Everything Must Go

by Jenny Fran Davis

  You know when Mum asks a huge favor like it’s a total throwaway—like you’d be crazy to protest? Yeah. I didn’t look at her. I just stormed into the living room.

  Victor followed me with some prompting from Nell and Mum. Nell shut the folding door behind us. I yanked out one of the big books from under the table, and Victor sat sullenly on the couch, looking through it with a petulant expression. How many times had he been here before? I wondered. His tiny hands ran over the smooth photography paper with the deftness of someone who was deeply familiar with its contents. Victor’s hair was all spiky, standing to attention at random angles. I examined it while I eavesdropped on Mum and Nell.

  “… wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea to something something today …” Nell was saying.

  “… something something anyway …” was Mum’s reply.

  “Tall,” said Victor. It was the first time I’d heard him talk. He speaks in a whisper-whine. He was pointing to a picture of the Twin Towers, a black-and-white shot that obscured the towers in fog.

  “How long will Flora be here?” Nell was asking—whining, really. I perked up at the sound of my name.

  “A few days and then something something and then something,” Mum said.

  Nell gave a satisfied-sounding grunt. “As long as something something something,” she said.

  “Don’t worry,” Mum answered, and they both laughed.

  Lael, the indignity of it all! She and Daddy have been separated for, like, a minute!

  Then Victor sent up a wail so sudden and loud that I jumped. He began to cry, first silently and then all at once dissolving into sobs. I just looked at him, unsure of what to do.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, a bit stupidly.

  When the wailing didn’t stop, Nell came into the living room to collect Victor. “It’s almost past his bedtime,” she scolded, as though it were my fault. “That must be why he’s cranky.”

  I just stared straight ahead.

  When they’d gone, leaving a pile of dirty dishes in their wake, I cornered Mum in the kitchen.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “She’s been a very good friend to me throughout the—” Mum began, but I cut her off.

  “Mum. What’s going on with Nell?”

  Mum laughed that high-pitched laugh she does when she’s nervous. I stared her down.

  “Honestly, Flora, you don’t have to be immature about it.” Mum reached for the faucet and turned it on, facing her back toward me as she began to scrub the blackened pans. “We’re good friends.”

  You know when Mum tries to make it sound like everyone else is ridiculous, and she’s the only sane one?

  “How did you meet?” I asked.

  “Um …” Mum scrubbed intently. “The public library. I had gone to check out the newest Bill Bryson—by the way, have you ever read his work?”

  I didn’t dignify that with a response. (Obviously, I’ve read Bill Bryson.)

  “We were waiting in line to check out our books, and Victor was there, so I asked about him, and she told me, and then she asked about my family, so I told her, and there you have it: we’re friends.”

  “You don’t have friends,” I pointed out.

  “Well, maybe I made one. Is that what you want for me? To be a lonely old woman, married to my work?”

  “You work part-time,” I told her.

  Mum didn’t answer for a long time. Then she resumed scrubbing the pan.

  Lael, something is going on between Mum and Nell. I’ll get to the bottom of it and write back.

  Enjoy Cambridge, you lucky duck!

  F

  To: Lael Goldwasser

  From: Flora Goldwasser

  Subject: Mum!!!

  November 30, 8:17 p.m.

  Lael,

  Can you please pick up your cell phone for once? I have major news. It’s confirmed: Mum and Nell are … something. Together.

  But first, let me tell you what happened to me and Victor.

  The day after Thanksgiving—small and simple with me, Mum, and Grandma and Grandpa—Nell was nowhere to be found. It was as though she’d evaporated. I didn’t bring her up for fear that my mentioning her would somehow summon her.

  It was like old times. Mum and I went our separate ways during the day and met up at night for takeout and a Hepburn movie. Yesterday I spent the day with Daddy in Rye, which—unbelievably—could have been worse: it was almost nice to sit in silence and read with him and look out onto the Long Island Sound. I had finally convinced myself that Nell was out of the picture until yesterday, when Mum got a phone call in the morning. She was still in her robe and slippers, sipping her coffee at the kitchen table.

  “Well then!” she said in that fake chipper tone once she’d hung up. “That was Nell. She and I are going to a movie. She’s picking me up at noon.”

  And that’s when my stomach turned to stone, because we both know that Mum hates going to the movies during the daytime. When it’s bright out, she’s outside taking photographs. Period. And yesterday was sunny, no chance of snow. Cold, but Mum likes that.

  “You don’t go to movies during the day.”

  “I do sometimes.”

  I didn’t bother to respond. We both knew she was lying.

  Nell pounded on the door at a quarter to noon. I didn’t answer, and she kept on pounding. Mum was in the shower. I should have been pissed, but honestly, I was annoyed at Mum, so I was looking forward to her being out of my hair. I planned to hit up a few places that sell things I can never get at Quare: silk scarves, real pastries, suede shoes, vegan ice cream … you get the picture.

  When Nell was still pounding on the door at 11:47, I crawled off the couch to open the door. There was Nell in all her glory, sweeping curves and hard eyes. I’m telling you, she must be over seven feet tall. And there, at her side, cowering, was Victor. He was emitting muffled sobs into Nell’s pants, and when he came up for air, he left a splotch of liquid that Nell didn’t seem to notice. I pitied the people who’d be sitting next to Mum, Nell, and Victor at the movies.

  We stared at each other. Finally I pointed at Victor. “He likes movies?” I asked.

  Nell frowned. I glared. When Nell opened her mouth to speak, Mum emerged from the bathroom wrapped only in a towel. Nobody seemed to find this unusual, and the implications of that realization sent a shiver crawling down my spine.

  “You and Victor are going to spend the afternoon together,” Nell explained as though I were stupid or hard of hearing or both. She waited for Mum’s approval.

  Mum nodded giddily. Rage boiled in my chest. It was all I could do not to reach out and strangle Nell.

  “We hardly know each other,” I managed.

  “So you’ll get to know each other,” said Nell.

  I looked down at Victor’s tear-streaked face. His mouth was twisted in a gruesome display of woe, and his hair was spikier than it had been when I’d last seen him. His cheeks were bright red, and his eyes were squeezed firmly shut. His eyelids were all puckered and wet.

  “Come and keep me company while I get dressed,” Mum said to Nell. “Flora, why don’t you make a plan with Victor?”

  It wasn’t a suggestion. So while Nell went off with Mum to get dressed, I forcibly removed Victor from the doorframe and tugged him over to the couch.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, trying to be comforting. I would cry too if Nell were my mother, but I wondered if something more specific was wrong with him.

  Victor just hid his face and wailed all the harder. He sat on the rug, his face between his knees. I tried to be tender—it wasn’t his fault he was so miserable, after all—and rubbed his back a little bit, at first awkwardly but then getting into a good rhythm.

  “Your mum won’t be going away for long,” I comforted him, not sure if that was good news or bad news to him. I guessed it was the latter, because he kept weeping piteously. “I’m not sure what you want me to tell y
ou,” I said. “Do you want to watch TV? Does your mum let you do that? Even if she doesn’t, you can watch whatever you want, okay?”

  He was still crying when Mum and Nell snuck by and crept out the door. Mum mouthed, Thank you, as though her gratitude elevated her to the status of Pope Francis, but I pretended not to see her.

  “Victor,” I said sharply, “you need to tell me what’s wrong if you want me to help you. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Have you eaten lunch?”

  He shook his head to all three questions. I wondered if he still wore diapers. Surely six was too old for diapers, but I thought it was better to be safe than sorry.

  Just in case, I picked him up and put him on the couch, feeling his little derrière quickly. It was dry. I breathed a sigh of relief and turned on the TV. He didn’t seem to care for cartoons. Or real housewives. Or singing competitions. Or the Food Network. Finally I just let him cry, went to the kitchen, and cut up an apple. I added a little dollop of peanut butter and brought the plate over to him.

  I was about to scream in frustration when he just looked at the plate and cried, but it sort of got to me. I remembered being so young and so upset, feeling like nobody could help me. Being trapped in my own misery.

  So I tried again. “Victor, tell me what is wrong.” I tried for a stern but loving tone.

  Finally he spoke. “M-m-my ear h-h-h-hurts,” he bawled.

  His ear? I had no idea what that meant, but suddenly there was a problem I could try to fix. “Let’s go to the doctor,” I said, swinging into action and grabbing my coat and wallet.

  In the subway I swiped twice, once for myself and once for Victor, succeeding at activating the turnstile but, in my hurry, causing Victor to walk straight into it at neck level so that his head snapped back. He was too dazed to react, I think, so I pulled him through and kept moving, hoping the transit police wouldn’t come running to arrest the both of us. His mouth was in a surprised little O shape from the turnstile incident, as though he had been too shocked to cry. People were staring.

  Victor’s legs are shrimpy, and he was holding us up in a major way, so I finally hoisted him onto my back. He gripped my neck, strangling me, until I barked, “Hands on my shoulders, mister.” I felt like we were in an action movie, swinging through the crowds and racing up the subway steps—and nearly bursting my lungs in the process—to the walk-in clinic in Midtown.

  The receptionist just folded her arms over her chest.

  “You don’t look like his guardian,” she snapped.

  I briefly explained the situation, telling her that I was just babysitting. She shook her head.

  “We need consent from his parent or guardian,” she said. “Otherwise, we can’t help you.”

  I looked down at Victor. He had melted onto the floor and seemed to be humming to himself, hands over his ears.

  “Give me one second,” I said.

  I called Mum perhaps fourteen times, until I finally got to her, hissing about interrupting the movie, and then Nell, who provided her consent and insurance information. The receptionist frostily handed me the forms. Obviously I didn’t know anything about him besides his name and age, so I left a lot of the form blank or scribbled in my best guesses. Victor clutched my arm like I was his savior.

  The doctor felt Victor’s glands and took his temperature before looking in his ears and confirming an acute ear infection.

  “You should have brought him in sooner,” Dr. Sayeed scolded. “It looks like this has been developing for over a week. Hasn’t he been complaining of pain for days?”

  “He’s not mine,” I tried to explain, but Dr. Sayeed was busy writing a prescription.

  “I’ll give him drops today, but you’ll have to pick this up from your pharmacy,” she said, handing me the piece of paper.

  We walked out of the clinic hand in hand, a bit deflated but relieved. The drama had thinned, and I scoured the horizon for a Duane Reade. It was starting to snow as we headed toward the subway. I bought myself and Victor each a huge pretzel (I figured we deserved it, after the morning we’d just survived), and we sat on a bench, munching contemplatively. His little chest fell and rose defiantly. When he had settled down sufficiently, I quickly squirted the drops into his ear, a sneak attack, and he accepted them with a self-indulgent sigh.

  “Do you see a lot of my mum? Um, your aunt Emma?” I asked him.

  Victor nodded sorrowfully. “Uh-huh. They kiss good night,” he said. “On the lips.”

  Needless to say, I didn’t finish my pretzel.

  Lael, Mum is a late-in-life lesbian. And she chose NELL. There are a million and one cool, hip lesbians in New York—in this neighborhood alone!—who could have become our new stepmothers, and our genius Mum chose NELL.

  We have so much to discuss when I see you in December. Are you sure you can only be home for a week?

  F

  To: Flora Goldwasser

  From: Lael Goldwasser

  Subject: Re: Mum!!!

  November 30, 11:54 p.m.

  Oh my God. That is so, so rich. It almost makes me wish I were home to experience it with you.

  Almost.

  Did I tell you what Mum said to me when she came up for parents’ weekend?? (Honestly, I was surprised she even remembered when it was, but I guess I shouldn’t be so shocked—she’d never miss an excuse to talk loudly about the evils of apartheid—which she experienced firsthand, she never fails to add, never mind the fact that she was WHITE—with all her other former classmates whose kids are at Harvard now.)

  Anyway, we went shopping for something for me to wear to the holiday a cappella concert, and she would NOT stop talking about my weight. I mean, literally every college freshman gains a bit of weight. This is hardly news. And you’ll see when I come home over winter break that it’s not even that dramatic. But, like, would it occur to her to not make a huge deal about it? I mean, her entire profession is dealing with pregnant women, so you’d think she’d have learned a little tact.

  Ugh. I feel like we’re both being extra tough on Mum, even though if we really think about it, Daddy’s to blame for the dissolution of their marriage: he’s the one who gave up even trying to work things out, choosing instead to sleep at the office more nights than not just to avoid Mum’s wrath.

  But don’t even get me started on Daddy. He calls me for ten minutes a week, asks me about my grades, and then says he has to let Ginger out. God, it’s disgusting how he treats me like a little A-making machine. I mean, you should know: he does the exact same thing to you, Miss Quare superstar.

  Anyway, Nell sounds like a nightmare, and you’re my hero for sticking it out this weekend. I owe you a private concert.

  To: Lael Goldwasser

  From: Flora Goldwasser

  Subject: Re: Mum!!!

  December 1, 12:04 a.m.

  Do you know anything by the Shangri-Las? Sam and I got super into them the week before break.

  To: Flora Goldwasser

  From: Lael Goldwasser

  Subject: Re: Mum!!!

  December 1, 1:23 p.m.

  Didn’t I tell you that the group specializes in Georgian and Balkan music?

  “Sam and I …”

  To: Lael Goldwasser

  From: Flora Goldwasser

  Subject: Re: Mum!!!

  December 1, 1:27 p.m.

  Don’t make fun of me!!!

  To: Flora Goldwasser

  From: Lael Goldwasser

  Subject: Re: Mum!!!

  December 1, 1:29 p.m.

  I’m not. I’m happy you have a friend.

  To: Lael Goldwasser

  From: Flora Goldwasser

  Subject: Re: Mum!!!

  December 1, 1:47 p.m.

/>   So am I, to be honest. We’re thinking of throwing a little party (doo-wop soirée, we’d call it) to celebrate the music of the 1950s and ’60s. But Juna overheard us planning a playlist and was like, “I don’t get why you’d want to romanticize the 1950s like that. Like, we still have bobby socks and casual homophobia.”

  To: Flora Goldwasser

  From: Lael Goldwasser

  Subject: Re: Mum!!!

  December 1, 1:59 p.m.

  I mean, I guess Juna does have a point.

  Also, only you would go to a place like Quare and find someone else who’s also into weird fifties shit. God.

  To: Lael Goldwasser

  From: Flora Goldwasser

  Subject: Re: Mum!!!

  December 1, 2:01 p.m.

  It’s really quite something. He’s also been known to walk with a cane, but then he got called out for ableism (a fair criticism, I must admit—to have been using it as a fashion accessory when so many differently abled people genuinely need them to get around).

  Also, I did something kind of crazy the other day. I’ll explain next time you call me.

  To: Flora Goldwasser

  From: Lael Goldwasser

  Subject: Re: Mum!!!

  December 1, 2:03 p.m.

  This better not involve Elijah.

  To: Lael Goldwasser

  From: Flora Goldwasser

  Subject: Re: Mum!!!

  December 1, 2:09 p.m.

  He’s not returning my calls, Lael! What else was I supposed to do? NOT investigate? I was going to tell you, but then I remembered that you’re on your whole Flora-is-at-Quare-for-her-own-reasons-not-Elijah kick and thought better of it. Please don’t hate me.

  To: Flora Goldwasser

  From: Lael Goldwasser