“She could,” I joined in. “She could get everything her way without saying anything.”
“How did she do that?” Alice asked me, laughing.
“I have no idea, never learned it myself,” I chuckled back.
“Well, she was a good girl,” Grandmom said. “No one could fault her because she was so pretty and charming.”
“True, true,” Alice agreed. “But she was no angel.”
“Yes, she was,” I laughed.
“Okay, she was,” Alice said as we all cracked up.
“The only time I really remember Maxine ever doing something wrong was a couple of weeks before my sweet sixteen . . . ,” Alice began.
“Oh no, not the crinoline story,” I shouted.
“Yes, the crinoline story!” Alice laughed. “She told you about that?”
“You told her that she could borrow your crinolines,” Grandmom defended my mom.
“Yes, but I didn’t say all of them. Alex, you have to hear the story from my side.”
“All right, fine. I’ll hear it from your side and then this story must die . . . along with us,” I deadpanned.
“Well,” Alice started, taking a deep breath, “your mother had a date with Sy Silverman and she came over to my house to borrow some crinolines. I don’t know why she didn’t have enough of her own.”
“I was using them,” Grandmom explained.
“Okay, you were using them,” Alice concurred. “So, I’m outside with my brother, Butch, handing him tools while he’s fixing my dad’s car and Maxine comes over and asks me if she can borrow some crinolines. Sure, I tell her, go ahead. I don’t know what happened after that, the phone rang or I got busy with something else, but I didn’t see Maxine leave with the crinolines. A couple of hours later, I go up myself to get ready for my own date and I pick out my dress. I go into the crinoline drawer and there’re none there. Your mother took all my crinolines!”
“My mother always said she left one for you,” I tell her. She did, she always swore she left some.
“She left me nothing!” Alice exclaimed, still a little angered by the story. “I went over to her house and knocked on the door and you answered the door, Mrs. Firestein.”
“You never saw Alice look more pathetic,” Grandmom laughed as Grandpop cracked a smile from behind his newspaper.
“I wanted to cancel my date, but it was too late. We go to the party and there’s gorgeous Maxine Firestein looking like a blooming flower, and I look like a wilted rose.”
“They woke up the whole block with their fighting when they got home,” Grandmom laughed.
“I can still hear the echo,” Grandpop smirked.
“Maxine always had a thing about poofing out her dress. She always had to be the one with the puffiest skirt,” Alice explained.
“It had something to do with her waistline,” Grandmom said. “She thought it made her waist look smaller.”
“You couldn’t find her waist that night if she turned sideways, ” Alice declared.
“I told her, ‘everything in moderation.’ It took a few years, but she figured it out,” Grandmom agreed, laughing.
“I wouldn’t even think my mother ever worried about things like that,” I said. “I always thought she never had to work at it.”
“We all have to work at it,” Alice laughed aside to me. “Anyway, we didn’t talk for about a week after that.”
“Maxine would swear to this day that she left crinolines for you.”
“Well, she didn’t.”
“So, when did you make up?” I asked.
“I think it was just before my sweet sixteen, just before that night. She went shopping with me for my dress, didn’t she?”
“She did,” I told her.
The laughing quieted down. What happened next in Alice’s life, it just didn’t fit into the conversation.
“She felt very bad after all was said and done,” Grandmom whispered, taking Alice’s hand.
“I know,” she said sadly. “I tried to tell her. I told her. I told her it was okay.”
“When?” I asked, not getting it.
“When all was said and done,” Alice sighed.
Silence filled the room.
I’ve decided to stay at my grandparents’ tonight. It just feels good to be here. If I have to go to fourth heaven, maybe no one will mind if I spend some nights at my grandparents’. I can’t imagine there’s a law against that. We all give Alice a hug as she leaves, and I walk her outside to her car. I have to say, I’m so glad I met her, and after years of hearing that story, I also have to say, Mom was wrong. It’s strange to think of my mom that way.
“Thanks for coming by tonight,” I tell Alice, giving her a hug.
“That was the best!” she tells me. “You know, I’ve missed your mom over the years. Will you send her my love the next time you go visit her?”
“You know, I’m still not able to do that yet. I keep trying to concentrate like you told me, but the closest I got was the foot of my parents’ bed.”
“You still can’t get into your parents’ dreams?” she asks, dumbfounded. “You can’t get back to earth?”
“No, and it’s really bugging me.”
She stops and thinks about it for a second.
“You know what I think it is? You’re not strong enough yet,” she says, nodding. “Yeah, that’s it. I see what’s going on here, you’re just not ready to handle it.”
“So what do I need to do?”
“It’s just . . . like I said before, it’s something that’s got to come from within you. It’s like, if you have peace within yourself, then you’ll be strong enough to get back down to earth. There’s something that’s blocking you from being able to do that. Your spirit is off balance right now.”
“So, what do I do to get to that place?”
“Try it tonight. Let your mind rest. Try to forget about the problems you’re having up here—the essay, Adam, trying to stay in seventh heaven. Forget about all of it if you can. That might work.”
“Okay, I’ll do that,” I tell her as she gets in her car and starts the ignition.
“If that doesn’t work, though,” she says, rolling down her window, “the only thing that I can think is that you’re just not ready to face your parents yet. Maybe there are some things you need to figure out for yourself before you can help them.”
“Maybe,” I say, thinking about it.
“Try it tonight and let me know what happens. If you can’t speak to them now, we know that you’re just not ready yet.”
“Okay,” I tell her, “and thanks again.”
“And if you are able to talk to your mom tonight, tell her that when I got to heaven, my closet was filled with crinolines. She would have been so jealous.”
“Okay.” We both laugh. “I will, I promise.”
I’ve settled myself in my grandparents’ guest bedroom and I’m trying to get some sleep. The crinoline story is still on my mind though. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard of my mom being wrong. When my mother gets here, I’m sure that crinoline story will come up again for old times’ sake. Who would have taken the ones my mom said she left in the drawer?
“Something’s fishy with Mom’s side of the story,” I think as I close my eyes. “It’s going to have to be the first question I ask when we all get together again.” Somehow I’m comforted thinking that we will all be together again.
It’s really peaceful in my grandparents’ house. The ocean, or whatever large body of water it is that’s making waves outside the window, is very calming. Why didn’t I think of getting an ocean outside my window?
Mom would have had so much fun tonight. It felt like all that was missing was her.
All of a sudden, through my mind, I see my parents’ house. Oh my god, I’m doing it.
It’s dark in the house. They must be asleep. I’m outside their bedroom. Concentrate, let go of your mind. I can feel the coolness of the hardwood floor as I walk through the
door of their room. Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m able to do this, but I can’t think about it. I must concentrate.
They’re sleeping. I see them! Dad is over on his side under the covers. Mom is above the covers. She’s still in her robe, the white satin one with the red roses on it. She must have fallen asleep before getting under the covers. She does that a lot. She’s got some bottles of medicine by the bed and a glass of water. Does she have a cold? There’s my high school graduation picture on her bedside table. Why does she have that there? I hate that picture.
She’s wearing my cliché pink bunny slippers. Where’d she find those?
She looks sad even though she’s sleeping. Can I hug her? Can I touch her?
I slowly walk over to her side of the bed. I put my hand out to her and touch her shoulder. She takes her hand and puts it on top of mine.
“Mom?” I say very quietly.
“Alex!” she screams out, waking up.
This startles me, and suddenly I wake up in my grandparents ’ guest room.
Now I’ve done it. I’ve made her even sadder than I did before with the whole dying thing.
I’ve got to get back to her to calm her down. She needs to know I’m okay.
“Concentrate,” I whisper to myself.
It’s no use. I’m not going anywhere.
The thing is, though, I did make it in. I’m getting better at this.
“Be strong,” I whisper, praying, hoping my mom will hear me. “I’ll talk to you soon,” I say, hoping she might hear me somehow.
“I swear she was here,” I suddenly hear my mom sobbing in my head. It’s so weird though. I can’t see her. Why can’t I see her anymore?
“It’s okay,” I hear my dad reply. “You were just dreaming.”
“No, I’m here!” I scream in my head while seeing nothing. “I’m right here, I’m fine.”
“Go back to sleep, darling,” I hear my dad say. “Do you want to take another pill? It will calm you down.”
“No, Bill, I don’t want to take another pill. I swear I heard my daughter say ‘Mom,’ Bill, I could swear she touched my shoulder. She was here!” she sobs.
“It was just a dream,” my dad whispers, trying to soothe her. “A very good dream, but, still, just a dream.”
I can’t stand hearing what’s going on in my head. I jump out of bed and run down to my grandparents’ room.
“Gram?” I say, waking her.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
“Can I sleep with you and Grandpop tonight?”
“Sure, sweetie,” she says, moving over. “Did something happen?”
There’s no sense in getting her upset so I lie. “The mattress in your guest bedroom is too lumpy.”
“Come in with me,” she says, spooning me as I lie next to her. “I’ll invoke a new mattress in the morning,” she murmurs, falling back asleep.
For the first time in my life and death I’m glad my grandmother has a snoring problem. It used to bug me when I’d stay at her house as a kid, but at this very moment, it’s the most soothing sound I could ever hear.
My parents’ voices are gone from my head. I hope my mom fell back to sleep.
Here’s the thing. Have you ever gotten through a day without saying, “How are you?” to someone? We always ask it whether we care or not. Nine times out of ten, the answer is, “Fine, thanks.” It’s such a common thing to say that most of the time we take it for granted, like when you’re at the magazine stand and the guy behind the counter says, “How are you today?” You tell him, “Fine, thanks, how much for the Us Weekly?” With friends and family, we most likely know that they’re okay—we spoke to them a few weeks ago or even yesterday. We have a pretty good idea that nothing devastating has happened and our sixth sense tells us that they haven’t won the lottery since the last time we saw them. Still, you ask them anyway, “How are you?”
Now, take the ability to ask that question away. There’s no phone, no e-mail, text message, or snail mail. There’s no address, phone number, and no Google to find out what’s happened to that person. Think about it. Someone you love, who you really, really love. Suddenly, one day they disappear or, in my case, die.
Can you imagine how important it would be to my parents to ask me that one question? “How are you?”
Can you imagine how important it is for me to answer them and say the two simple words that will put their minds at ease? “I’m fine.”
It reminds me of this time when I was a kid. The bus to school used to stop in front of my house, and one day while I was waiting outside my mother called to me from the house and said, “Let me know when the bus comes.”
So the bus comes and I scream out toward the house, “Mom, the bus is here,” but she doesn’t come to the door. I think I yelled to her about three times before the bus driver said, “Come on, Alex, we’re going to be late.”
“But my mom told me to call her when the bus comes,” I told the bus driver.
“Look,” he said kind of sternly. “I can’t help it if your mom doesn’t hear you, we gotta get to school.”
So I had no choice but to get on the bus. Oh, I was a mess. All I could think about the whole way to school was my mother coming to the door and finding me gone. She’d think I was kidnapped or something, her little miracle child gone from her. I envisioned her screaming through the streets of my neighborhood, looking for me, “Alex is missing!” I envisioned dozens of police cars pulling up in front of my house. By the time we got to school I was in full-on panic attack mode.
I ran straight to my teacher and hyperventilated as I relayed the story, “. . . so I have to go call my mother, she’s going to think I’m kidnapped!”
“Alex,” Mrs. Weinstein countered, “your mother came out and saw that you had gone. She knows you weren’t kidnapped. Now come on, Alex, sit down and let’s get started for the day.”
“No!” I screamed, “MY MOTHER DOESN’T KNOW WHERE I AM!”
And with that, I ran out of the room and to the pay phone in the lobby of the school and called my mom.
“It’s okay, honey, I figured you left,” Mom cooed from the phone, trying to calm me down, “but thank you for calling me. That was so sweet of you.”
When I came back to class, Mrs. Weinstein had already started the lessons for the day and was already at the blackboard. I went in and took a seat. I was never punished by Mrs. Weinstein or got a talking-to about running out of the room, but even if I had been, it would have been worth it. My mind was at ease knowing that my mother’s mind was at ease.
“Mom,” I say to myself as I drift off to sleep, “please don’t worry. I’m fine, Mommy. Please don’t worry, I’m fine.”
7
Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like had I not purchased my dog, Peaches, with the last $800 I had in the world. Yes, one could argue that if I didn’t have her I wouldn’t be where I am right now, but that’s totally beside the point.
The point is, when I first moved to Los Angeles, before I got Peaches, things thoroughly sucked for me. Starting from the very moment I got there, everything seemed to be awry. A part of me truly thought there would be some kind of parade at the airport, a marching band perhaps with seventy-six trombones and someone like Harold Hill holding a big sign welcoming the city’s newest transplant.
The other part of me, the sane side, knew that no one would be waiting for me, mainly because I didn’t know anyone there except for Dana Stanbury. This was a big concern for both my mother and Pen when I was leaving.
“Here’s the number for the Los Angeles Police Department in case anything goes wrong,” Mom said, stuffing the number in my pocket.
“I know this guy who knows this guy whose brother just moved out to California to be a comedy writer. Here’s his number, ” Pen said, stuffing the number in my other pocket.
In other words, I should have thought things through a little better, but, as you know, I was in a hurry to get out of Dodge (or Philadelphia, as
the case was).
At least Dana was there to meet me at the gate with all my things. I didn’t appreciate her wearing her bridesmaid’s dress when she came to pick me up though.
“I figured I could get some use out of it someway,” she teased.
Okay, it was pretty funny.
Now, there’s something you should know about living in Los Angeles. If you only have one friend—in this case it was Dana— it is without a doubt the loneliest place on earth. I know I said earlier that you only need one good friend in your life, but that doesn’t mean you don’t sometimes wish you had more.
First of all, remember that eighties song that goes “nobody walks in LA”? It couldn’t be more true. No one walks, and if you do, as I found out, people stare at you from their cars like you’re some kind of derelict. No one bothers to even slow down when you’ve stumbled with grocery bags that have torn open and fallen onto the street, and you become like that Frogger video game, weaving from moving car to moving car trying to pick up your scattered six-pack of Diet Coke cans. The closest I ever got to a helpful human being was the soccer mom in the minivan who screamed, “Get the hell out of the street before you get yourself killed!” Ha! Should have listened to her.
I did try to meet people in those first few weeks. Thing is, there’s no watering hole where if you start going on a regular basis everyone knows your name. It’s not like they don’t have bars and clubs and things, but as Dana said, “You can’t go by yourself, you have to go with a group of people.”
“So, how do I meet a group of people if I don’t go to these places?” I asked her.
“It’s kind of a catch-22, I guess,” she sighed as she left for work one morning.
The glamorous life I’d envisioned turned out to be as normal and lonely as it could be, and I never even saw a single movie star.
Finding a job turned out to be even more of a fiasco. Dana was an assistant to a producer at Paramount Studios. My first thought was that I’d find a job like she had. It seemed like an obvious fit; after all, these film people would love that I moved out to California because of The Grapes of Wrath. Dana hooked me up with a great interview for a job as an assistant to a director. When I went into the interview, and started spewing some of my favorite movies, he had no interest.
The Ten Best Days of My Life Page 15