12.
my mother my sister
I was going to stay with my parents on Long Island for a few days—to ease my way back into life. The general consensus was that sticking me back into my apartment might result in me wandering aimlessly through Lower Manhattan and becoming a lead story on the local news (after the ever-popular “Fire in the Bronx” that I’d come to associate with the start of every news broadcast). Or I’d disappear in my nightshirt and turn up years later as a clerk in a fabric store in Oklahoma, married to a city surveyor, answering to the name Lulu (an extreme execution of the fake-amnesia gambit, one that seemed beyond necessary to me at the time). So the alternative was as much time as I needed at the ’rents’ place.
Life in Long Island was just as I’d remembered it. Boring. My mom was annoying; my bedroom had been turned into a “study”; and Sam, not even knowing that she was right, was hell-bent on proving I was faking my amnesia in her latest attempt to get attention.
I was sitting in the breakfast nook, smearing low-fat cream cheese onto my bagel when she casually strolled in, with a loaf of nut bread in hand.
“Hey, Jordan,” she said absentmindedly, not even looking at me, as she picked up the wall phone. “Mom wanted me to take this nut bread over to the Kornbluts’ as a Thanksgiving gesture, but it’s freezing, so I want to call before I walk over in case they’re not home. What’s their phone number again?”
I looked at the nut bread in her hand and shook my head sweetly. “Well, a nut bread. Our mother is a dear, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” she said impatiently, still thinking she could trick me into reciting the number back to her instantly in a show of mnemonic strength. “Huge dear. So what’s the number again? I forgot.”
“Um . . . try . . . wait, it’s . . .” I said, and then paused for a second, toying with her. She leaned in, her eyes slightly narrowing, an evil glimmer over the excitement at nabbing me. “Oh, what’s that number for getting people’s numbers?” I said.
“Four-one-one,” she said flatly.
I looked left and right. “Oh, I should write that down. I get so embarrassed asking these dumb questions all the time. But I could walk it over there for you—if you can point out the house to me. You’ve been so good to me, I’d love to do this for you.”
“Never mind,” she said, angry that her trickery hadn’t worked. She’d have to try harder than that. And she did.
One night while I was drifting off to sleep, I felt her form sitting at the side of my bed. Figuring my guard was down, she softly said, “Hey, Jordan . . . you know that silk blouse of mine that you’ve always wanted to wear? I’ll let you have it. But I can’t remember if it was the Valentino or the Chloé. Which one was it?”
I replied dreamily, “It was . . . the latte . . . You’ve got to be the dimmest barrista I’ve . . .” and then I pretended to drift off to sleep. She got up and stormed out, careful to shut the door loud enough to wake me if I had actually been asleep.
* * * * *
Another idea my mom had was to take me to an herbalist, thinking perhaps that homeopathy would be the cure for my amnesia. Navigating our way through Chinatown was no easy feat for my mom and me. First, the guy’s “office” was hidden in the upstairs of some out-of-the-way building that was so narrow, I half expected that we’d enter not through a door but a mail slot. But the more important obstacle was the knock-off factor. Trying to walk past a knockoff Hermès bag for my mother was like a gay man trying to ignore an advance copy of the new Madonna album a week before its release date. Not only did they have the Birkin that she’d been wait-listed for, they had it in every color for one-fiftieth of the price.
“Who’s going to know?” she repeated over and over, more in an effort to convince herself than anyone else. When all was said and done, she’d bought three bags in three colors, Chinese slippers (“because they’re all the rage on the Island”), and a pen with a fifties pinup girl whose skirt lifted when you turned her upside down to write. This was for Walter. I made the mistake of asking why she was getting it for him.
“Because I’m going through ‘the change’ and he’s not getting into my skirt anytime soon,” she said. “It’ll be a cute way of telling him to hang in there, and we’ll be back at it soon.”
Hearing about her going through “the change” and my stepfather under her skirt was far from cute—in fact, it was enough to make me nauseous.
Then she added, “I just don’t feel very sensual lately.”
If I never heard my mother say “sensual” again, it would be too soon. This was one of those moments when my mother tries to act like my sister and crosses that information threshold. I spoke to Cat about it once, and she said that when it happened, I should tell my mother in no uncertain terms that she is “crossing generational boundaries.” But since I wasn’t allowed to have any recollection of Cat or the relationship that my mom and I used to have, I had to just keep my mouth shut.
I must have looked sick, the nausea working in my favor, because she thought it was from the accident and focused once again on getting me to the Chinese herbalist.
When we knocked on the door at the top of four flights of rickety stairs, it took the guy about five minutes to answer. This was especially shocking because once we got inside, the space was so small that I wasn’t entirely convinced that it was not just a closet with some spice racks.
This little guru dude looked exactly like you’d expect a 127-year-old man to look. Long white beard. Shogun mustache. Robe. Slippers. A caricature of himself. And tiny. He had obviously been expecting me—without asking a single question he immediately started putting together some weird concoction, which he then thrust into my hands.
“You take-a these herb. They get memory back. You remember first time you suckle mother’s breast even!”
“Hmm,” I said. “I’m not looking to go back quite that far.” The last thing I wanted to think about was suckling on my mother’s breast. There was that nausea again. And when I knocked the elixir back, it tasted like the street below smelled. Rotting vegetable with a bile chaser.
They looked at me, and I looked back. He sensed what my mom was waiting for and laughed lightly. “Not now. Not like a . . .” He sought the word, then interlaced his fingers and flung them apart with a boom sound effect. But I, who had drunk the thing, wanted to correct him. Inside me, it was like interlaced fingers being flung apart and going boom. Now.
“Yes, it takes time. We understand. Thank you, sir,” my mom said and then bowed. She bowed. Maybe some people could have pulled that off without appearing condescending. Not my mom. It was bad. Awkward doesn’t even begin to describe it. And worst of all, I could tell that she felt really “hip” doing so.
When we walked out, it took all my self-control to keep from giving up the ruse. I didn’t want to appear too unwilling. But her aimless meandering through the memory-recovery playbook was oddly self-indulgent. Like it just wouldn’t do to let a recovery run its course.
“You know, all of these ‘treatments’ are pretty random.” I said. “Do you think if I went back to work, maybe that would help jog my memory? You know, being in familiar surroundings.” She sort of ignored me. I continued, “My boss did come visit me. She said they wanted me back.”
“Would you mind terribly if we stopped at Century 21 while we’re down here?” It’s like we were from different gene pools. And hers was tainted with insatiable need for stuff to jam into her overflowing closets.
* * * * *
We got home, and I’d barely had time to fake an attempted memory when the doorbell rang. I walked over to the front door and through the peephole, saw a man I legitimately didn’t recognize. He looked waxy. Like a character straight out of Madame Tussaud’s. He was smiling before I even opened the door—like it was permanently plastered on his face. And it wasn’t an attractive smile either—giant yellowed teeth, which he’d neglected to brush after lunch. A lunch that clearly included spinach. I opened the door a crack.
“Hello?” I said.
“Jordan?” the man asked.
“Yes . . . ?”
“I’m Ben Waronker, the hypnotist. I spoke to your mother on the phone. We have an appointment,” he said, looking at his watch and then showing it to me, “right now.”
“Oh,” I said, without opening the door. Then my mother interceded, flinging the door open and grabbing his hand.
“Mr. Wonker—”
“Waronker,” he corrected.
“This is a such a pleasure,” she continued. “I’ve heard your radio ads for years. I never thought I’d need to call on you.”
“I do a lot of smoking cessation,” he said sympathetically.
“Mom!” I said sternly, then caught myself. “I’m awfully tired.”
“Perfect,” she said. “Jordan, sweetheart, I know you’ve been through a lot, but I want you back. Just like before. And so I’m willing to try anything. Say you are too, honey.”
We were gradually making our way down the list to electroshock therapy, so I’d have to come up with something before then.
“I guess,” I said, although I wasn’t sure. I knew I could fake amnesia, but I wasn’t positive I could fool a hypnotist. Still, I’d always figured it was a hoax, based at least partly if not wholly on will, so if I didn’t open myself up to it, hopefully he wouldn’t get me to fess up.
“Where is comfortable for you?” he asked. “Is there a room in the house where you might be inclined to experience deep peace?” If there was, I’d certainly never found it in the eighteen years that I’d grown up there.
“The living room is fine, I guess,” I said. “Right in here.” I directed him into the living room and my mother followed us, pretending to fluff the overstuffed pillows on the couch.
“First of all, I want you to throw out any preconceived notions you may have about hypnotherapy. I don’t dangle a watch in front of your face and try to get you to run around acting like a chicken in front of people. And I’m nothing like those guys you see on TV,” he said and then cocked one eyebrow. “Unless you’ve seen me on TV.”
“I haven’t.”
“Then you’re in for a treat. I’m not just here to help you regain your memory. I’m here to help you discover strengths that you never knew you had. I firmly believe that ninety percent of our untapped potential is stored in the subconscious mind, so all we need to do is learn how to access it and then start using it. Sound good?”
“Anything to get back a little more of me,” I said earnestly.
“Close your eyes,” he said. “Relax . . .” It was quiet. Until I heard the shuffle of my mother’s feet. I opened my eyes and saw my mom still hovering.
“Should we be alone?” I asked. “I feel a little self-conscious.”
“I’m gone,” my mother said, and Mr. Waronker nodded for me to close my eyes again.
“Let go of all of the day’s worries . . .” he said.
“Tell her that when she wakes up,” I heard Samantha shout from the next room, “She’ll remember she owes me seventy-five bucks.” Then there was some general shushing, followed by Sam saying, “It’s true!”
The hypnotist got up and closed the door. Then he settled in where he’d left off.
“Detach from your body . . . release from your own identity and merge with the universe . . . you have no limitations . . . you are everything . . . you are pure . . . you are aware . . . you are relaxing . . .”
As I drifted off, I started to feel dangerously at ease. He lowered the tone of his voice, and it did feel like I was on the verge of that profound rest I experienced after working an all-nighter on a rushed campaign.
“You’re relaxing . . . everything is floating away, nothing to worry about. All the cares, all the cares of the day, all the cares that . . . hung about you through the week.”
I spoke up dreamily. “‘Seem to vanish like a gambler’s . . .’”
“‘Lucky streak!’” he continued anxiously, thrilled by the apparent breakthrough. “Tell me, what do you see?”
“A door.”
He paused. Maybe he hadn’t expected anything to come of it either. “Reach for the door,” he said. “Open the door.”
“It’s locked.”
“Do you have the key?”
“No.”
“Okay . . .” he said.
“Wait,” I exclaimed. “It wasn’t locked. It was only stuck.”
“So open the door,” he urged a little edgily.
“It’s open.”
“What do you see?”
“I see a face,” I said.
“Describe it.”
“It’s like wax.”
“What else?” he probed.
“The nose is grotesquely large and the teeth—horrifying, misshapen, yellow.” I lifted my arms and made little pointing motions. “With bits of . . . spinach plugged into them.”
“Okay . . .” he said somewhat hesitantly. “What else?”
“Glasses.”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Are the glasses on the face wire rimmed?”
“Yes.”
“And the body it’s attached to . . . is it wearing a V-necked sweater . . . ?”
“With a crest from the New Hyde Park Country Club.”
He sighed. “Well, we’ve succeeded in recovering your memory of opening the door twenty minutes ago when I got here,” he said. “And I floss.”
* * * * *
None of their tricks were working, but that didn’t mean they were giving up. My mom was determined to bring my memory back and Sam was determined to prove me a fraud. Her pièce de résistance came later that night. Fighting off Dr. Wax Museum’s voodoo wasn’t any harder than defeating a four-year-old at Trivial Pursuit, but the ordeal took a lot out of me all the same, and I needed some rest. I was lying on my back, eyes closed, listening to the rain hit the windowsill like I used to when I was a little girl. Then the door flew open and Sam stomped in, wearing a pair of ridiculous Chanel motorcycle boots. Dissonance at its finest.
“I went to check on Sneevil today . . . your bird?” she said, and then waited for my response.
“I have a bird?” I asked, using every ounce of my strength to not attack her.
“Yup.”
I had to admire her skills. I couldn’t own up to knowing Sneevil was her bird, but the thought of having an avian Liza Minnelli for a permanent roommate made my head hurt. She was good, I had to admit.
“Well, I should thank you for checking on him.”
“It was really my pleasure,” she said. “You got more flowers too. Like three different shipments. I took one for the table tomorrow night.” Tomorrow night? Then I remembered. It was Thanksgiving.
“Knock knock,” said Dirk, peeking his head into the room. “Your mom let me in.”
“Dirk,” Samantha said. “Nice. Making the trip to Long Island!”
“I wanted to check on J,” he said. He never called me J.
“Thanks, D,” I said, with a big smile. He twisted his face subtly—a reaction to being called D, I surmised. Hey, if he was making up new nicknames, so would I.
“I figured I’d be with the fam for Turkey Day, so I wanted to make sure I stopped by before all the mayhem,” he said. “Remembering anything yet?”
I looked up and saw that he’d already directed his attention to the TV before I had a chance to answer. More accurately—his attention was focused on a set of Xbox controls.
Sam noticed, too. “Wanna go?” she said to Dirk, and he was already sitting on the floor, legs crossed, control in hand before he answered.
“Shit, yes!” he said.
“No,” I said, to nobody who was listening. “I don’t have my memory back.”
Dirk was focused on the game intensely. “What?” he asked after a few seconds.
“I was saying you look just like Zack,” I said, “the eight-year-old from down the street who matches wits with Sam on the Xbox.” Why had he bothered to come here? Sam giggled
and Dirk took a second away from his frantic joystick maneuvering to smile at her. Great—those two were a match made in heaven they deserved each other.
13.
thanksgiving drop-in
The next morning, I went downstairs and saw my mom, already in a tailspin, ordering poor Carmelita around.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“Don’t I wish . . .” my mom replied.
“Well? You don’t have to wish. I’m here to help. I want to help.”
“I know you do, honey. But maybe if you just kept out of the way. Tell you what, go to the cellar and get me another bottle of wine just like this one,” she said, as she handed me the bottle.
“Okay, but I’d love to help cook,” I said.
“You don’t cook, Jordan.” That wasn’t true. I could cook. I did cook. But our mother was such a control freak she wouldn’t let me touch anything, God forbid I overmashed a yam.
I took the bottle down to the cellar and found a matching bottle. Having to match the label reminded me of some of the dumb mental games they had me play in the hospital, but this was clearly the maximum my mother would allow me to contribute to dinner.
Rather than adding to the aggravation upstairs, I walked outside through the basement door into the lovely autumn afternoon, crisp with the leafy, lawny smell. In the city, the stream of people becomes a form of scenery, and what you notice is the occasional tree. In the suburbs, it’s reversed: on a day like this, the occasional human being stands out in bright relief to the landscape. Especially a stranger. I looked across the street and saw someone standing by a car. I recognized him immediately but couldn’t place where I knew him from. Then it hit me—the angel. It was the same face I saw when I opened my eyes after flying heavenward, then hellward, off my bike.
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