Ask Again Later

by Jill A. Davis

  The words are supposed to sound cool and casual. Instead, she sounds like she’s reading from a script that she’s just seeing for the first time. “Important to be surrounded by those you loved at a time like this?”

  At no point does she make a move to step down from the ladder. She keeps cleaning and doesn’t bother to look in his direction.

  “I’m so sorry to hear your news,” Jim says. “If there’s any way I can help, please let me know.”

  “Well, there is this one spot, about six inches out of my reach,” Mom says, finally looking at him.

  He makes a move toward the ladder, smiling.

  “Wait, where’s the camera?” I say.

  “In the kitchen,” Mom says. “Near the silverware.”

  “It was a joke,” I say.

  “It’s almost reassuring how nothing has changed,” Jim says.

  He doesn’t know either one of us well enough to know if nothing’s changed.

  She hands him the mop and proceeds to boss him around for twenty minutes or so. Then the doorbell rings again. Mr. Simone. Our neighbor from twenty years ago is here to say his good-byes. Mom apparently went through the Rolodex and is parading her past before her eyes. It explains the fresh manicure. The hair foils in the bathroom trash can. The shopping list on the counter: Guest book. Linen napkins. Cotton gloves? Cigars for the men. New highball glasses.

  It’s all so apropos for a girl who has chosen to live in the past.

  Good-bye. Hello.

  I WALK MY FATHER downstairs. We shake hands again. I don’t know a single other person on the planet who has this kind of warped relationship with a blood relative. Except my sister Marjorie.

  “Well, I guess, maybe I’ll see you around,” I say.

  “Okay, I’ll see you, then,” Jim says. Then he leans forward and kisses my head.

  “Okay,” I say.

  We’re both being polite. But I’m not sure why. If I spoke the truth, what’s the worst thing that could happen to me? He wouldn’t speak to me? We’re already not speaking.

  “Perhaps we could have lunch sometime,” Jim says. “You could come to the office.”

  “Sure. Sometime,” I say.

  “How about Friday?” Jim says. “Come on Friday, around one o’clock.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Friday. If Mom doesn’t have any doctor appointments.”

  I return to my mother’s apartment. She’s drinking tea and leafing through an address book from the gogo eighties. Mr. Simone is in the kitchen making her dinner.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you called Jim?” I ask.

  “I’m a woman of mystery. I don’t tell you everything,” Mom says.

  And yet she rarely stops speaking. She talks, and talks, as a diversion. The fact is that she reveals almost nothing. How does she manage not to reveal more purely by accident?

  “When did I stop calling Jim ‘Dad’?” I ask.

  “It was early on,” Mom says. “Four, maybe five years old.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?” I ask.

  “I just assumed you saw him for what he was,” Mom says.

  “And what is he?” I ask.

  “A nice enough man who never really understood how to be a father,” Mom says. “Or a husband. Or, well, he wasn’t much of a cook either. He thought he was. They all do. I could go on and on. Of course, he also has a very charming side.”

  Red Wet-Look Boots

  WHEN I WAS FOUR or five, my father would slap Aqua Velva onto my cheeks after he shaved. He smacked it on so hard it stung my skin, but I still waited for it most mornings. Waited for that connection.

  The only other memory I have from that time is very vivid. I am five, and I am standing out in front of our church after Sunday school. Everyone else has gone home; I am the last one waiting. It was not unusual for me to be the afterthought.

  My father arrives. I wave. He tells me to sit in the car. He has to run inside for something. His soul? It was suspicious.

  A long time passes; it’s hot, and I’m tired of waiting in the car. So I go inside. It’s quiet. There’s no one in the rectory. I walk around, opening doors, searching. I smell church smells. I see a communion wafer on the counter, in the kitchen. Its surface feels like velvet. There is a cross in the center of it. I slip it into my pocket.

  I walk by the empty Sunday-school classrooms. And then I get to my classroom, and I see him. My father. He’s kissing Miss Murray, my Sunday-school teacher. So that’s what he forgot! To kiss my teacher! He’s pressed against her, near the sink where we wash out the paintbrushes. She has her arms around him. And he’s unbuttoned the front of her shirt halfway. She’s wearing red wet-look boots, yet manages to look wholesome. I covet those boots.

  I knock at the door and run—black patent leather Mary Janes hitting linoleum—for the car, where I pretend to be asleep.

  None of My Business

  I’M IN MY mother’s bathtub eating a grape Popsicle that tastes kind of like frozen lamb chops. There was no expiration date on the wrapper. Frozen water with imitation flavoring and colors never go bad, but they do start to absorb their surroundings—just like the rest of us.

  Mom walks in. A careful, hopeful smile on her face. True joy in her eyes. Is it the doctor? Is he calling to say it’s all a big mistake? He was reading someone else’s films?

  “Paul something or other,” Mom says, holding out the phone. Then covering the receiver, “Is he the one from the office?”

  “I’m taking a bath,” I say.

  “I see that. I could take a message, but he says he’s returning your call,” Mom says, smiling some more.

  I transfer the Popsicle to the other hand and take the phone.

  “Should I close the door?” Mom asks.

  “Please,” I say.

  She closes the door reluctantly and not all the way. She’s visibly excited at the prospect that this might be “the one from the office.” I’m sure she’d be much less excited to know that I called my shrink for an emergency session. So panicked was I by the prospect of another parent leaving me that I called him and left a rather hysterical message.

  “Hi,” I say. “Thanks for calling back.”

  “Finally got to speak to the famous Joanie,” Paul says.

  “Very exciting stuff,” I say.

  “Do you want to talk now, or would you like to come in tomorrow?” Paul says.

  “Tomorrow,” I say. Hearing his voice is a relief. The Popsicle is running down my hand. “Because I’m pretty sure my mom is listening at the door.”

  “Okay,” Paul says. “I have an opening at ten.”

  “Great. Thanks,” I say. I hang up the phone.

  I hear movement on the other side of the door.

  “I just wondered if you needed a towel,” Mom says.

  “There’s one on the towel bar,” I say. “If you have a question, just ask.”

  “Okay. Who’s Paul?” Mom asks. Smiling some more.

  “My shrink,” I say.

  “Oh. Well, that’s none of my business,” Mom says. “Is he any good? A lot of them have no idea what they’re doing.”

  Dreaming

  I HAVE A DREAM about Sam. I’m at his apartment making dinner. But I can’t find anything that I need to prepare the meal. So he has to find everything. He finds the salt, the good knives, the spatula, the place mats—everything. All I do is cook. I feel lost in his house, but I don’t want to leave.

  Paul

  I DON’T SIT DOWN in the black pleather club chair; I fall down. I’m going to have to say this aloud, aren’t I? It will be real and true. And then I start crying. Sobbing actually. I’ve never done this here. It takes me a while to get the courage to look at him.

  “My mother is dying,” I say. “She has breast cancer.” I start crying at this part again, and the room’s all blurry from my tears.

  “Goodness. What have the doctors said about it?” Paul asks. “Is that what she said? She said she’s dying?”

  “Yes,
” I say.

  “In those words?” Paul asks.

  “Yes,” I say. It’s quintessential Mom.

  “I hope that’s not the case. But I think you should speak with her doctor, don’t you? I think you should speak with her doctor and find out what her diagnosis is, and what her treatment will be like,” Paul says. “You can’t be in control of her health, but knowing what comes next would be helpful. Cancer generally happens in stages. If it’s caught early, she’s very likely to live a long life.”

  “You’re right. I’ll call her doctor. This only happened yesterday,” I say. “My sister is not helpful at all. She’s pregnant and can’t be bothered to get involved. She says my mother is strong and she’ll get through it.”

  “Okay, so your sister is either in denial or dislikes your mother. We can focus only on you. How have you been coping?” Paul asks.

  “Not well,” I say.

  “Not well, how?” Paul says.

  “I quit my job, walked out on Sam, and slept at my mom’s house last night,” I say.

  Long pause. I’m actually waiting for him to shake his head in disgust, or laugh hysterically. He does neither.

  “All or nothing,” Paul says. “All or nothing. Finding that middle ground would…”

  “Be impossible, but feel like a vacation?” I say.

  “It would be very valuable,” Paul says. “You have an immediate situation that needs attention, and I really think you’d benefit from coming here more often. Less hiding.”

  “Exactly!” I say.

  Hiding is what I’m all about. He wants to strip that away. I hate it that I can’t have a crisis that isn’t accompanied by a sales pitch for more sessions. But I’m simultaneously flattered that my situation is so dire that he wants to see me more often.

  But I loathe the idea that he’ll soon see through my treading-water tactics with him. It’s taken two years to learn to trust Paul, alone in this room. Now he wants me to show up more often? Make a bigger commitment?

  “Thanks for the invite. It’s always nice to be asked,” I say.

  “Why not try one extra session?” Paul says. “It’s not like you can hide behind work anymore.”

  When I don’t say anything, he adds: “With issues come solutions. You’d welcome them more if you saw it that way.”

  “Oh, please, no one ever resolves anything,” I say.

  “If you believed that you wouldn’t be here,” Paul says.

  The Crazy Filter

  AT MY MOTHER’S INSISTENCE, I sleep in my childhood room. There’s no nostalgia here. It looks nothing like the room I had as a child because within twelve hours of my leaving for college, Mom gave the thumbs-up to the wrecking ball and had the room redecorated. The theme of the room is now “Island.” The bed is made of bamboo. The wallpaper is green with a paler shade of green creating a grid. There are pastel-colored silhouettes of palm trees. The rug is sand-colored. Above the bamboo dresser is a mirror decorated with seashells. Evidence of the first eighteen years of my life fit neatly into two brown boxes in the closet.

  I lie here trying to fall asleep and miss my own apartment. I didn’t go through co-op board approval and get myself into serious debt to sleep here. I miss my very soft, plain white sheets, my own pajamas, and the possibility of being home to answer the phone in the unlikely event that Sam calls.

  I finally fall asleep around three A.M. It’s still dark outside when I hear a frightening sound. The curtains and blackout shades are squeakily opened. I feel like I’ve been blindfolded and held in solitary confinement. My eyes actually hurt from the light and lack of sleep.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “Five-thirty,” Mom says. “It’s just so good to have you here. Back in your own room. I can’t wait!” Mom says. She’s moved down to the carpeting. She’s in spandex, seated in a child’s pose. She has a pencil in hand, and has folded the Times so she can work on a crossword puzzle while we pretend to talk.

  “Can’t wait for what?” I ask.

  There is a tray by her feet, on it is a glass of orange juice and a fleshy mosaic of too many vitamins. Her eyes dart around the crossword puzzle.

  “Here are your vitamins and some juice,” Mom says. “No pulp, the way you like it!”

  I like pulp but don’t mention this. I’m not sure why. I don’t want to disappoint her. Don’t want her to think less of herself for not knowing that I enjoy pulp. Part juice. Part fruit. Win. Win.

  “I take one multivitamin with extra calcium. I don’t take a dozen vitamins,” I say.

  “Can’t have too many antioxidants,” Mom says. It sounds like a threat.

  I stare at the tray. I can’t possibly choke down all of those pills. I’d just feel bad for my liver, expecting it to process all of them at once. If I’m going to ask great things of my organs, I like to butter them up for a few days with greens and lots of water. I save the overtime requests for the very memorable—such as great wine. Not a fistful of fortified chalk and oil.

  “I’ll take them after I eat,” I say.

  “We’re doing a juice fast today,” Mom says.

  “After we eat?” I ask.

  She’s opening dresser drawers and unfolding pressed pillowcases. Then she refolds them—perfectly. She does it again. I worry this might be what she does all day when I’m not around.

  Last week, she was practicing her deathbed scene on the davenport. This week she is an overzealous juicer who wants to reorganize her drawers. Her mood is remarkably upbeat compared to the day I got here, when she felt pretty strongly that she didn’t have the time or the interest to fight cancer or learn the nuances of her own diagnosis. Now she is a superhero. Ready for anything. Armed with juice and a good attitude. Somewhere, in there, is my mom.

  She moves on from the folding of pillowcases, and starts making the bed while I’m still in it. She fluffs the pillow and straightens the bed skirt. She hasn’t made my bed since I was five. Even then, Maris did it, but Mom fluffed the pillows. You know, that final touch.

  “Can you get up so I can make the bed?” Mom says. “It’s hard to work around you. I like to have all the beds made before I go out.”

  “I know,” I say. “I remember when you’d wake me up so my bed could be made so that you could leave the house.”

  “I never did that,” Mom says, smiling.

  “You just did it now,” I say.

  “I could help you pack today,” Mom says. “We could go to the box store after our walk. They have everything you could want, at least as far as boxes go.”

  “Pack for what?” I say. Besides, boxes should be free.

  “For when you move back in,” Mom says. Her face changes here. She’s terribly disappointed that I don’t know what she’s talking about. She’s hurt. I never said I’d move back in with her. Yes, I’ve been sleeping here, but move back in?

  “I’m not moving back in,” I say. “I thought I’d stay with you for a few nights and help out. I live only nine blocks away. I can be here when you need me. I’ve quit my job. I’m available whenever you call now.”

  I should have had the foresight to buy twenty blocks away, like Marjorie.

  “Oh,” Mom says, starting to leave the room. The fantasy about the trip to the box store is all behind her now.

  “Wait a minute. Stop. When did I say I was moving back in?” I ask.

  “Last week,” Mom says.

  “I never said that,” I say.

  “You asked what I needed. I said I needed you here. You said okay. I didn’t expect you to give up your life and move back home, but you offered, and I accepted,” Mom says. “You’ve been here night and day. Why would you be spending the night if you weren’t planning to live here?”

  “That is just so interesting,” I say.

  I feel like I’m talking, and over my words she lays the big old crazy filter, and suddenly she hears something different from what I said. It’s been happening for three decades.

  “It’ll be just like old tim
es,” Mom says. “You can help me clean out my closets; that way you won’t have to do it alone.”

  “I think we need to work on being more optimistic. I know you’re scared, but your own doctor said the patients he’d seen in your situation all live very long lives,” I say.

  “I love Dr. Kealy, you know I do. But he can’t be more than forty years old. Who knows what his definition of long life is? Fifty? Sixty, tops,” Mom says.

  She’s serious. She wants me to move back home.

  “I remember how you used to like to throw cold water on me when I was in the shower…” I say.

  “Only when you were overdoing it,” Mom says. “Long showers are a mistake.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  She doesn’t elaborate.

  “Why?” I ask again.

  “I’m going to make a smoothie,” Mom says.

  “I like pulp, by the way,” I say.

  “No, you don’t, and you never have,” Mom says. “So if you like it now, you’re just being disagreeable.”

  She’s good! For a split second there, I thought maybe I didn’t like pulp.

  Life Coach versus Food Coach

  WE’RE AT MARJORIE’S table at Le Bilboquet. My sister is eighteen months older than I am. I was the tomboy, and Marjorie could keep a bow in her hair all day. She didn’t own sneakers. Cried when my mother tried to buy them for her. A detail that always troubled me.

  “How did you become a socialite exactly?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, but the pressure is getting to me,” Marjorie says. “I’m still going out five nights a week. It’s crazy. I can’t even fit at this table anymore. This is so depressing.”

  “You’re pregnant. Cut yourself some slack. Start staying home at night,” I say.

  “There’s just too much going on to stay home and, on top of all that, Dory and Nevin disagree constantly,” Marjorie says.

  “Few things are as troubling as when your life coach and your food coach are feuding,” I say. “Seriously, who among us could choose sides?”