“Oh, Manuel,” she said. “There you are. I missed you last night.”
I could see Manuel’s relief that her memory was back . . . for a while at least.
“Sarah and I are going shopping,” she said gleefully. I figured it wasn’t worth commenting about the outfit. We piled into Mom’s car, Manuel at the wheel, and headed down the road.
Once I picked up my car and we got to the market, Mother decided to leave the tool belt in the car. Twenty years ago, I probably would have been beside myself with embarrassment to be seen with my mother looking like Mr. Greenjeans. I found it rather endearing at this time in our lives.
I had been in the produce section, maybe ten minutes, before I realized my mother was MIA. I thought she was getting the Brussels sprouts, but as I scanned the produce section, she was nowhere in sight. “Oh no!” I said out loud. I began racing my cart and looking down all the aisles. On reaching the end of the market with no sight of her, I stopped and asked a stock clerk if he’d seen an elderly woman dressed like a gardener. The young man smiled and said that he saw her walk out of the market about ten minutes earlier.
“Oh shit!” I said. I ditched my cart and ran out of the market. My sense of panic turned into sheer terror. I ran to my car, thinking that maybe she was there, but she wasn’t. I headed out toward the street. I called for her. “Mother? . . . Olivia O’Malley? Where are you?” I stood, hoping to hear her answer. I turned and walked the other direction toward the rear of the market. Just as I was reaching for my phone to dial 911, I spotted her large hat bobbing up and down, near the dumpsters. I ran over to her on the verge of tears. She was kneeling down feeding the birds an old bag of bread she’d taken from the trash.
“Mother! For Christ’s sake, what are you doing? You can’t just leave the market like that! I didn’t know where you were!!” My voice cracked with emotion.
“Well, I’m right here, Sarah. Feeding the birds!!” she answered reasonably.
Manuel picked mother up from the market and took her home. I returned to the store hoping to find my shopping cart where I’d left it. Wishful thinking. My cart and the twenty-pound turkey I had staked my claim to were nowhere to be found. I started over. Luckily the butcher had a couple of smaller turkeys that weren’t frozen. I took those. We’d roast two birds not one big one . . . that way we have double the drumsticks. It would look as if I had planned it all along. The market was packed with frantic pre-holiday shoppers. No one looked at one another. Everyone seemed to be grabbing for the same items at the same time. Stuffing mixes, pumpkin puree, pie crusts, oh my.
Tears poured from my eyes. I was startled at how fast the emotion surfaced. Normally, I might begin with a slight chin quiver or a lump in my throat. Sometimes a golf ball size knot in my stomach would be a sign of impending tears. None of that happened. It was a spontaneous outburst. I just fell apart with no warning in the raw meat section. It was apparent that my mother was disappearing quickly. What if she had walked away and I hadn’t found her? Oh, Dear Lord. The last thing I wanted to be doing was marketing for nearly three hours. The panic was interrupted from the joyful beep from my phone indicating I had a text. It was from Dwight.
“Hope ur head’s better; Sry bout that. Lol. xxoo”
“What an ass!” I said out loud and cried a little more. Why did I even feel anything for this guy? I wondered if the fall was some sort of karma, because I was old enough to be his mother? My spirit guides pushed me down the stairs to save me from myself. I stood in the checkout line sniffling, mascara streaming down my face. I texted back “Fuck Off.” And just like that . . . it was finished. I was now free to concentrate on the matters at hand . . . my mother and Thanksgiving. Baby steps, baby steps.
I pulled into mother’s driveway to find a bright pink Jaguar sitting there. The license plate read “MFF DVR.” Sitting behind the wheel of my car, I spelled out what I thought it meant. “Ahhhh. Muff Diver! Must be my agent, Sybil!” No one else would be so bold.
Manuel came out and began to unload my car, so I went into the house where I found my mother and Sybil playing cards in the living room. I hadn’t seen Sybil in about a year. We mostly communicated via e-mail or on the phone. I was taken aback by her shock of pink hair and the small jewel pierced into her prominent nose.
“Sarah . . . darling,” she exclaimed as she stood to greet me. Sybil stood five feet nine. Her beak-like nose protruded between her large, green, Tammy Faye eyes. She resembled a large heron out of a Lewis Carroll novel or a Tim Burton dream. She stretched out her “wings” to embrace me. Sybil had been my biggest fan from the beginning. She loved my work and was the greatest support system when I believed I couldn’t write another word. She stuck with me. It obviously paid off for her, too. Fifteen best sellers later and a brand new Jaguar.
“I didn’t expect you ‘til tomorrow!” I said, as she squeezed the life from me.
“Thought I’d get a jump on things. See if I could help you out with anything,” she answered.
“I see you and Mother have bonded.”
“She doesn’t remember me,” Sybil whispered in my ear.
“I know,” I whispered back.
“Finish the game with me Sybil,” my mother called out.
“Sure thing, Mrs. O’Malley.” Sybil winked at me and sat back down on the couch. “Your deal.”
I went to help Manuel put the groceries away in the kitchen, but he had everything under control. I asked him if my mother had commented at all about the market incident, but he said she didn’t say a word on the way home.
“You know, Manuel,” I began, “we may need to think about finding a place for her.”
“Oh no, Miss Sarah, I can take care of her. She will be fine!” There was panic in his voice.
I chose not to continue the discussion, but I knew in my heart that after the holiday I would have to begin the task of finding an alternative place for my mother for her own safety.
When my mother and Sybil finished their card game, which Sybil let her win, my agent asked me to go with her to one of her favorite bars in town so we could talk. Having been gone all day, I was hesitant at first, but she promised it was only fifteen minutes away. It was late in the day and dinner time was approaching. Manuel insisted he had everything under control on the home front. I asked if we could bring anything back. He told me that Vilma had made tamales and that he would make an apple pie. I should go and have a good time. No wonder my mother loved him.
Sybil drove like a maniac. It was like being in a car with Mario Andretti during the Indy 500. She gunned each curve and took pride at how fast her car would go on the straight-away. “Wanna put the top down?” She asked as we banked another curve.
“No thanks,” I said, feeling more car sick with each hairpin turn. We pulled into a quiet street, lined mostly with homes and trees. At the end of the street were a pizza parlor, a liquor store, and a bar called “Pink Fruits.” As I wobbled out of her Indy car, I looked around and said, “I never knew this place was here.”
“Been around for years,” Sybil replied, hooking her arm through mine. When we walked in, everyone knew Sybil. The bartender called out her name, and the overly buff bouncer did the same. Pink leather booths lined the outer rim of the place. Each booth had its own tiny pink chandelier. The décor was very art deco. A dance floor beckoned in the middle of the room surrounded by cabaret style tables and chairs. A “cigarette girl” in short shorts, carried a tray laden with cigars, cigarettes, and chewing gum. As she passed, I noticed condoms, too. We were escorted, by a pretty young thing, to a booth where Sybil ordered two pink Margaritas. Looking around, I realized the bar was filled with same sex couples.
“This a gay bar?” I was caught off guard.
“Give the lady a cigar!” Sybil laughed. “I brought you here to tell you something. I’ve decided to leave the business. I am retiring early.”
My heart sank, and I couldn’t keep myself from groaning, “Oh no!”
“I just don’t want to
be some old, drooling dyke who hasn’t seen the world!”
She assured me that she wouldn’t do anything until my new book was published and until I had met and accepted the agent she thought should take over representing me.
I knew I should say something, but I couldn’t. Sybil was turning my life upside down. I began to feel a little woozy. Was it still that car ride or maybe the drink was stronger than I thought?
“Look, Sarah,” she continued. “I’m not going anywhere immediately. But I need this . . . for me . . . you know?”
Ultimately, it is all about abandonment issues for me. There was my Mother, Marie’s new life, Dwight, and now this. I felt vulnerable and wanted to cry. Sybil and I had practically grown up in the publishing business together.
My first book was accepted after I put it in the mail and miraculously plucked out of the slush pile. The publisher set up a meeting with a literary agent known in the publishing world as The Bulldog. His name was Harry Goldstein. He smoked Cuban cigars and kept a Persian cat in his office. He had a constant cigar plume above his head like just after Wylie Coyote had blown himself up. Sometimes it was hard to take him seriously. Sybil was his receptionist. She was a timid, do-gooder, eager to please. She just wanted to make it in the publishing world and was willing to work around the clock and do almost anything to make a name for herself. Well, almost anything. It didn’t matter when I called the office, she was always there.
One day, I had a lunch date with Harry at a trendy sushi place that had just opened. After waiting more than forty-five minutes, I was getting ready to leave. Sybil arrived, breathless. She sat down and told me that Harry couldn’t make it. Harry had suffered a heart attack and was in the hospital. I asked her to sit with me and offered her lunch.
She began to cry. She was concerned that she may have had something to do with Harry’s heart attack. She cried even harder. I asked her why she would think something like that. She took a deep breath and explained that on many occasions, Harry would call her into his office, lock the door, and force himself on her. He never got very far. She always managed to fight him off, but he was relentless. After she told him she was a lesbian, he became more persistent. She reached a point where she couldn’t take it anymore. She did the only thing she could think of. She hired a lawyer, mostly to threaten him. She just wanted him to leave her alone. Instead, he had a heart attack.
I tried to reassure her that it wasn’t her fault at all. I reminded her that he smoked furiously and was obese. It was only a matter of time until something like this happened. Bottom line, though, he never should have tried anything inappropriate with her. I suggested she go out on her own, and I said I would be her first client.
Harry retired and sold the business to Sybil for a minimal sum mainly to keep her mouth shut. She inherited all of his clients and the Persian cat as well. It wasn’t long before she had made a name for herself as one of the finest literary agents around. So, here we sat, years and many bestsellers later, in our pretty, pink, leather booth, staring at one another.
“Sarah?”
I turn around, and there was Marie, standing behind me. She had her arm around a twenty-something Kate Moss look alike.
“Marie?!” I said, standing to give her a hug. “What are you doing here?” Then I realized. “Oh yeah, now that you’re ‘out’ you’re at a gay bar! Silly me.” That sounded awful and mean. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. She could have asked me the same thing!
Sensing tension, Sybil stood up and promptly stuck out her hand to the girls and introduced herself.
I believe Marie said the girl on her arm was named was Saffron. What kind of name is that, I wondered.
Sybil invited them to join us! I was tempted to yell “no!” They were quick to take up residence. Marie squeezed into my side of the booth with Saffron, so I scooted around to sit next to Sybil. She pinched me under the table, to warn me to be good.
Saffron appeared apoplectic as if she’d been technically knocked out, but hadn’t hit the floor yet. Marie was like a speed freak. She spoke a mile a minute about how the two of them had met in the cold and flu section of the pharmacy. It had been instant chemistry between them. Marie giggled.
I was fascinated by Marie’s remarkable, seemingly overnight, transformation from being a fairly demure housewife and mother to a gay woman with an adolescent crush. Marie put her arm around the girl and stroked the back of her neck. Saffron didn’t utter a word. She was frozen. She reminded me of a fairy or an elf. Something out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Her hair was dark brown with a white blonde streak at the front. Her ears were slightly vulcan-like, and a little pointy at the top. Her eyes resembled Bambi’s with huge lashes shading large brown orbs. Her nose had a ski slope flip and her mouth seemed to curl slightly downward, resembling an unhappy, happy-face. She was cute, I’ll give her that, but just not the type I would expect Marie to be attracted to. Maybe because she was probably not a day over twenty-two! But then, who am I to talk? I recently had sex with a guy who barely had his driver’s license.
Marie and Sybil dominated the conversation the entire hour we sat there. They laughed and drank heavily. When Saffron began to text someone intensely I decided I’d had enough and said I needed to get back to the house. It wasn’t really a lie. My family was arriving the next day.
“Oh, Sarah,” Marie began as we stood. “About Thanksgiving . . .”
Oh God! I thought. Here it comes. She’s going to ask to bring Saffron . . .
“What kind of wine do you want me to bring?”
“Oh, Marie, whatever you want will be fine,” I replied, relieved I didn’t have to watch the two of them canoodling all day. We all performed the obligatory air kisses as we left the bar. Sybil and I climbed back into the “pink hornet” and sped back down the street.
“Your friend is adorable,” Sybil began. “That ain’t gonna last by the way . . . Marie and Coriander.”
“Saffron!” I corrected her.
“Whatever! Ain’t gonna last!” she repeated.
I secretly wanted to agree, but I pretended I didn’t hear her instead. I was more focused on not throwing up due to Sybil’s driving technique.
When we got back to the house, Sybil was a huge help even though she was snockered. We set a beautiful holiday table, two days early. “You’ll want to spend time with the girls . . . not setting the table!” Sybil had suggested. She had noticed the interaction between Manuel and my mother. In her inimitable fashion, she asked, “What’s with your mother and Jose Cuervo?”
Trying to give her the edited version, I briefly described the relationship between them, that presumably had gone on for many years.
“Holy shit, Sarah . . . that’s an amazing book right there!”
I protested that it wasn’t the sort of book I wrote.
“Well,” she said, “now’s the time to start Sarah! Do something a little more substantial. Write what you know!”
Substantial! I knew that she was trying to be encouraging, but I immediately went to the place of ridicule, abandonment, unworthiness, no talent, uselessness. The sting of her words nearly brought me to my knees. I didn’t say anything about my feelings. I knew she meant to encourage and motivate me.
I watched her drive off and head for her hotel around 10 p.m. I knew how much I would miss her being my agent and wasn’t sure what I would do without her.
Manuel had tucked mother into bed, so I tiptoed past her room to avoid waking her. No sooner had I walked by her door that I heard her call out to me. I poked my head into her room. She was sitting upright in bed with the small lamp on.
“Read to me Sarah,” she said, holding up the journal she had given to me earlier. She must have gone into my room and taken it back sometime during the day.
“I thought you wanted me to read it alone,” I said.
“Changed my mind . . . let’s read it together.”
“Okay.” I wasn’t sure how to handle this one. God only knows what she had written in
these pages. Maybe I would be embarrassed reading out loud. Maybe there would be things about me that would be hurtful to know. I was in a turmoil of emotions and questions. As I climbed up onto the bed next to my mother and she handed me the book, I realized the power of what was happening. Not only did Mother want to share with me, but this was a tangible link to the past for a mind that was quickly evaporating.
I assumed I should start on page one. So I opened the journal and looked over at Mother. She had fallen fast asleep. I set the book down, and switched off her little light. I walked back to my room, relieved that I didn’t have to unlock some of the past tonight.
Chapter Eight
I Think We’re Gonna Need A Bigger Boat
I awoke the next morning to Manuel’s taps on my door. “Miss Sarah? Lily is here,” he whispered through the door.
I sat bolt upright and glared at my clock. “9:30 a.m.? What?” I never sleep this late. “I’ll be right down Manuel!”
I threw the bedclothes off me. Lily’s plane must have landed early. I wondered why she hadn’t phoned to tell me. I picked up my cell phone which I had forgotten to charge.
It was out of juice. I quickly brushed my teeth and hair, splashed water on my face, and threw on sweat pants and an old tee shirt. I’d shower later. I was too excited to see Lily.
Lily was standing in the garden with my mother, who was showing her the newest roses. Lily was a beautiful girl. She had inherited Rachel’s blonde ringlets. Today she was wearing a flowing, flowered skirt, a tank top, and flip flops, shades of me in the seventies. When I stepped out the back door, she spotted me immediately and a huge smile broke across her face. “Mama!” She cried out, running over to me. We held onto one another for a long time.
Lily and I were always very close. From an early age, Phoebe preferred not to be held too close and would even push me away at times. Lily thrived on being held. She and I were cut from the same cloth, and Phoebe and Brad were more alike. Lily broke away, stood back, and noticed the small bandage on my forehead. “Mom . . . what happened?”
When Angels Cry Page 13