by Jana Casale
How strange it is that these flowers are still here and my mom is not, she thought, looking at a vase of drying tulips.
She watched the episode of Sex and the City where Miranda’s mom passes away on repeat that whole week afterward. It made her laugh and it made her cry. She did it when John and Annabelle weren’t around. She didn’t want them to see her like that.
She sat by her bookshelf and took out the copy of Anna Karenina that her mom had given her for her sixteenth birthday. “Dear Leda, may this beautiful book guide you into womanhood,” her mom had inscribed on the first page. For a moment she held the Noam Chomsky book in her hand and flipped through it. It smelled so good. She put it back on the shelf.
At first she’d been scared to see her mother’s body; it wasn’t the way that she wanted to remember her. She wanted to remember her the way she was the last time she saw her: standing in the doorway and waving goodbye after they’d stopped by for dinner. It was something her mom always did. When Leda first met John, anytime she’d leave his apartment he’d only wave goodbye for a second before shutting the door. After a while she asked him if he could stand and wait until he could no longer see her before going inside. She hadn’t realized it at the time, but she was trying to build a family with him that was the same as the one she had. Finding a man was a way to let go of her mother. If she’d thought about it earlier, maybe she would have understood all those desperate years in her twenties when she would have done anything not to be alone. It was all for naught, though. John would wave goodbye many, many times, but it was not her mother. In the end she did agree to see her mom’s body, and she was glad that she had. It didn’t replace her final memory of her. It wasn’t her; it was just her body, her sacred vessel through life. Leda leaned down and kissed her forehead. She said a silent prayer about seeing her again and tried to think of something to say about love, but all she could think was, I love you, Mom. I love you. I love you.
Her mom had taught her how to pack a suitcase, and when Annabelle was born she taught her how to swaddle a baby.
“Don’t ever let a man talk to you like that,” she’d said.
Leda didn’t know what love really was until her daughter was born, and she did not know what pain really was until her mother died. She wished somehow she might be in a cave for the rest of her life with just her mother and daughter beside her, scribbling on cave walls. First they’d draw a horse. Then a handprint. Years later people would think men did the drawings. They would not know there were no men.
Leda read a short story in The New Yorker about a woman whose mom died suddenly in a car wreck. It had a lot of visual imagery to illustrate the pain of losing a parent. An empty shoe. A woman breaking a teakettle. Don’t they know that there is no thing that is that sad? Nothing looks like this feels. Not a million teakettles. Not a thousand empty shoes. She only read the story because she read a review of the story that praised it as “so honest it is almost a sin.” She read it in hopes that she might feel better after reading it, but it did not make her feel better at all. After that she was sorry she’d ever tried to publish a story in The New Yorker. She was glad they rejected her, that no one had called her work sinful and true.
When she came home from her mom’s funeral, she lay down on her bed. The house was empty.
“Mom,” she said.
“Mom,” she called.
“Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!” she called and called as loud as she could through sobs and her voice breaking. “Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!”
John came home, and she stopped screaming.
The rest of her life was like this. Of course she couldn’t scream like this in public. No one would feel sorry for you and the sadness you carried around. This she knew. This was what you learned as a child when you’d cry on the floor of a public place and your mother would lean in and tell you to act normally. Now that her mom was gone she had to tell herself that she could not scream and cry in public, but she would not stop searching. She would search for her mom forever everywhere she would go. Life could be so unreal and so vivid all at once you’d think it was a dream. You’d think it was all an etching on a wall. One you couldn’t remember carving. One that lasts forever, even when there are no more words to describe what you see.
PART 5
CHAPTER 53
Waiting for a Table
The hostess was very young and very pretty. Her hair was blond and silky, and she had the kind of enviable linear appeal of someone who regularly ate kale. The first time Leda noticed her she didn’t think much of her, other than that she was young and maybe a bit silly, given her fashion and makeup choices. As the restaurant became the chosen establishment that she and Annabelle frequented whenever Annabelle came for a visit, Leda grew to strongly dislike the woman. She noticed that she had a tendency to wink at all male patrons, no matter what the situation.
“Right this way.” Wink.
“Jones for two.” Wink.
“The bathroom is just down the hall to your right.” Wink.
She’d often only address the man when there was a family or a couple, and on one occasion Leda happened to catch a glimpse of her phone as she discreetly typed out a text that read:
“No U R .”
Leda no longer had the patience for these kinds of women, those who blatantly used beauty as currency and seemed oblivious to the dangerously transient nature of such a life philosophy. Wait till your face falls. We’ll see who’s winking then.
As her largely unwarranted animosity grew, she loathed having even the most superficial encounters with the girl. She even suggested to Annabelle that they start going somewhere else, but Annabelle refused, as she very much loved the restaurant’s thyme roasted potatoes.
“Mom, please, I’m not going to give up the potatoes because of that dumb girl.”
“Fine, then you make sure you get there first so I don’t have to deal with putting our name down.”
As usual Annabelle was late, and Leda had to put their name down.
“Hi,” the hostess said, vapidly cocking her head in anticipation of a response.
“Hi, yes, I was wondering how long the wait is for a table for two?”
“Let me just take a look here.” She leaned over her list of names and pushed a blond strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a lobe with a great many piercings. Leda wondered what the girl’s mother felt about the flesh that she’d probably worked tirelessly to protect now with a dozen different holes poked through it.
“It’ll be forty-five minutes to an hour.”
“Oh…okay. Well, I guess I’ll put my name down.”
“What’s the name?”
This she couldn’t understand. Surely the girl recognized her at this point. She was in the restaurant on a nearly weekly basis. The vast majority of the waitstaff knew her by name.
“Leda,” she said.
“How do you spell that?”
“L-E-D-A.”
“Okay, great. If you want to have a seat over there and just wait, I’ll call you as soon as your table is ready.” She cocked her head again with the same vapid anticipation.
“Okay, thanks,” Leda said.
She sat on the little bench beside the door. The air moved in and made her cold. I should have brought a sweater. I wish I had my orange sweater still. She thought of a bright, knit sweater she’d forgotten on the subway when she was still in college. She’d ordered it on impulse, and when it arrived she’d expected it not to fit as nicely as it did. It was one of those rare times in life where one’s hopes were so far exceeded that momentarily one could forget all the endless tragedy and boredom of every day. She had the vivid memory of her reflection wearing it, the big collar coming up to her chin, the warm color bringing out all the brightness in her features. I was so beautiful, she thought. The very next day she’d forgotten it on the train. She called her mom, crying about it, and her mom sweetly offered t
o buy her another, but it was sold out. Maybe someone found it and wore it and the sweater had a life totally separate from me where it went a great many places and did a great many things, she considered, through the memory of her vibrant collared reflection. Surely no one ever looked as good as I did in it, though. Now that she was getting older it was easy to look back and remember herself as beautiful. Why did I never enjoy it? Why did I not for a single day enjoy it?
Moments later Annabelle came in, and Leda felt instantly happy. No matter how old her child was, she still felt the same kind of frenzied love for her every time she saw her; if anything, now that she was grown, and no longer living at home, it made these encounters more frenzied than ever. There were no more snacks to prepare for her. No more lazy days on the couch.
“Hi, Mom.” Annabelle leaned down and hugged her. “Is there a wait?”
“Hi, baby. Yeah, forty-five minutes to an hour.”
“Jeez, that’s a long wait. This place is getting so popular,” Annabelle said, sitting down on the bench beside her.
“I know. I like your coat. Is it new?”
“Yeah, Robert bought it for me.”
“Oh really? He has nice taste.”
“Well, I picked it out. It was for our anniversary. I mean, I didn’t ask for it for our anniversary, he just remembered me trying it on and liking it from the week before, so he surprised me with it.”
“That’s nice.”
Annabelle shrugged. “It is, but it’s not all that romantic. It’s been two years. I would have really liked some jewelry or something sentimental. I know he bought it thinking, ‘Oh good, she likes the coat so I don’t have to try.’ ”
“You don’t know that. He might have just thought it would make you happy.”
“Trust me.” Annabelle took out a little compact from her purse and reapplied her lipstick. “You don’t know Robert. He hates giving gifts.”
“What did you get him?”
“A watch with the name of our favorite song engraved on the back of it. I had it special ordered.”
“That’s really thoughtful. I can see why you’re pissed about the whole thing.”
“It’s like this every time. I’ve honestly thought about breaking up with him over it. I mean not for real real, but, sort of. I know that sounds so superficial.”
“It’s not superficial at all. I mean, you’re giving him really nice gifts. Why can’t he put as much thought into what he gives you as you do for him?”
“Yeah, but I’m a girl.”
“So what?”
“It’s easier for me.”
“How the hell is it easier for you? I hate the whole idea that men shouldn’t be held to the same standard as women. You know Rita from work, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, she’s divorced and just recently started seeing this guy, and he baked her a cake for her birthday. She was so excited that he was actually capable of baking her a cake that she took a picture of it and showed it to everyone at the office. ‘Rick baked me a cake. Can you believe it? Rick baked me a cake.’ All the other women were so impressed. It was ridiculous. Can you imagine ever being excited if a good girlfriend baked you a cake?”
“No.”
“No, of course not. If Rita baked him a cake and was walking around bragging about it we’d all think she was crazy.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true.”
“You should expect that he treat you exactly like you treat him.”
“I know, but it is just presents. I mean, is that really all that important?”
“Yes, it is. There are a lifetime of Christmases and birthdays and anniversaries ahead of you. What? Are you going to be miserable through all of that?”
Annabelle was quiet. She shrugged again. “How long has it been? I’m starving.”
“I’m not sure. Let me go ask.”
Leda got up and walked over to the hostess, who was pulling a loose thread off of the hem of her dress.
“Hi, again,” Leda said. “Do you know how much longer the wait will be for us?”
“What’s the name?”
“Leda.”
“Can you spell that?”
You have got to be fucking kidding me. “It’s L-E-D-A.”
“Oh, right. Okay, it’s looking like it’ll be about forty-five minutes to an hour.”
“Forty-five minutes to an hour?”
“Yeah, it’s a busy night.” The hostess pursed her lips.
“But that’s what you said when I first put my name down. We’ve already been here waiting.”
“Sorry, it’s just a really busy night.”
“So will we definitely be seated in an hour?”
“Probably.”
“Only probably?”
“Do you have a reservation?”
“No, I don’t have a reservation. If I had a reservation, I wouldn’t be on the list.”
“Right, let me take one more look.” She leaned over her list and scrolled her finger down it. “I think you might be in after forty-five minutes. Do you want to stay on the list?”
“Well, we’ve already been waiting, so yes.”
Leda went and sat back down by Annabelle. “If we aren’t sitting in an hour I’m going to speak to her manager. This is crazy.”
“Mom, who cares? I’m sure we’ll get to eat at some point.”
“Yeah, but I’m not waiting here all night.”
“I wish you would just relax.”
“You can wait all night. I want to eat dinner at a reasonable hour.” The older Leda got, the less patience she had for the incompetence of everyday life. It started soon after she gave birth; there was a time when, like Annabelle, she too would have happily waited all night for potatoes, but then she pushed a human out of her vagina, and now she wanted potatoes when she wanted potatoes.
Annabelle shook her head as she quickly typed out a text message.
“Who is that?”
“It’s Robert. He’s always crazy on Fridays.”
“Why?”
“It’s just his job. It’s a lot of pressure. You know how he is.”
“Yeah.”
Leda liked Robert fine, but what she didn’t like was how Annabelle was around him. She met him for the first time a few months after they’d started to date. Annabelle had dated a few men before Robert, but nothing was nearly this serious. She was always very casual about her feelings toward dating.
“I’d really like to get my career going before I worry about some guy sitting in my house,” she’d say. Leda encouraged her on this front. She thought that waiting as long as possible was the way to go. She thought her daughter was too smart to waste her energies on a man, and she was proud she’d taught her to be that way.
Robert was meant to come over to their house for dinner. The week leading up to the meeting, Annabelle was a nervous wreck. Leda had never seen her like that. Every time she called she’d talk in a fast, jittery voice. She talked for twenty minutes straight about a new skin regimen she’d been trying before finally saying: “Please, just let’s try to make a good impression.”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“I don’t know…I just want everything to be perfect.”
“Perfect for what?”
“I don’t know.”
Robert was shorter than Leda imagined him to be. He had a round face and his hairline was receding. He wasn’t bad-looking, really, but she thought he and Annabelle made a funny-looking couple. She was so much taller and so very pretty.
“Hi, I’m Robert,” he said, reaching out to her for a handshake.
“Hi, Robert! So great to meet you finally! Please come in!”
Annabelle stood beside him with a wide smile. Leda had never seen her daughter with such a smile. It was disconcerting.
&
nbsp; They sat in the living room, eating cheese and crackers and drinking wine. Robert talked about his job and asked questions about how long they’d owned the house.
“We’ve been here…Jeez, it’s been forever,” John said. “I don’t even want to count the years.”
The conversation was stilted at best. Annabelle was keeping quiet, mostly. She poured Robert a glass of wine at one point.
“Robert grew up in Connecticut, just outside of New York City,” she finally added.
“Is that so?” Leda asked. She was talking to her daughter, but of course Robert answered.
At dinner things loosened up a bit, and the conversation came easier. Robert joked a lot and complimented the food. Leda asked him all sorts of questions, but she kept looking to Annabelle, who sat with her arm pressed up to his. She continued to smile and not say much. When it was time for dessert she refused a slice of her favorite cake.
“Do you not feel well, honey?” Leda asked her.
“No, I’m fine,” Annabelle answered, still smiling.
That night as she and John lay in bed together, they talked about it.
“What did you think of Robert?” she said.
“He seems like a nice enough kid. Very eager to please.”
“And what about Annabelle? Didn’t she seem different to you?”
“No, not really.”
“She hardly said two words. We were talking about the election at one point, and she hardly had anything to say. It’s not like her.”
“Maybe she just wanted to keep things light, since we were just meeting him.”
“But that’s exactly what I mean; I don’t like her keeping things light for some guy.”
Leda asked Annabelle about it, but Annabelle denied being any different around him, so she let the subject go but continued to be worried about it whenever they’d all get together. Robert still talked more. Annabelle still poured him wine.
“It seems like there are mostly old people in here now,” Annabelle said, looking around the restaurant.
“Hey, I take offense at that.”