Was that a good or bad thing? I wondered.
“Listen,” he said. “I know this is tough, but your mom has a lot of friends here. There isn’t a nurse or doctor at this hospital that at some point or another your mother hasn’t helped.”
As he spoke, I saw some of the nurses gathered at reception, and it seemed as though they were listening and nodding to what Dr. Newton had to say. The woman he was describing didn’t sound like anyone I knew.
“You’re talking about my mother?”
“Yes, Ella headed up the patient-advocacy task force that focused on seniors and has always given one hundred percent to every doctor and patient on the ward,” he said. This was from the woman who never visited her own aging mother.
“Do you actually know my mom?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied in the same calm tone as he had started. “Ella was probably the first person I met here. She runs the orientation program for all new doctors. It is a privilege to take care of her. Let me put it this way: if I were sick, I would want your mom to take care of me.”
“You guys … like her?” I asked, wondering what he made of my astonishment.
“I can only speak for her at work. At home she may have behaved very differently. It’s clear now your mother was a very-high-functioning alcoholic. That may have had serious ramifications for you at home, and we have counseling that we can make available to you and your family, but as for the hospital, she couldn’t be in better hands.”
“Can I see her?”
He signaled the nurses, who were already waiting to take me to her room.
As I walked away from him, I nodded thanks.
I already liked Dr. Newton. I had never known as much about my mother as in that short talk with him. No one had ever laid it on the line in such a matter-of-fact way. I realized that these doctors and nurses knew her better than I did.
“Right this way, hon,” the nurse said. She had a gristled voice like Mom and was wearing the same pale-blue scrubs Mom wore home every day. I noticed the name Brynner stitched into her uniform. I remembered Mom talking about her. I wondered if they had ever gone out drinking together.
With a hiss, the pneumatic doors opened. Gurneys glimmered in a line down the corridor. As we passed the nurses’ station, almost everyone stopped to watch us walk by. I don’t know why, but it made me feel like crying.
In my mother’s room, I couldn’t stop myself. My chest was shaking uncontrollably. I couldn’t hold back the tears. Mom was lying with her eyes closed on her back, a tube in her nose, a finger heart-rate monitor, a catheter in her arm, and a tube in her wrist hooked up to all kinds of machinery.
“Mom?” I said, trying to focus myself. She didn’t move, though I could see that she was breathing.
“She’s sleeping,” Nurse Brynner said.
“Can I … can I just sit here for a while?” I asked.
“Of course, hon, you go ahead. I’ll come back in a few.” As Nurse Brynner left, I turned to Mom, and it all burst out of me. I sobbed relentlessly.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry about your calls. I’m sorry about school. I’m so sorry that I let you down.”
All the while, Mom just lay there, her chest moving up and down with the machinery. The hums, beeps, and clicks were the only sounds as the medical equipment tracked her vital signs, more in sync with my mother than I ever was.
41
Nan and I hugged for so long I lost my sense of time. When I lifted my head, there was only darkness outside her window. It chilled me to think of Mom sleeping in the hospital with tubes coming out of everywhere.
“They love her so much,” I said. “I could see it in their eyes. They knew about her drinking, but they still loved her.” I felt weepy again. So did Nan, her soft little hand holding mine in an iron grip.
“I always knew she had it in her,” Nan said, shaking her head. “But with me she was so angry, and her drinking made everything impossible.” She wiped a tear from her cheek.
“It’s wonderful she’s with friends,” Nan said, firmly patting my hand and straightening herself on the couch. Nan had tried to visit three days earlier when they admitted Mom, but Mom wouldn’t see her. I couldn’t even process how that must have felt to Nan.
“Are you okay?”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “Your mom and I will be close again some day. I’m sure we will. As you know, things can be very difficult between mothers and daughters.”
“Do you want to talk about it at all? I mean, what happened between you and Mom? You don’t have to,” I said.
Nan regarded me in silent sadness.
“You have been my shoulder to cry on for so long, you can cry on mine, too.”
“I don’t know,” Nan said, trailing off into her own thoughts. We sat there for a while, holding hands, stuck in the sadness of it all, until I felt Nan stir. “I guess we were unlucky,” she began. “There is a history in our family of rebellious daughters. I certainly know that. But the time just ran away from us. And we grew further and further away from each other.” Just like me and Mom, I thought.
“Did you ever try to stop her from drinking?” I asked.
“Of course, and unfortunately that was another unlucky part.” Nan looked so sad as she said those words. For the first time, she seemed old to me. I knew she was old, of course, but I never thought about her that way until she started talking about Mom.
“What did you do?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t pushing too hard. But with Mom in the hospital, I wanted to know.
“You know, it’s not like on those reality shows they have on the television about intervention where nine times out of ten they seem to succeed,” she said. “I’ve read quite a lot about it. Many times, the percentages aren’t really very good.”
“So you and Grandpa actually did a full-on intervention?”
“Yes. And, well, the danger in an intervention is what you’d expect. If it fails, everything can become much worse. I remember the therapist advising that there could be a ‘subsequent period of strained communication,’ as he called it, and that we shouldn’t lose hope.” Nan gripped my hand and looked me in the eye. “In our case, that subsequent period of strained communication has lasted for twenty-three years.” I saw a tear slide down her cheek. “I try to hope,” she said. Nan stood up and went to the kitchen to collect herself. It was too much for her.
“Some tea, Lisbeth?” she asked, her tiny voice still weepy. I nodded yes. She returned a moment later with a tea setting on a silver platter, placing the tray down on the table.
“So Lisbeth,” she said, pouring me a cup, “I want to know what is going on with you. Where have you been, what have you been doing? What is your plan?”
There it was, the dreaded word “plan,” always looming over me like a guillotine, but I couldn’t pretend anymore. Not to Nan. Not even to Mom.
“I’m not going to college,” I said. “Not for nursing. Not yet anyway.” I waited for a reaction of disappointment to come over her face. But Nan was too cool for that.
“Really,” she said. It wasn’t a question, although it was. “Well, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know, but I want to try to get a job in fashion,” I said.
“Really?” This time it was definitely a question.
“You think I’m silly,” I said.
“Well, you know I follow your blog. And what do you call that other thing? A Tumblr?”
“You do?”
“I was a bit bewildered to see my maiden name, ahem,” Nan said, giving me a sly glance. I winced. “But then I saw you had thousands of followers and you have quite a lot of wonderful things to say and I agreed with it all!” she said. “I don’t know how you have time for so many entries. And such lovely photographs, by the way. Do you have a concrete idea how you’re going to work in the fashion business?”
I shrugged. I really didn’t have the slightest idea. Don’t ask how or why, but Nan’s question brought to mind
the woman Tabitha introduced me to at her record party. Flo Birkenhead, that tiny intense woman with the close-cropped red hair who talked about ad placement, endorsements, and aggregators. I hoped I still had her card. I had heard of people making money on their blogs and Tumblr sites.
“Okay, well, we will have to come up with something, won’t we?”
I nodded, wondering how I could possibly have anything resembling a career.
“In the meantime, we have work to do,” Nan said with a sense of determination that startled me. “Even if your mother won’t talk to me, we have to make a plan that will work for everyone.”
42
Penthouse A.
I still had the thick cream-colored invitation in my purse. Dr. Newton wanted to run more tests, so Mom was still tucked away in her hospital room. But like King Kong ready to break his chains and roar, Mom was starting to go nuts. I heard she pleaded with her nurse friends, to “rip these fucking catheters out” and let her go back to work. For obvious reasons, they couldn’t. Plus, she was probably in detox withdrawal from stopping her alcohol consumption cold turkey, and I guess there were a few liability issues to work out. At least she was with people who could handle her better than Courtney or I could.
Before Nan and I could start our plan, I had to clean up a few pieces of business. I contacted Flo to have a chat about my blog and was happy she remembered me. As I expected, she was all business and promised to make a market analysis of Limelight and get back to me.
“I’m very interested in helping you build your brand,” she remarked. Me? A brand? Fingers crossed.
I was concerned about facing Tabitha. I felt like I had failed her; there was no other way to think about it. Robert’s intentions were disturbing, and I had no idea how Tabitha would feel about that, considering the results she had hoped for. Which is why it was so curious to receive her text.
“Come 2 my house 2 get ready b4 penthouse party ! ;)”
She was going, for real? I couldn’t fathom the relationship she had with her business manager-slash-trustee-slash-uncle.
“C u @ 9 ? It’s bn 2 lng bathroom buddy !! :*(” That didn’t sound like someone who was angry with me.
“ZK sez hi. He’ll be there. ;)”
The mention of those initials sent quivers down my spine as I remembered our kiss.
Once off the PATH train, I headed downtown to Jess’s place, rang the buzzer, and ran upstairs.
“What the hell?” I heard a voice say from inside the apartment as I reached the door. And then a moment later, “Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?”
“Hey Lizzy,” Jess said, standing in the doorway. She was smiling as always, her pixie hair frazzled, the blue dye fading turquoise. Five sewing pins were sticking out of the collar of her work shirt and a swatch of fabric dangled from her hand. We hugged, careful to avoid the pins.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” the girl behind her said with annoyance. Jess looked amused, as if she expected the question.
“Hey Lizzy, meet my girlfriend, Sarrah. She’s been helping me with some fittings.”
Sarrah had long, shock-red hair, recently dyed from what I could tell. She was wearing overalls and had lots of freckles on her face and arms, like some kind of trippy farm girl. She was very pretty but seemed unhappy.
“Hi.” She thrust out her hand to me. “I’ve heard all about you,” she said with a hint of displeasure. I noticed a tattoo in goth letters on her wrist that said BITTER SWEET.
“Good to meet you, Sarrah,” I said. I had met Jess’s girlfriends before, and they almost always had rough edges, which seemed to amuse Jess. Without fail, Jess’s girlfriends resented me, but this time I also felt a twinge of resentment, wanting Jess all to myself. I needed to talk to her about Mom, the crazy encounter at the St. Regis, and ZK and ask her if she’d seen Jake, but there wouldn’t be a way with Sarrah there.
“How’s your mom?” Jess asked. I guessed the moms had talked.
“Good, as far as I know. They still haven’t finished testing.” Sarrah was standing right beside Jess, clearly planning to listen to everything we said like some kind of twisted chaperone. Jess shot me a knowing look.
“Hey, I just came by to pick up a dress if it’s okay.” Not really true, but it was the best excuse I could manage at the moment.
Sarrah was flat-out staring at me.
“Sure, let’s take a look,” Jess said. “Hey Sarrah, I would love some more hot water for my tea?” She held up her mug. Sarrah broke out of her daze, nodded, and trundled off obediently to the kitchen.
“She’s cute,” I said. “How long?”
“Three days,” Jess said. “Won’t last three more.” I tried to keep from laughing.
“Hey!” Sarrah yelled from the tiny kitchen across the room, and we both flinched. “Where do we keep the tea?” Jess rolled her eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” Jess whispered.
I took the opportunity to dash to the closet ahead of Jess. I couldn’t help noticing there were four newly modified vintage dresses, each one more wonderful and a bit wilder than the next. They weren’t there two days earlier.
There was another dress, as well. It didn’t seem like one of Nan’s but still had a retro flavor while at the same time being totally fresh and eye-catching. Longer in the back than in the front, it had a patterned black chiffon fabric with white leaves falling like snow clusters mostly at the top. The black overskirt was bouncy and light with only a few white leaves randomly placed, dissolving into pure black. The black underskirt was tight and sexy.
Along the hem, playful light-gray embroidery caught my eye. On closer examination, I realized they were words. Turning the hem in my fingers, I read them.
As we talk the words fall away. They fly like seeds in the wind, clinging to the hem of your dress before they disappear.
The words made the dress a secret message. Was it from Jess’s journal? It was startling and provocative, just what you’d expect from Designer X.
“So you like it,” Jess said confidently. I turned. She must have been watching me.
“Like it? It’s mind-blowing.” I felt the air go out of me. Jess was so talented, I felt like I was bathing in her brilliance.
“I’m getting tired of the asymmetric hem length; I might change that. Try it on,” she offered, lifting the dress out of the closet. “It should fit.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, noticing Sarrah watching us from the kitchen.
“It’s for my show. I made it with your measurements.”
I stripped down to my underwear and slipped on the tight skirt and overskirt and then the blouse.
“It needs to be a tad tighter at the waist,” she said, staring into the full-length mirror propped against the wall.
“Jess, I think it’s perfect.”
“Then wear it tonight.”
“What? Really? It’s one of a kind; it’s your original…” I stammered.
“They all are,” she said. “Do me a favor, Lizzy, wear it. I’m sure you’re going somewhere fantastic tonight. That dress deserves to escape this closet and be worn. What did you used to say? Its destiny is to be worn?”
I smiled while Sarrah, holding a tea bag, watching us from the kitchen, seethed.
43
The doorman greeted me at Tabitha’s building on North Moore Street in Tribeca. He was just a few years older than me and had that unshaven-Euro-model look. His uniform must have been designed by Comme des Garçons. Fanciest doorman I’d ever seen, no joke. He was a perfect fantasy. After all, who wouldn’t want a good-looking guy who is always nice and opens doors, hails cabs, and carries heavy packages for you?
“Please let me help you with your bag,” he said. I only had a garment bag with the latest Designer X creation inside. It seemed a little silly, but I acquiesced, feeling very indulged. He pushed the PENTHOUSE button as I entered the elevator.
I heard Tabitha’s familiar high-pitched squeal as the door opened.
�
�You’re here!”
She was standing in a comfy pink bathrobe with her hair up in a towel, Galileo yapping at her feet. It was good to see her again, and I appreciated how happy she was to see me. Walking into her penthouse apartment, I was totally awed.
The Princess of Pop truly had pop-star-worthy digs. The cherrywood floors and staircase were so deeply lacquered I could see my reflection as I walked in. There was a high-tech kitchen that was so pristine that it seemed impossible Tabitha had ever boiled water in it. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves complete with a library ladder on rails was utterly impressive. Tabitha’s collection of leather-bound literature was remarkable, though I doubted there was a book on those shelves that had ever been touched. The living room had a view of New York City on three sides.
“Hurry,” she said as she skipped barefoot up the spiral staircase at the back of the living room. “Come up to my bedroom and help me pick out what to wear.”
I followed. The second floor was even more sensational. Calling it a bedroom seemed a poor way of describing the place. There was a large built-in mahogany desk, a plump couch, upholstered chairs, an antique wooden coffee table, and a sleek designer bed that seemed to be floating on air, all of which faced onto an open terrace with views of all of Lower Manhattan. You could even see the Statue of Liberty.
“In here!” Tabitha called. I wondered where she could be.
She poked her head out of a doorway “Hello? Come on, I need help.” I followed her and found myself in an enormous walk-in closet.
I know from closets. Even with tons of hangers, clothes, and shoes, this was significantly more than a closet. Nothing like the smushed-in cozy closet I had at home. All the bedrooms in my house could fit in there. This was a closet you could get lost in for days.
It reminded me of the showroom where we tried on clothes at Barneys. At the center of the room was a gorgeous French walnut armoire with a full-length mirror.
“What do you think of this?” Tabitha said, posing in a black leather halter and black harem pants, looking like an upscale relative of JWoww’s. She could tell from my expression that it wasn’t my favorite. “Okay, okay, give me a second.” She ducked back behind the armoire.
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