The marionette lady, who carried wooden puppets to speak for her, lived on one side of us, and a platinum blond drag queen who stood six foot, five inches without his stiletto heels owned the house on the right. Even more amazing, right here in the heart of Cambridge, we had a Republican. He covered his house with American flags and played Taps each night on his front porch.
Following September 11 the previous year, our ultraliberal neighborhood had declared a brief détente with the neighborhood Republican. For a few weeks, everyone gathered by his house at dusk, listening as he played. Now, almost a year later, the neighbors again treated him as a crazy outcast.
Sometimes I was startled to wake up in the role of mother with daughters, wife with husband, no longer a virtual orphan trying to keep herself to one drawer or one room, but able to spread out from a starkly lovely bedroom to a well-ordered basement. Even after years of living in this house, in this identity, I still didn’t know how to stretch out to live in all the corners of my world.
Despite my trappings, I suspected that it was only Merry’s presence next door that kept me stabilized. Sometimes, even though I didn’t tell anyone, the realities of my daughters and my secret father locked away in a New York State penitentiary collided inside me like a clap of thunder. Mama still lived inside me as the beautiful-angry mother of my earliest years. I’d always have to hide the reality of my relationship with Mama from my girls. Sadder, when I searched for ways to be a mother, what motherhood meant, my memories of Mama were of no use.
I drove up the final ramp to the top floor of the garage attached to the Cabot Medical Health Care Building. Staff parking was first come, first served in Cabot’s survival-of-the-first-to-arrive plan. By 9:50, time forced us into the Siberia of parking real estate, the outermost corners, where our cars were vulnerable to rain, snow, or the beating sun.
Cabot Medical thrived on malice and discomfort, from the vicious parking battles to our careful tracking of Red Sox wins and losses. Working this close to Fenway Park, we prayed for them to lose, caring only about shortening the season of insane traffic. Screw the pennant.
I’d gone straight through from Cabot Medical School to the Cabot Medical Health Care group practice. They offered a job, and I accepted.
I hurried to the staircase, ran down to street level, and crossed the hot courtyard to the glass-and-bronze entry. Running stairs was my only form of exercise.
“Morning, Doctor Winterson.” Jerry the coffee guy had the lobby concession. A paraplegic with massive arms, he’d designed the operation to his reach and comfort, daring anyone to complain about having to crouch down for their sugar or creamer. I admired his skill in using his disability to blackmail his way into extra income. No one dared not to buy something, not with Jerry’s hints that turning down his muffin, tea, or ready-made sandwich reflected on your generosity toward the handicapped.
“Jerry probably has a mansion by now,” the receptionist, Maria, had muttered last week. Even so, she said it while clutching a chocolate chip cookie baked by Jerry’s wife.
“I’ve had my coffee, and I brought my lunch,” I said as I passed Jerry’s cart. I held up my L.L.Bean lunch bag as proof. “I’ll pick up a dozen cookies for the staff meeting later.”
“If we have any left,” Jerry said darkly, as though if he sold out it would be a bad thing, and probably my fault.
“I’ll take my chances.” I opened the door to the inside staircase and ran up three flights to Internal Medicine, coming out in a large open hall carpeted in industrial gray and leading to pods labeled A, B, and C. As I entered the B pod, Maria waved from the circular reception area, nodding as she spoke into her headset. Patients leaned toward my white coat like drooping weeds seeking sun.
Sticky notes fluttered from my computer screen. Area secretaries stuffed our mail slots so full with administrative memos and junk mail from drug companies that we of B pod communicated by stickies and bits of paper taped to chairs.
Cabot Medical had become a hatred-inducing practice, hounding us daily with reminders about money: Bottom line! Remember capitation! More patients in less time! Accrete or burn! I waited for the day the Medicrats told us to troll through bingo parlors for new patients.
My patient roster had gradually changed into a solid block of women whom I considered the almost old; doctors seemed to have less patience for these transitional women. I felt for them. I’d be one someday soon, and, unlike many acquaintances, I didn’t pretend otherwise; I didn’t want to be one of those females who were surprised by their swift fall, women who barely had time to wave good-bye at being beautiful, being needed, or being wooed as they slid toward retirement and the gray world of invisibility.
I made time for the almost old; in return, they clucked and fussed over me as if I were their personal miracle worker. So clever, this one.
I peeled notes from my chair and computer. A larger-size hot pink Post-it screamed from my desk lamp.
Where are you? I had to drink coffee alone with the master of boredom. Doctor Denton kept me prisoner for twenty minutes of soul-killing tales of gardening. Please, come cleanse my aura and hear about my DATE. What are you planning for your birthday tomorrow? Can I take you to lunch? Check schedule for upcoming patient crush. Sorry. Kisses, Sophie
Sophie, the nurse with whom I teamed, had become my closest friend since Marta had left Boston for a rich husband. Patients came to Cabot as much for Sophie as they did for me. She knew how to comfort and give hugs when they cried for their lost wombs, their vanished sex lives, and the alopecia that horrified them each time they looked in the mirror. They, in turn, kept an eye out for a suitable husband and father for Sophie and her three nightmarish boys.
“Sounds great,” I’d said when Sophie told me about yet another patient’s eligible nephew. “Remind Mrs. Doherty that her son should bring his whip and lion-taming chair when he picks you up.”
Sophie stuck her head in the door. “Your ten-twenty is waiting, and your ten-forty is checking in. In addition, I had to squeeze in Audra Connelly. She found a job and she needs a full physical before starting.”
I studied my schedule laid out on the computer, color-coded courtesy of the Medicrats upstairs. “And just how do I manage this? Magic?”
“You’re the doctor. Figure it out.”
I nodded. Audra’s husband had recently died from pancreatic cancer, the once-massive and cheerful cop becoming skeletal and yellow as he suffered the pain by folding in on himself. I’d figure it out. “What time?” I asked. “Oh, wait—I see.”
She’d squeezed Audra’s appointment into 4:10. I massaged the back of my neck.
“How about a birthday lunch tomorrow?” Sophie asked.
Birthday tomorrow.
Anniversary of my mother’s death today.
Merry and I dreaded memorializing the event, but if we didn’t recognize the day in some way, we’d wait all year for the inevitable punishment, so we always marked it together. Some years we’d snuck to her grave, bringing red roses. My mother had become Snow White in my smoky memories, with lips the color of fresh blood, hair blacker than lacquered china, and skin white as a geisha’s.
Most years we watched sad movies to honor Mama. Repeatedly, we’d heard Mimi Rubee say, My Celeste was beautiful enough to be a movie star. When we’d lived at Duffy, we’d saved the quarters Grandma Zelda slipped us and snuck off to the Loews theater on Mama’s death day. After we had moved to the Cohens’, we’d continued the practice. Asking them to take us to Mama’s grave site never seemed a possibility.
Each year we picked the saddest movie with the most tragic actress, moving through the decades from the Loews in Brooklyn to videos to DVDs, choking with sobs as we watched Sophie’s Choice or Terms of Endearment, wondering how devoted our mother would have been had she lived. I couldn’t imagine her letting gray roots grow in, as the mother had during her daughter’s illness in Terms of Endearment. The thought made me ill with guilt. Merry was supposed to rent tonight’s movie. We’d wa
tch. She’d drink. We’d cry. Then we’d go to sleep. Happy anniversary, Mama.
By four o’clock, seeing a patient familiar enough for me to sit and chat for a moment offered more comfort than I’d had all day. Screw the Medicrats. My feet were killing me. Hunger pains growled. Extra patients had cost me lunch.
“Audra,” I said as I walked in. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, dear. I think I have a job.”
“Are you sure you’re ready?” It had been only four months since Audra’s husband died.
“More than. A few more nights watching television, and I’ll bash the poor screen. I’ve been going over to help at Ocean View, you know, the nursing home where my mother and Hal’s father are, but I think even they’re getting tired of me.” Audra smiled, her mouth covered with what little lipstick she hadn’t worried away. She looked thinner than the last time I had seen her, which she couldn’t afford, being one of those spare Irish women without flesh to lose. “The kids are visiting too much. They need to live their lives.”
“Let’s make this about you. What’s the job?” I asked as I skimmed through Audra’s vital signs.
“A library assistant in the Brookline schools. I think it could be perfect for me.”
“They’ll be the lucky ones,” I said. “Blood pressure, good. Weight, too low. Are you feeling okay?”
“It’s all fine except for too many nights eating a bowl of cereal for dinner.”
“You have to treat yourself as well as you did him.” I warmed the stethoscope in my hands. “Take a breath.”
“When have you ever known a woman to do that?” Audra asked, gasping out the held air. “We only do it for others.”
“Any complaints?”
“Just the usual—I hear all the same things from the girls in my bridge club. We ache. Our feet hurt. Our faces don’t look so good.” Audra smiled. “Lucky this job doesn’t require beauty.”
I touched her shoulder. “You’ll always look lovely. You have the classic looks every woman wants. Like Katharine Hepburn.”
Merry had left a message earlier that she’d rented Doctor Zhivago. I liked Geraldine Chaplin—the wife—more than Julie Christie. Chaplin’s dark eyes and mild face offered more comfort than Christie’s beauty.
I panicked. What color had my mother’s eyes been? Were they blue? Had they been deep brown, like Merry’s? We had only black-and-white photographs of Mama. Who would know? Whom could I ask?
“Well, I have Hepburn’s crinkled neck. But who cares anymore?” Audra clapped her hands together, bringing me out of my reverie. “Will you listen to me? Goodness. I’ve had a wonderful life, and now I’m getting ready for a new adventure.”
“A new adventure, yes. You never know what life holds, right? Now, if you slip open your gown and lie down so I can examine your breasts, we’ll be just about done.”
Audra’s freckled breasts exhibited her pregnancies. Her thin, papery skin showed wear and tear; her nipples revealed signs of suckling infants.
“Could you lift your arms, Audra?” I came closer, pushing my glasses tighter to the bridge of my nose. “Hands behind your head, okay?”
Exam-table paper crinkled as Audra settled back. Bright fluorescence highlighted by the white steel cabinets and chrome fixtures emphasized every mole and age spot on Audra’s flesh. I placed the pads of my fingers on Audra’s small breasts, using the new approach I’d learned, covering each spot with three different levels of pressure. Instead of moving in a circle around Audra’s breast, I went from top to bottom across the chest area to include the breast tissue that reached from the collarbone to the bra line and into the armpits.
Nothing seemed wrong, except for a roughness at Audra’s nipple. I adjusted the lamp, pulling it a bit closer, and leaned in, seeing redness and scaling around the right one. I ran a finger over it, then squeezed, looking for discharge. The left nipple seemed free from any skin changes. I went back to the right breast, tracing the scaling with my finger, then moving around the areola.
“Have you had any problems with your right nipple?”
“No. Is something wrong?” Audra turned her face to look at me. Until now, she’d kept the usual demeanor of a woman having an intimate exam, studying the ceiling with the stillness of a mannequin. Concern now animated her face.
I glanced at the breast and back at Audra. “I notice a bit of a rash. Have you noticed it?”
“It’s been a bit itchy, now that you mention it. Should I be worried?”
“You can leave the worrying to me,” I said, meaning it. My co-workers accused me of continually searching for zebras in horse corrals. My terror of missing a diagnosis sent me down testing roads the Medicrats argued against repeatedly. “It’s just a small rash. Have you changed detergent? Soap? Bought a new brand of bras?”
“I’ve been swimming at the Brighton Y. Could chlorine cause it?”
“Certainly possible,” I said. “Chlorine’s a strong irritant. But since you’re due for a mammogram anyway, I’ll add a few tests.”
“Should I be worried?” she asked again.
We should always be worried. Every second of every day.
“You’ve had a history of eczema in the past, and you’ve been under nothing but stress, so it’s likely you have eczema on your nipple.”
“Oh, Lord, please don’t let the eczema be coming back,” Audra said.
Please let the eczema be coming back.
The popcorn bowl was almost empty. Merry and I took turns reaching in and scrabbling for popped kernels among the unopened, hard pellets. Why did some kernels have to be so obstinate?
“You worry about everything,” Merry said. “One scratchy nipple and you have her dead and buried.” I’d told her about Audra’s exam and my fears.
“As though you don’t do the death watch,” I replied. Merry and I spent our lives waiting for loved ones to disappear or die. I couldn’t imagine what I’d do when Cassandra and Ruby were old enough to leave the house without Drew or me.
“That’s why I know you’re nuts.” She hit the remote button to open the DVD player and retrieve Doctor Zhivago. “Mama would have liked this movie. She’d think Geraldine Chaplin’s character was too good to be true, though. She’d like Julie Christie.”
I didn’t know where my sister got this baloney from, being she wasn’t even six when Mama died. Merry had built a Mama from memory shreds, from pictures, and from what I had told her over the years.
“Who’d you like?” I wondered.
“I hated the way Geraldine Chaplin was good, good, good, and went around taking care of everyone. And what did she end up with?”
“She got away from it all.”
“But Julie Christie got Omar Sharif.” Merry refilled her wineglass and put her feet up on the coffee table. It seemed impossible Merry would be thirty-seven in December. She still acted like a kid waiting for life to begin. Insubstantial, like her furniture, a cast-off desk from Drew, board-and-brick bookcases, and a coffee table made from a giant wire spool, which she probably got from a phone repairman she’d slept with.
“Omar Sharif never made anyone happy,” I argued.
“Don’t you think he made them happy for a little while?”
“Why did they want him anyway?” I asked. “He was so dismal.”
“I thought he was romantic. He believed in everyone.” She folded her legs under her and brushed her fingers over her chest. “I think Daddy believed in Mama for a long time. Too much.”
“And that’s why he did it? Is this his newest theory or yours?” I grabbed the empty pizza box, holding it so none of the crumbs fell out. “That’s a horrible thing to say. Especially today.”
“I’m just wondering. Why do you get so mad if I even just wonder and try to figure things out?” Merry picked up the greasy paper plates.
“Because Mama deserves this night from us, and she’d want us to leave him out of it.”
20
Lulu
I crushed the unopened bi
rthday card my father had sent. My fingers cramped up as I tried to obliterate the thick paper from my house, from my life. My daughters, Drew, and Merry waited in the dining room. Fifteen minutes earlier I’d left them, going noisily and with much ado to my study, giving them time to put out my “secret” birthday cake.
I threw down the rough prison-stock envelope and halfheartedly sorted the mound of mail on my desk. The correspondence lent an unwanted note of disorder to the room. The chaos gave me the jitters, but I felt too headachy to deal with bills. My urge to go upstairs, take a cool shower, and fall asleep chewed away at my responsibility to be celebration-happy, especially in front of the girls.
I grabbed the balled-up prison envelope and smoothed the paper, not wanting to let my father get the best of me. After slitting open the envelope, I pulled out the hand-drawn card covered with bright red and blue balloons.
Dear Lulu,
Holy moly—if you’ve turned forty-one, then I’m almost sixty! I’m getting to be an old man in here—and trust me, cookie, this is not the place to get old. (Not that I ever expect you to end up in a place like this.) From what Merry tells me, you just get more successful each year. Pretty good, Cocoa Puff.
If I ever did write to my father, the reason would be to say, Never call me Cocoa Puff again. I could still hear him saying the words, throwing them through the bit of space where I’d cracked open the door.
“Don’t worry, Cocoa Puff. Mama won’t get mad. I promise.”
Mama didn’t get mad. Mama died.
I closed my eyes for a moment, gathering strength to read the rest of the letter.
Your mother would be amazed. I can just hear her now: Where did Lulu get those brains? I think it must have been your grandpa on her side—I can’t think of anyone else in our family with enough smarts to go to medical school.
The Murderer’s Daughters Page 18