his viewfinder. When they stand together, posed, he can see similarities—the arcs of cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, thin lips—but if these women were strangers to him and he met them separately, he would never guess that they were sisters. Gretchen, Leonard’s wife, is the tallest as well as the oldest. As she arranges herself, she shakes out her hair and laughs. Carola—hair shorter, mouth smaller than her sisters’—sighs loudly. Jill, standing barefoot next to her, jumps from one foot to the other on the hot cement.
“Hurry up, Leonard. I have to get dinner,” Carola says.
“Just let me focus,” Leonard says.
The sisters grumble and link arms. Through his camera, Leonard thinks, he has captured an image that has nothing to do with these women as individuals but, rather, with how they lean away from one another, how their arms strain against touching.
“It’s too hot to stand like this much longer,” Jill says. She unlinks her arm from Carola’s to brush away a fly.
He takes the picture. The camera spews out a piece of photographic paper, fog green. Immediately the sisters disentangle and go back to what they were doing—Gretchen to the porch, Carola to the kitchen, Jill hopping from stone to stone across the lawn to where her friend Donna Lee sits leaning against a maple tree, reading. Leonard shades the picture with his left hand and, squinting, bends over to watch the image emerge.
Even though they both live in New York City, Carola and Jill hardly ever see each other, and never on social occasions. They have been meeting only to haggle about bank accounts, trust funds, their father’s health-insurance policy. Carola works at a publishing company, in subsidiary rights, and lives on the East Side; Jill lives with Donna Lee in a nameless region just below Tribeca, and is doing temp work to pay for a film course at NYU. Gretchen has been living in Mill Valley, in
Northern California, since college, and for the past three years she has been married to Leonard, who has a job with a software company. What has brought the sisters together again now is the death of their father. He died of emphysema, in his late sixties, and they have gathered in an old house in Connecticut that is not “the old house” but a house completely unfamiliar to them. Their father moved into it three years ago, after their mother’s death and his almost immediate remarriage to a divorcée named Eleanor Manley. It is Eleanor’s “old house.” She died six months ago of a stroke; her children then cleaned the house of its knickknacks, scrubbed it as best they could of early memories, and left it to the widower, whom none of them knew very well. In spite of this recent cleaning, there are still hints of another family’s life here that has nothing to do with Gretchen, Carola, or Jill. They have come to sort through the few things their father brought with him when he moved here.
Jill has never been to the house before. Gretchen and Carola visited once, two years ago, in the summer. Jill refused to come that time, without explanation. It is a nineteenth-century stone house, with turrets, and ivy climbing up the walls. “Stately,” the Westport real estate agents would say. That summer, Eleanor’s mark was everywhere: The beds were made with flowered sheets, the halls lined with her photographs of Parisian street urchins. There were saltcellars and little pepper mills at each place at dinner, chairs with paws. The house, Carola thought, was so quintessentially Eleanor’s domain that she doubted whether her father could have felt very comfortable there. Even Eleanor’s children seemed to have no interest, no stake in it. Of course, Eleanor is gone now, and their father is gone. Still, his children walk the halls quietly, like invaders.
“Leonard and I are going to think of this as a vacation,” Gretchen said at dinner the first night they arrived, four days ago. “A healthful retreat.” They would get up at six, she said, and run—five, six miles—and in the afternoon they would do exercises. She would work out a regimen for each of them. And they should eat as little sugar and salt as possible, Gretchen told Carola, who had put herself in charge of cooking. Gretchen ate hardly any salt, and was in marvellous shape—her skin bronzed, her hair golden, her body lean.
Family Dancing Page 14