My mother: “Hallo? Peri?”
Me: “Yes, Mommy.”
My mother: “Oh! I didn’t know it was you!”
Me, already losing patience: “Well, who else would it be! You just called my cell phone!”
My mother: “I know. That’s why I was confused. It didn’t sound like you. You sound terrible.”
Me: “Is that what you called to tell me?”
My mother: “You sound like you’ve been smoking.”
Me: Silent.
My mother: “Have you been smoking!”
I remained silent but could feel my blood pressure rising.
My mother: “So you have been smoking.”
Me: “Mommy, now really isn’t a good time for this.”
My mother, starting to scream: “It’s never a good time! That’s exactly the problem! Every time I call you, it’s not a good time! And then you say you’re going to call me back and you never do! It’s terrible! This is a terrible way to live! This is a terrible way to have a relationship! I don’t want to come visit you in the cancer ward!”
Me, wanting to kill myself: “Mommy, relax. I’m not smoking.” I said as I light a cigarette.
My mother: “I can hear you smoking! I don’t know when this is going to end but it’s not good! You don’t know what you’re doing to your lungs! And the whole apartment stinks like smoke! It’s disgusting!”
Me: “Mommy, I really have to go, Uncle Bark is on his way over.” And I hung up.
Then I walked into the peach bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. And gagged. I couldn’t bear to take a shower, so I splashed some water on my face and sniffed around. I really hoped the apartment didn’t stink like smoke because Uncle Bark would have a heart attack and I didn’t need some long talk from him about his high blood pressure.
Uncle Bark, in all of his grief and mourning and great enormous love for his dead mother was, much like myself, fairly delusional. While I was under the misguided impression that we would put everything into giant garbage bags, Uncle Bark wanted to keep everything. And when I say everything, I mean everything. Nothing was too insignificant and every last piece of junk had value. I would leave the room for a second and when I came back he would be fingering a red plastic beaded necklace as though it were an antique diamond Cartier.
And all of the stuff that he absolutely could not keep he wanted to sell. I was like, “Uncle Bark, let’s just make a pile and call Goodwill.” No, no, no, he wouldn’t hear of it. He had this cockamamie idea that we were going to sell all this garbage. So I had to sit there with him and photograph all this shit and then list everything, item by fucking item, on Craigslist. It was a nightmare. I just about lost my patience when he was waxing poetic about Grandma’s rug, which he kept referring to as a “Persian-style” carpet. It was (a) mint green, (b) stained, and (c) made in China. I tried to explain that we were wasting our time (not that I had anything else to do) and that the resale value of garbage is quite low. He wouldn’t hear of it. And because he had no idea how to take a photo, let alone upload one to a computer, I spent hours making ads like these:
• Salton Rolling Tea Cart with Hot Tray Top (doesn’t work but can be rewired) $75.00
• Naugahyde Vinyl Recliner (does not fully recline) $40.00
• 2 “Persian-style” carpets (in good shape but need to be cleaned) $175.00 & $90.00
• Stuyvesant Town Kitchen Dinette Area Hardwood Table with Removable Leaf & 4 Matching Green Seated Chairs (minor nicks in table and chairs can be repaired) $350.00 for set
• Metal Closet with Hanging Rod & Sliding Doors (doors need to be replaced) $40.00
• Microwave (works well but needs good cleaning!) $75.00
And this was how I pretty much lived the next nine months—grieving, cleaning, or, for one reason or another, spending a significant amount of time on my knees.
4
Innocent until Proven Guilty
On one of his many visits, Uncle Bark took one look at my tobacco-stained teeth and said, “First of all, I know you’re smoking in here and it’s disgusting. Second of all, you better go get your teeth cleaned. They’re disgusting, too.”
When Uncle Bark left, I went back into the peach-tiled bathroom and inspected the brown enamel in my mouth. I couldn’t imagine garnering the energy to pick up the phone to make an appointment, let alone carry out an actual trip to the dentist’s office, but I was even grossing myself out. Under the best of circumstances I loathed going to the dentist. I blamed this on my mother for forcing me to go to her freak-show dentist, Dr. Bogdanovich, when I was a kid. Dr. Bogdanovich worked out of his basement in Queens, wore a hairpiece, smelled like salami, and had bad teeth. What kind of self-respecting dentist had bad teeth? Even as a kid, I knew it was unconscionable. It was like having a fat trainer. As I was debating whether I had it in me to make it all happen, the phone rang.
Who was it? My mother. Who else would it be?
Me: “Hello.”
My mother: “Hi, Pootsilé.”
Pootsilé is my mother’s nickname for me. It is pronounced poot-see-leh. Once when Hanna was over for dinner, she heard my mother say this and she pulled me aside and in a very concerned voice, asked, “Why does your mother call you Pussylips?!”
Me: “Hi, Mommy.”
My mother: “What are you doing?”
Me: “I’m thinking about going to the dentist.”
My mother: “Oh good, because you really do need to get your teeth cleaned again. I didn’t want to say anything but your teeth are disgusting from all the smoking. It’s really terrible. You have to stop smoking. I’m not kidding.”
My mother is famous for saying “I didn’t want to say anything, but . . .” and then she says the rudest thing in the world and she acts like she’s doing me a favor. She also never skips a beat.
My mother: “If you want to go to Dr. Bogdanovich, he would be happy to see you again. He asks about you every time I see him. He’s such a nice man.”
Me: “Mommy, just because he asks about me every time he sees you does not make him a nice man!”
My mother: “He takes very good care of me and Papa. And takes our insurance, which is more than I can say for your dentist.”
Me: “First of all, you only like Dr. Bogdanovich because he’s Jewish. Second of all, I’m not even convinced that he actually is a dentist. Have you ever seen any evidence of this? He is a Russian immigrant with rotten teeth and a toupee who works out of his basement in Queens. That he happens to own dental equipment does not necessarily mean he is a dentist.”
My mother, completely ballistic: “Okay, Peri! You know everything as usual! That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard in my life! And he does not work out of a basement! He works out of a very nice office and it just happens to be in the lower level of his home!”
Me: “Well, last time I checked, the ‘lower level of a home’ is actually the dictionary definition of the word ‘basement.’ And to boot, his breath always smells like salami.”
My mother: “Oh, please, Peri, you are acting like a child! He’s a very good dentist and he does not smell like salami. That’s ridiculous! He may have smelled like garlic on one occasion because he had just eaten lunch.”
Me: “Well, that’s an unacceptable explanation. Dentists should smell like Listerine. All the time. And I don’t know why you give a shit what dentist I go to anyway. Or why you care whether he takes my insurance. I finally found a dentist I like. Isn’t that enough? And I love Leslie, my hygienist. What difference does it make to you! I mean, really!”
My mother: “Oh! I forgot how wealthy you are and that you can afford to go to a dentist on Park Avenue! And what does that mean, you love your hygienist? That’s ridiculous! What is she, your friend?”
Me: “Well, actually, if you must know, she is kind of my friend! She’s very nice and
she’s very gentle and she loved my book!”
My mother: “Oh, Peri, please! That is not why you pick a doctor. I really don’t know what’s wrong with you. What are you going to do?” My mother started screaming, “What are you going to do with your life! Do you even have a plan? You better start getting serious!”
Me: “Last time I checked I was dead serious about my life. I’m hanging up now.”
Our conversation enraged me enough to call Dr. Mulligatani’s office and make an appointment for a checkup and to have my teeth cleaned. I knew that at least everyone in the office would be nice to me. And I really did like Dr. Mulligatani. He was lovely and soft-spoken and very clean and he was always meticulously dressed. He had great teeth; beautiful, thick, slicked-back jet-black hair; a wonderful Indian accent; beautiful skin; and deep, soulful brown eyes. The first time he examined me he took one look inside my decaying mouth and determined that I had not one but four cavities that according to him needed to be attended to immediately. He filled two of them on the spot and told me to make another appointment for next week.
I told him I wasn’t sure I was prepared for this kind of a commitment, that it was nothing personal but that I really kind of hated going to the dentist.
With a Gandhi-like calmness and a matching accent, he said, “You are in-b-iting root cah-nal. You will be bock.”
I liked him, too, because he had good judgment. He knew how crazy I was, so before Dr. Mulligatani ever put anything in my mouth, he attached a mask filled with nitrous to my face. And so I trusted him. Unlike my mother, who thinks that being Jewish is the single good criteria to determine whether or not you are a good doctor, I actually need to love my doctors. I also need to feel like they love me.
Let me be clear here. Doctors are fucking shady. They’re just as shady, if not more shady than everybody else. Having a degree in medicine does not qualify you to be a good doctor and it sure as shit doesn’t qualify you to be a good person. I judge doctors the same way I judge everyone else—with my instincts and by observing the way they behave. Being Jewish can help, but on its own, it’s not enough to cut the mustard.
As I relayed to my mother, one Dr. Allan Zarkin, a Jewish ob-gyn had actually carved his initials into a patient’s abdomen after delivering her baby via caesarean. According to the New York Times, “Immaculately dressed in a cashmere turtleneck, Ferragamo loafers and a brown suit, the silver-haired obstetrician calmly pleaded guilty to second-degree assault. When asked by Justice White what he had done, Dr. Zarkin responded in a steady, almost soothing tone, ‘Using the scalpel, I scratched my initials into her.’”
I told my mother that the state also cited the clinic where Dr. Zarkin worked “for not thoroughly checking Dr. Zarkin’s credentials” and for allowing him to perform surgery unsupervised even though a psychiatrist had told clinic officials that Dr. Zarkin had a “brain disorder.”
My mother said, “Maybe you have a brain disorder. You find a random Indian man you know nothing about and suddenly you’re acting like you’ve discovered the best dentist in the tristate area! Your behavior is erratic and you pick your doctors for all the wrong reasons! Because they’re nice? What kind of criteria is that? I’m getting very worried about the decisions you’re making.”
Maybe I should have been worried about certain decisions I was making, too, but going to see Dr. Mulligatani was not one of them. He was wonderful. I called Veronica, the receptionist, with whom I had also become very friendly, and made an appointment for the very next day.
In addition to the fact that my teeth were brown, I could tell they needed to be cleaned because it felt like I had a small sweater on each of them. I also knew that Leslie wouldn’t judge me, that my teeth would be as good as new, and that I really had nothing to worry about as far as pain. Leslie was the gentlest hygienist I had ever met. She always took her time with my decrepit teeth, slowly bringing them back from brown to light yellow. She was always happy to see me and from the first time I met her she became my favorite hygienist in the entire world. She would tell me stories about her travels and even about her son, Dino, who was studying abroad in London. She also had the most incredible teeth I had ever seen in my life. They were so bright they almost shone. And they weren’t those fake horse teeth veneers either.
I felt like I had actually accomplished something by making the appointment. And I was actually looking forward to going there. I was as excited to see Veronica as I was to see Leslie. Veronica was a fierce Puerto Rican woman and she was the one who always called me to remind me of my appointment and I appreciated that. When I got there, though, Veronica seemed quieter than usual. She said “Hey, Mami,” and gave me a hug, but she was lacking her usual enthusiasm.
I didn’t really think anything of it and settled in with a copy of Better Homes and Gardens.
As I was sitting in the dentist chair waiting for Leslie and my nitrous, a strange-looking woman walked in. Even though she was as white skinned as me, I could tell she was Latina because her eyebrows looked like they had been drawn in with a Sharpie. Having grown up in Queens, I knew this is a look that was pretty much specifically reserved for members of the Latina community. She smiled at me. Her teeth weren’t great and I figured she was the cleaning lady or something. So imagine my surprise when she said, “Hi! I’m Marabelle. I’m the dental hygienist and I’ll be cleaning your teeth today!”
I started to freak out and blurted, “Where’s Leslie?”
Marabelle had no idea what I was talking about or who Leslie was. That made me freak out even more and I got all weird and skittish. I was like, “Well, where’s the nitrous? I don’t get my teeth cleaned without nitrous.”
Marabelle: “Ohhhhhh, we can’t use nitrous.”
Me, apoplectic: “Why not!”
Marabelle: “I’m trying to get pregnant and it’s really bad for the baby.”
Baby? What baby? If you’re trying to get pregnant there is no baby. That’s number one. Number two, I don’t know who this woman thought she was kidding. Maybe if she swallowed an in vitro clinic she would get pregnant. She looked about forty-five years old.
Me: “I don’t think so.” And I stood up.
Marabelle: “Is everything okay?”
Me: “No, everything is not okay.”
Like a lunatic, I marched into reception and was like, “Veronica, what the fuck?”
Veronica, nonplussed: “What’s the matter, Mami?”
Me: “This isn’t the Puerto Rican Day parade. Cut the ‘Mami’ shit. Where is Leslie? And who’s the chola with the eyebrows in there?”
Veronica sucked her teeth at me. She was like, “Mami, please, I’m the only chola up in this bitch. And don’t worry, Marabelle will do a very good job.”
I could tell that Veronica didn’t like Marabelle any more than I did. I was like, “Marabelle will not do a very good job because Marabelle is not coming anywhere near me. You know Leslie is the only one allowed inside my mouth. Where is she?”
Veronica: “She ain’t here.”
Me: “I can see that, Veronica. I can see that she’s not here. I can also see that I schlepped all the way to Ninety-Sixth Street, which is about eighty blocks farther uptown than I like to be, to see Leslie. So if she wasn’t going to be here, why didn’t you tell me I had to reschedule?”
Veronica, lowering her voice: “Listen, Mami. I gots to tell you something. Leslie don’t work here no more.”
Me, confused: “She only works at your other location?”
Veronica: “No, Mami, you not gettin’ it. Leslie don’t work for the company no more.”
Me: “What do you mean Leslie don’t work for the company no more! What happened?”
Veronica, narrowing her large Puerto Rican doe eyes into small slits: “I can’t tell you . . . but . . . something—”
Me: “Something? What!”
Veronica: “Something . . . huge.�
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I start to wonder what could possibly be so huge. Leslie was a middle-aged Jewish woman. She shared intimate details of her life with me. For example, I knew she was a widow and currently had a new boyfriend, who worked in finance. What could be so huge? Whatever it was, was much less important than the fact that I needed her to clean my teeth.
I was like, “I don’t want anyone but Leslie to clean my teeth.”
Veronica narrowed her eyes back to slits. She was like, “What you sayin’? You don’t want to be a patient here no more?”
I narrowed my eyes to slits. I grew up in a pretty gritty neighborhood in Queens. I’m accustomed to dealing with tough Latina bitches and was not intimidated by Veronica’s nonsense. When I was fifteen, I earned my stripes (and still have scars) from a brawl with a five-foot-eight girl named Manilla. She confronted me after hearing that I called her a whore, which she was, and punched me in the face. I proceeded to beat her about the head with my wooden clog.
All of this is only to say that Veronica’s tough girl act may have intimidated some people, but even in my fragile state I was unfazed. In fact, the only thing that Veronica’s reluctance to tell me what happened to Leslie did was to make me more curious than ever. Veronica could tell that I was less than impressed and tried to change her tune. She was like, “Listen, Mami, I know you love Leslie and to tell you the truth, I ain’t all that crazy about Marabelle myself, but she’s a good hygienist. Will you at least give her a try?”
Me: “Okay, fine. But you have to tell me what happened to Leslie.”
Veronica, lowering her voice again and getting really serious: “For real. I can’t. I’ll get fired.”
Now I was dying to know what was going on. I figured if I pressed Veronica hard enough, she would probably fold, but I didn’t really want to put her in that position. I decided to cut my losses for the moment. My teeth felt like they were covered in fur and I was already there, so I let Marabelle clean them, without nitrous so that her nonexistent fetus wouldn’t be born with a third head. I bade farewell to Veronica and went home.
On My Knees Page 5