The Real Mother

by Judith Michael

  And there goes my day, she thought as they drove to the first company on her list. And evening, she added, filled up with PowerPoint (a point has more power than I have right now, she thought wryly) and a conference that does not touch on anything in my life.

  Her moods were always volatile, and this morning everything seemed exaggerated. One minute she felt trapped and angry and depressed, and the next she would think of Abby saying “Love you,” even as she was running off to the many excitements of her young life, and her mood would swing upward. And a moment later she would see her day dissolving in meetings with people she didn’t care about and her annoyance would return, until she would think of the story Carrie had just written, and Doug’s carvings, and know that they were well and happy and loving, largely because of the home she created, keeping them all together and safe, and her mood would tilt up, and up. Until she would remember that she would spend her evening supervising an event for people she would never see again and would not even remember tomorrow, or want to, and the oppression of being trapped and helpless would return. But then she would think of Reuben’s two telephone calls, and as soon as she guessed that his second call had no purpose other than to continue their conversation, however lamely, in an instant she would feel lighter, everything would seem manageable, and she would smile.

  She went through gyrations like these a dozen times a day. It was exhausting and fruitless, but she seemed unable to stop the lows from dragging her down, nor could she extend the highs that buoyed her up. And by the time she returned to her desk, just after five, what she wanted most in the world was a hot bath and a deep chair, with a book, a glass of red wine, and a quiet dinner.

  Instead, what she got when she walked into her cubicle was Pussy Corcoran standing beside her desk, fur coat buttoned to her throat, though the day was still exceptionally warm for May, her hands out, pleading. “I need you, Sara! I don’t have anybody to talk to, anybody to help me, and I keep calling you and calling you and your secretary says you’re busy and the girl at your house said—”

  “My house? What are you talking about?”

  “I went to your house! What else could I do? She was very nice, a very nice young lady, she actually said you’d talked about me, she recognized my name, can you imagine that? I couldn’t believe you cared that much about me; it made me feel good, but then she kept saying you weren’t home and wouldn’t be home all day and she gave me your cell-phone number and even wrote it down for me, she must have thought I didn’t have a good memory; anyway, I called you but I got a recording, what good is a cell phone if you don’t keep it on?”

  “Mrs. Corcoran, listen to me. You are not to go to my house again. Do you understand that?”

  “Wait a minute, miss, you don’t talk to me like—”

  “How did you get the address, anyway? I’m not listed in the telephone book, and my office never gives out that information.”

  “Your secretary did, a very nice young lady—”

  “Donna would not do that.”

  “Well, I confess I told her you’d given it to me and I’d lost it, that you promised we’d have some private time together, you know, away from Lew…and that’s why I’m here, Lew is why, listen, Sara, I need your help—”

  “You will leave this office at once. I can’t believe this: you lied to my secretary and you forced your way into my house—”

  “I didn’t! I didn’t force anything! I didn’t even get inside, the little girl, your daughter, right? You look too young to have a daughter that age, but things are different now than they were in my time, but Sara, listen, I never forced—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want anything to do with you. Just go. I have another client in an hour and I haven’t had a chance—”

  “But I’m a client, too, and I need—”

  “Not anymore. Can’t you understand that? You are not a client anymore, and I am telling you to leave. If you don’t, I will. If you insist on staying here after I’ve asked you to leave, told you to leave, you may stay here as long as you want, but the office will be empty. The office is closed.”

  Pussy Corcoran’s face crumpled. She shoved her small hands into her coat pockets and stood still, looking at the floor. “I guess you won’t help me,” she whispered.

  “No.” Sara sat down, too tired to continue standing.

  “Well, then.” She turned and took a few steps.

  “Your purse.”

  “Oh.” She came back and took one hand from her pocket to pick up the bag. Sara noted abstractly that it seemed strangely heavy for a small woman’s handbag, but if she gave it any more thought, it was to surmise that Pussy Corcoran was trying to demonstrate how weak and needy she was, or simply that she had filled it with purchases in a day of shopping. She could barely make out Pussy’s whispered “Thank you” as she left.

  For what? Sara thought. I wasn’t nice to her. I should have been nicer; she seems so…helpless. And that was the problem, she thought as she pulled her chair to her desk and began leafing through the day’s phone messages. I don’t have much sympathy for people who can’t make it on their own. Not one of my nicer traits.

  Eight calls from Pussy Corcoran, she found, stacking those slips beside the phone. And she had seen Pussy’s phone number pop up on her cell phone half a dozen times that day, and had ignored it. Fourteen calls in one day, she mused. It sounded like a lot more than helplessness; more even than willfulness, an insistence on getting her own way in a world where people usually jumped to do the bidding of those with money. This sounded like worry. Or panic. Or fear.

  Not just an annoying woman, she thought; something more serious. She reached for the phone to call Pussy, but it rang beneath her hand. “How you doing, sis?” Mack sang out. “Just reporting in, nothing to worry about, in fact, everything’s great. I just had to tell you how great these kids are, sis; you’ve done one hell of a job with them. I have to hand it to you, you did it alone, nobody to help you, I really let you down. You are truly a great lady.” There was a pause. “You still there, sis?”

  “Yes. I’m catching my breath. Are you smoking something?”

  He laughed. “Not a fucking…sorry, not a single thing. I’m having a good time with your wonderful kids, that’s all. We’re having a cozy family dinner at Mexico Lindo, and we’re about to drive over to Parker and be enthralled by Abby’s performance. It’s a fun evening, sis; I wish you were with us.”

  “So do I. Did Carrie and Doug bring books to read?”

  “Three books each—how fast do they read, anyway?—and Carrie brought a notebook to work on her latest story, and Doug has a piece of balsa he’s carving into something too secret to reveal. They’ll be fine, no kidding, sis, everything’s under control at this end.”

  “Yes,” Sara said, and heard the note of wistfulness in her voice, a note of feeling left out for the first time since she had taken over the family. “What did you bring?”

  “I found a couple books in your library. Hey, by the way, what’s with this guy Corcoran?”

  “What?”

  “Corcoran. His little woman was here this morning practically banging the door down, looking for you. I knew Corcoran—Lew, right?—in New York… fact is, I mentioned you to him, told him to contact you when he got to Chicago, you’d steer him to the best places—but I didn’t know his wife was some kind of nut. Pussy? Crazy name.”

  “You told Lew Corcoran to call me?”

  “Right, I figured you’d—”

  “How did you know what I was doing?”

  “You mean your job? Sis, I kept up with you, never lost track of you. I told you, I missed you. It made me feel closer to you, knowing what you were doing. I figured I’d be coming back and helping out, and I wish now I’d done it a lot sooner, it’s so good, sis, it’s really great to be with all of you, with these terrific kids, and next time we have to do all this together. Okay? Dinner and a movie or whatever you want. It’s so special to do things like a family.
Better than I thought. Better than I ever knew. Let’s do it a lot. And if you ever need me again, like tonight, just sing out. I’m always available, and happy to help.”

  After a moment, deciding there was too much to absorb all at once, Sara let her questions about Lew Corcoran go—she would bring them up again tomorrow, she thought—and said, simply, “Thank you, Mack. I appreciate that.” She hesitated again. “I do plan to be out on Sunday night; it would be nice to know you’ll be there.”

  “No problem. Wonderful, in fact. I’ll write it down. I’ve gotta get Abby to school; thespians can’t be late, you know. See you later.”

  Sara gazed through the window at the darkened street, seeing in her mind the contrast between the shadows of LaSalle Street and the soft violet and blue haze of the May evening far above. But this time she did not find it depressing.

  “I brought you some dinner,” Donna said, coming in with a plate of salad and bread, and a covered container of coffee. “Not much, but it was all I could find. I figured you wouldn’t have time for anything else.”

  “Donna, you’re wonderful.” Sara cleared a space on her desk. “But I thought we’d talked about not giving my address to anyone. Didn’t I make that clear?”

  “Oh, damn, Sara, did she tell you that? She begged and begged, you know, and I could tell she wasn’t a dangerous character, I figured she wouldn’t attack you or your family, and she was so damn clingy, I mean, you know, I just wanted to get rid of her. You know, I’ll bet there are people who make you feel—”

  “Just don’t do it again,” Sara said shortly. “Ever. It’s not up to you to decide who’s dangerous or not; we have a rule about giving addresses to anyone.” She looked at the food Donna had brought, and sighed. “Go home now, it’s late. Oh, wait. Were you able to find another place to live?”

  “Not yet. Nancy had a studio in Lincoln Park, but it was all women, so I said no.”

  “Why? You don’t have a lot of choice now, Donna, and wouldn’t that be the safest place of all?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just so…I don’t know. I just didn’t want it.”

  “But if your father is coming after you—”

  “I’ll be okay tonight, and tomorrow I’ll find a place. I’ll work it out, Sara, I promise. See you in the morning.”

  Something odd there, Sara reflected as Donna left with a cheerful wave. All of a sudden, she’s not worried. Or at least not worried enough to live in a place that doesn’t allow men.

  But there was only so much she could focus on at once, and Donna, and Pussy Corcoran, and her husband as well, would have to wait until tomorrow. Right now she had less than an hour to get her notes together for the evening ahead and eat her dinner.

  But first she took a moment to let the moods of the day settle into another mood, steady happiness as peaceful as the sky she could only imagine: a wash of evening pastels arching all the way from Mack, loving and helpful, to Reuben in New York, planning to be with her on Sunday, and to stay in the city for a month. Or more.

  FOUR

  See, this is what I mean,” said Doug, handing his mother a carved dancing bear about six inches high. “It oughta be soapstone, that’s what the Eskimos use, but I only had wood. Anyway, it’s for you.”

  Tess ran her thumb back and forth over the bear’s silky, grained surface. She smiled her crooked half smile at Doug. “You like it, right?” he asked. “Sara said you would. So did—” He stopped, hearing Abby’s warning in his head, that none of them would mention Mack when they visited their mother. “So did Abby and Carrie; they liked it, too. But, see, that’s what I mean, this is what I want to do. All the time, you know? I mean, I hate all that boring stuff at school, and what do I need it for when I’m going to be a famous artist? I mean, I’m wasting all this time, and nobody cares, nobody listens to me, I’m this little kid who doesn’t know what’s good for him. You know?”

  Tess made a sound that Doug took for agreement. “Well, but so what? I mean, nobody’s about to help me. Like, I could go to school at the Art Institute, but Sara says I’m too young. So would they, I guess,” he added dolefully. “Boy, ten is the worst age in the world, I wish it would go away and I could be fifteen, or sixteen …or, you know, older.”

  “He’s always complaining,” Abby said, coming in and kissing her mother on the forehead. “I’m sorry I’m late; did Doug tell you how long we waited for the bus? And then Carrie and I stopped in the drugstore; she’s still there; she’ll be here in a few minutes. You look so pretty; is that a new sweater? Oh, it is, isn’t it? I saw it when Sara wrapped it up. I brought you something, too; I thought maybe if you get cold sometime, like there isn’t enough heat late at night …I know you wake up a lot at night…” She opened a box and held up an angora shawl in variegated silver and red. “Do you like it? I love it; it’s so dramatic, like something Carmen would wear when she dances.”

  Embarrassed, she fell silent, remembering Tess dancing with their father, swooping and twirling about their living room on a laughing New Year’s Eve, and, another time, dancing with Mack when he was thirteen, teaching him to waltz and tango and do a funny kind of jitterbug she had seen on television. But Tess took a corner of the shawl in her good hand and rubbed it, as she had rubbed Doug’s carved bear, and smiled her crooked smile at Abby. She pointed to her shoulder, and Abby, grateful because Tess never made her feel guilty, let the shawl settle gently across her mother’s back and brought it forward, around her shoulders. “It looks wonderful on you. Your colors.” She sat in the chair next to Doug. “What shall I tell you about?”

  “She’s got a boyfriend,” said Doug helpfully. “She can talk about him all day.”

  Carrie was in the doorway and saw Abby’s scowl. “Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about Sean. At least not in front of you.” She ran across the room and kissed her mother on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late, I had to buy some shampoo and Abby told me what kind she uses, but I couldn’t find it and everybody was too busy to help me… nobody likes to wait on teenagers, did you ever notice that?” She kissed her mother again. “You look so pretty. I miss you, we all do, did Abby and Doug already tell you that? Sara told us a silly story the other night about an elf selling noses, and we wished you were there ’cause you were always telling funny stories like that.”

  Tess pointed at Abby. “What?” Abby asked. “Sara always knows what you mean, but I don’t—”

  “She wants you to tell about Sean,” said Doug.

  “Really? Oh. Well…He’s really handsome,” she said to Tess. “And nice. He’s Irish, but he’s lived in London for the last five years. He’s seen practically the whole world, and he said he’d take me to all the places he likes best that I haven’t seen. I haven’t seen anything.”

  “How’s his English?” Doug asked.

  “They speak English in Ireland, and anyway he’s lived in London,” Carrie said impatiently.

  “Then what’s Gaelic?”

  “Irish, but just about everybody knows English. Anyway, he’s lived in London. You know: England. You’ve heard of England?”

  “So why is he here?” Doug asked Abby.

  “Because,” Abby said.

  “Why?” Doug insisted.

  “His family just wanted to come here.”

  “But you were telling—” Carrie stopped short. “Telling Sara— weren’t you telling Sara?—that the police in London said his friends set a bomb outside Harrods—that’s a department store,” she said to Doug, “and a lot of people were hurt, so they had to—”

  “A bomb?” Doug shouted. “He’s a terrorist?”

  “Of course not, dummy,” Abby snapped. “He wasn’t accused of anything, but he was friends with this bunch of guys and the police kept dragging them all in and asking lots of questions, and it got—difficult— so Sean’s parents decided they had to leave, and his father owns a business that’s in London and Chicago, so they came here. That’s all; it’s not a big deal.”

  “Did one of his friend
s do it?” Carrie asked. “The bomb?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You mean your boyfriend didn’t tell you?” Doug asked.

  “I didn’t ask him.”

  “Did he want to talk to you about it?” Carrie asked. “Like, for sympathy? I mean, he might have been afraid they’d come after him, you know, if it was a gang.”

  A terrorist cell, Doug mouthed.

  “It wasn’t a terrorist cell,” Abby exclaimed. “God, Doug, you’re a real pain in the ass.”

  “I’m not—!”

  “Doug’s too young to understand sex,” Carrie said to her mother, “so he makes fun of people who are in the throes of it, like Abby.”

  “What?” Doug yelped.

  “In the throes?” Abby demanded.

  “Well, you know, all caught up, consumed—”

  “Would you like to hear about the play I’m in?” Abby asked her mother loudly.

  “I could tell about it,” Doug said, instantly deflected. “I saw it. It was terrific. It’s about—”

  “I saw it, too,” Carrie cut in, “but Abby should tell about it. It’s her play, after all.”

  “Yeah, but she can’t say how good she was; then she’d be bragging. She was dynamite,” he said to Tess. “She was so good, one time she made everybody cry. Everybody except Mack; he said he never cr—oh. I mean…I mean…”

  There was a terrible silence. Tess Hayden’s hand rose up, trembling. Her mouth worked; her good eye began to flutter.

  “Oh, God,” Abby breathed.

  Tess stabbed a finger toward Doug, again and again.

  “Well, yeah, see, he came back, like, a few weeks ago, something like that, and he’s really great, but, you know, Mom, we couldn’t tell you, I mean, Sara thought, I mean, we didn’t know—”

  Tess’s thumb began to twitch; her hand fell to her lap and she slumped forward. A low moan came from deep in her throat.

  “I’m sorry!” Doug yelled desperately. “I didn’t mean it!”

  “Call somebody!” Carrie screamed, but Abby had already run to the door and was calling for a nurse.