“I think L is still sleeping,” Rachelle says, and Maria feels a wave of relief wash over her. L is home. It would all be in vain otherwise.
They walk into the living room. Morning light shines generously through the large window, and a hint of vanilla is floating in the air. Must be one of those air fresheners people plug in. Maria smiles. In spite of the modest furnishings, she likes this place. She finds herself wondering if Victor would like it too. He probably would. The light, the view of the river. He’s not a snob, after all. He likes to say simplicity is luxury. She only wishes he had seen her new apartment in the daylight.
Her reverie is interrupted by Rachelle’s voice: “L! Get your lazy self out of bed, child! Your mama is here!”
She gestures for Maria to sit down on the futon, and offers her a cup of coffee. It’s strong and fragrant, served in a white porcelain mug, complete with matching saucer. Maria thinks it’s lovely china, white, simple, and perfectly round. Victor would like this too. She smiles, leans back into a cushion, and lets herself enjoy the rich aroma of the hot dark liquid.
It takes her a while to notice Rachelle still standing there, looking at her expectantly. Is she hoping to make conversation? What’s taking L so long?
“You know, L has been teaching me French,” Rachelle says out of the blue, and Maria is glad there is something for them to talk about.
“That’s wonderful! So, what you can say?”
Rachelle lets out an awkward little laugh.
“Je suis une jeune fille, » she recites, tentatively.
Maria smiles.
« Non,» she says. « Vous etes une jeune femme. »
« Oui. » Rachelle replies, then she pauses, as if looking for words. Maria wonders if she even understood. “I know. But the line from the book was ‘je suis une jeune fille. You know, the book you gave L.”
Maria tries to recall what book that is. She’s given L several books, over the years, but she never had any indication that her daughter actually read them.
“You know, the one about India,” Rachelle explains. “L is really creative as a teacher. She bought me an English copy of it for my birthday. I told her I didn’t want an expensive gift, so there she goes, buying me this lovely novel, and then she lent me the French copy you gave her, and suggested I read them in parallel. And she rented the movie for us to watch together.”
“With Hugh Grant!” Maria smiles. She rented it for L herself, before giving her the French translation of one of her favorite Romanian novels, the forbidden love story between Mircea Eliade and the daughter of his Indian employer in Calcutta in the 1930s. She thought L felt lukewarm about the movie. The fact that she liked it enough to share, is a pleasant revelation. She takes it as a good omen for her mission today
“What was called that movie?” she asks. She used to know it, but it slipped her mind.
“The Bengali Night.”
“You like?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, a lot.”
“Me too. You know, I usually like men with dark hair, dark eyes, like L’s daddy. But Hugh Grant, he very sexy.”
They both laugh. Maria realizes she wouldn’t have made that comment in front of her daughter. No wonder L is closer to Monica than to her!
“I liked that movie very much,” Rachelle continues. “But then I like the book much better. I read it several times.”
Maria smiles. It’s a good book.
“L told me you studied Romanian literature, in college. That must have been fascinating.”
Maria nods, shyly. It was so long ago, that she by now almost forgot she finished university, that literature used to be more than a hobby.
She’s happy L remembers this about her, that she found it worth mentioning to her friend. Again, a good omen. Maybe there is still hope for them.
Her daughter finally emerges from her bedroom, wearing a pink sweatshirt and grey yoga pants. Her hair is messy, and her eyes are swollen. She almost looks upset, and Maria hopes it’s just the sleep settled in her features, not actual displeasure at waking up to find her mother here.
“Mami?” she asks in a small voice. She reminds Maria of a baby bird, one who just hatched out of an egg, and is examining the world with confusion and a hefty dose of fear. “What are you doing here?”
“I came see you, of course,” Maria answers. “And to talk to Rachelle.”
L stares at her mother with a curiosity bordering on panic.
“I came to tell you I bought studio apartment in Manhattan,” Maria says. She pauses just long enough to see the surprise on her daughter’s face. “I am moving and need you come help me pack.”
“You bought a place, Mami? That’s wonderful! But…”
Maybe it was wrong to spring the news on her without any preliminaries. But despite appearances, L is not a baby anymore. She’s a grown woman who needs to learn to face reality. Even in the mornings. Or perhaps, especially then.
“So when you come help me pack, my sweetie?”
“I… I don’t know, Mami. I am very busy these days…”
As expected, L is trying to brush her off. Normally she would just accept this, and walk away, concealing her hurt. But today she’s made up her mind to confront her daughter, using whatever authority a mother is supposed to have.
She’s grateful that Rachelle has retreated into the baby’s room. She turns towards L, and says firmly:
“Liliana, I am your mother. I gave birth to you, and for last twenty-three years I made sure you have everything you need. I cook, clean, and wash laundry for you, I stay up all night when you sick, and I even came to this bloody country so you have better life. I want you to help me pack and I will not take no for an answer. You pick one night this week, and you come to my house after work, pack, eat dinner with me, and spend the night at my house. You understand?”
L nods. She’s looking at her feet, as if her bright pink toenails can offer her an escape from her mother’s unexpected tirade. Maria can tell she’s embarrassed, maybe even close to crying. Just like her mother, L cries easily. And she’s not used to Mami scolding her.
“What night you come?”
L’s toes dance around uncomfortably. Maria hates that shade of pink. She hates the fact that her daughter feels and looks foreign to her. An unknown young woman. Have they grown that far apart already?
“I…I guess tomorrow.”
“Good. What time you be there?”
“Seven?”
“O.K. I get pizza.”
*
I’ve no choice but to show up the next night, as promised. Most of Mami’s stuff is already packed. There are still a few piles of things on the floor, and Mami is walking around picking up stray items here and there, placing them into boxes. She works methodically, in her typical fashion. Brazilian music is playing in the background, filling the apartment with mellow chords and deep voices. Candles are spreading the warm scent of vanilla (vanilie). A bottle of red wine sits on the coffee table. Mami is walking around barefoot, humming to the music, leisurely sipping from a large goblet. She seems to be enjoying herself. She even looks younger. She’s wearing black yoga pants and a T-shirt. She’s probably been up packing late last night. There are circles under her eyes, and most of the work has already been done. I wonder why she needed my help when she seem to be managing fine all by herself. Why did she insist I show up? Maybe she wanted to celebrate the moment. Like a moving party of sorts, with me as only guest. I guess I should feel honored.
Mami is genuinely excited about me being here, but then again, when isn’t she excited to see me? She hugs and kisses me, gushing over the smell of my parfum secret, complimenting my clothes, the length of my hair, the fact that it’s so shiny.
“You have glass of wine. Pizza is coming. I know how my sweetie love pizza!”
She seems more energetic than usual. But restlessness becomes her.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this happy before. I feel relieved, yet at the same time sad. It’s strange to see
our old apartment all packed up. This is where I spent most of my childhood, and my college years. I hated it, but now, on the eve of its being emptied and abandoned, I feel attached to it. I will miss this apartment. I will mourn its loss. In spite of my parents’ fighting and my own distaste for the boroughs, this has been the safe haven of my childhood, a place where even now, after moving out, I always thought I could return if need be. Just as I always knew Mami and Tati would be there for me if I needed them, I always assumed this would always remain my home.
I almost forgot it was rented. The rent is expensive, yet not outrageous, not anything compared to rents in Manhattan. I remember Mami writing the checks grudgingly, as if paying for a necessary evil, something that brought no joy, but needed to be paid, like the debt to a bookie. I’ve known for years she was longing to live somewhere else.
Still, the reality of Mami moving is disconcerting. It makes no sense, but having lived in an apartment for fifteen years, shouldn’t people be entitled to keep it? It seems surreal that some day I might walk by, look up at our windows and realize that other people live here. The thought of strangers in these rooms seems invasive.
Over wine and pizza, Mami tells me about her new apartment. Her face glows with excitement. She looks younger. The new place sounds nice. Though I’m a little taken aback that Mami decided to give all our furniture to charity. Apparently she’ll have nothing but a big bed and a modern kitchen island in her new place. It’s strange to imagine her living in a studio apartment. Manhattan is expensive, and lots of people live in the equivalent of mouse holes, but Mami living in one room seems odd. It means I’ll definitely never be able to go back to living with her. We used to sleep in the same bed for years, but sharing a bed here, in our old apartment, seemed normal. Sharing a bed in the new studio strikes me as weird and stifling.
After pizza, packing proceeds with Mami doing all the work, while still sipping her wine, and me sitting on the floor looking through piles of stuff, trying to find some memories of our former lives that I want for myself. Most of all, I’m hoping to get some of Mami’s old clothes.
I still remember the glamorous mother of my early childhood in Romania. I used to think my Mami was the most beautiful woman in the world, a cross between a fairy princess and a gypsy. I was fascinated with gypsy women back then. I was in awe of their dark braids adorned with gold, their colorful skirts, and their brazen smiles. My mother, with her chestnut curls flowing freely, and thin gold bangles dangling on her wrists, seemed to have something in common with them. She dressed in bright colors back then, and she smiled a lot, brazenly just like the gypsy women in the street.
Mami’s look became more austere in New York. Her beautiful dresses, her lovely high heels, and all her purses were carefully stored away. The gold bangles disappeared too. When I went to prom, Mami offered to let me borrow a gold chain and hoop earrings. I asked if she still had the bangles. She said she sold them. It broke my heart.
When I started sleeping in Mami’s room, I got to share her closet. I would occasionally reach to the very back, where she kept her old dresses. I’d bury my face in the silk, and inhale the scent of my childhood.
Right now, looking through the piles of things Mami set out for me, I’m hoping to find those old dresses. But all I come across are my art projects from school, which I can’t believe Mami kept, Alex’ collection of Lego, a pile of books, and some of my own old clothes and music tapes.
“Where are your dresses and shoes, Mami?”
She looks up in surprise.
“Which dress and shoe you want?”
“Your old stuff, Mami. From Romania.”
She frowns.
“That old junk? Why you want that? That stuff falling apart, my sweetie. But you can look, of course.”
She points to one of the boxes that are already packed. It’s marked ‘Woman,’ in Mami’s beautiful cursive. I don’t even stop to wonder at the reason for this label, I’m anxious to find the dresses.
“Is in bottom of box,” Mami says. The corners of her mouth contort, as if in disapproval.
There’s a wool coat on top, neatly folded and with dry cleaning tags still on. There’s a pair of relatively new boots, a few sweaters, smelling of fabric softener, and then finally, underneath, there’s my most coveted red silk dress. I almost shriek with joy at the mere sight of it.
I hold it up to my face, taking in that beloved scent, faint, muddled, but still so familiar. It looks slightly different than I remember, very 80s, with unexpected pleats and shoulder pads. But still, it is the red silk dress. Rochia roşie de mătase. I remember Mami glowing in this.
“Can I try it on, Mami?”
“Of course you can try, sweetie. But I cannot believe you want that.” Mami wrinkles her nose. “Is so old. And such hideous fashion. You see shoulder pad? I can not believe I wear such thing.”
Before setting out to try on the dress, I dig deeper into the box, hoping to find the taupe suede pumps Mami used to wear with it. They are more worn than I hoped, but they still look glamorous to me. I quickly remove my sock.
“Those not fit you, L,” Mami warns.
“We’re the same size, Mami! They should fit!”
I slip my foot into my mother’s old shoe. It’s tight. When I stand up, it hurts.
“See, they don’t fit you,” Mami says. “They too small.”
I take off the shoe and start putting on a pair of white strappy sandals. Sandale cu barete.
“They all too small, sweetie!” Mami says. “They not fit. Trust me. Just put them back. I donate them to women’s shelter. Maybe somebody there have small feet.”
I still try on a third pair. Too small. I wonder if I can wear them anyway. Maybe they’d stretch in time? Mami seems to read my mind.
“No, L, you cannot have them. They too small for you. I give them to women’s shelter. Poor women need shoes. And you need not to ruin your feet. Bad shoes are bad for you!”
I wrap them up again, the way Mami had, in cloth bags, and stash them back in the box.
“I give all these boxes to women’s shelter,” Mami points to five boxes lined up along the wall, all marked ‘woman.’ “Is very sad. The women in there, they been abused. They had to escape their homes, and they had no place to go. Some have children. Some brought children with them. You know, L, some women are immigrant women. They don’t even speak English. Can you imagine? Being here, not able to speak, like I was, not able to go out there, get job, or do anything really, and then on top of that, be completely dependent on man. Is truly horrible. But as if is not bad enough, imagine the man beats you. Or beats your children, or both. I cannot imagine being trapped in house like that, with that kind of man. You imagine how hard is to escape if you are in foreign country and you don’t speak the language? I admire these women who escape. Who go to shelter. But you know, for every one who is there, there are tens, hundreds, thousands in the city, trapped in bad homes, unable to leave because they don’t speak English and they don’t know anything about this country.”
I didn’t expect a tirade about battered women. All I wanted was to try on some shoes.
“You know, L, some time I go there, to shelter. I visit with the women. I cannot talk to many of them, they not speak English. Is so sad.”
It is. But seriously, where is this all coming from? What’s gotten into Mami?
“A woman should never depend entirely on man. She should be able to take care of herself, to leave. You never know, L, things can always go wrong, even if they start out right. You should always have way out, an escape. You should always be able to stand on your own two feet.”
I hope Mami will go back to packing and forget about the battered women. I’m anxious to try on the red dress. But Mami is not done.
“I worry for you, L. Marrying that boy at so young age. I know you grown woman and you know to take care of yourself, and I’m so proud of you, but… I guess I agree with your Tati that maybe you should go back to school, or…”
“All I’m saying, L, is, if you marry this boy, I just want you to be confident you can leave him, that you be fine without him, and that if, one day you realize you made a big mistake, you be able to walk out and not… I see all these wealthy women, L, some of my clients at the store. They married with such awful men, and they unhappy, but they don’t want to let go because their lives would never be same… even with alimony. I just don’t want you to fall in this trap, to be attracted by lifestyle that you can not have on your own, and then be stuck with someone because of it…”
I steal a glance at my engagement ring. I know Mami doesn’t want me to marry Greg. I don’t want to know why she feels that way. I was afraid to come here tonight, knowing she’ll feel compelled to tell me.
“I’m not marrying Greg for money. He’s a poor student!”
Of course, this poor student has wined and dined me at a time when I was living on bagels. But Mami doesn’t need to know everything about our relationship.
Mami raises her eyebrows.
“Law student. Not going to be poor forever,” she points out. “Now I been relatively clueless about life when I was your age, but I was not born yesterday, L. That young man of yours will have money one day. Much more than you yourself can get. Is ok, as long as is not what you see in him.”
“No, it is not,” I protest. I can feel myself getting red in the face.
“I…I…”
“No, L. You don’t love him.”
Mami pronounces this in a categorical fashion which infuriates me beyond words. Still, I cannot dispute it.
“He’s good to me, Mami. He’s the best man I ever met.”
“He might be. But you still very young. And you only been with him a few months. You don’t really know him. And what’s even worse, you don’t even know yourself yet.”
“He’s sweet, Mami. He’s so kind. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
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