by Irene Zutell
“And he said?”
“He got silent and said no, but I knew he was lying. He must have told Rose that he wanted a divorce and she just got sick of him waiting to grow balls, so she took it into her own hands, right?”
I want Ruth to disagree with my assessment. But she seems to be contemplating something. After a minute, she says, “What are you holding on to?”
I feel my throat choking up as my eyes tear. I shake my head. “I don’t know . . . everything? My life as I know it? My life as I thought it would always be? And I guess I’m afraid of being alone.”
“You’re doing great,” Ruth says. She reaches out and squeezes my hand. Then she sips her latte and thinks about something. “So what would you do if tonight Alex or Xander, or whoever he is, comes by, tells you how sorry he is, and begs you to take him back?”
“I wouldn’t take him back. How could I? After all this?”
Ruth stares at me and smiles like she knows I’m lying. She’s got to be the smartest porn actress ever.
“Here’s a game I used to play with my friends when we got our hearts broken,” she says. “You’ve got to forget about the good times and think of all his flaws. Even Melvin, who I think is the greatest man in the whole world, has flaws. When we are in love, we have to bury the flaws or we’d drive ourselves crazy. But you should look at all the stuff you’ve buried and dig it up again and then put it all in the past.”
I nod. “My mom. Every weekend I’d go with Gabby to visit her, but Alex hardly ever came. I accepted his silly excuses even though I knew I shouldn’t. I pretended I understood. But he should have been there for me. He said my mom didn’t know the difference, but I did.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Ruth says. “That’s enough reason to kick his sorry ass out for good.”
“And he always, always, always gave in to Gabby. If I told her no about something, like say she wanted ice cream and I said no. She’d throw a fit and Alex would give in. He’d say, ‘Come on, Al, let her have a little ice cream.’ He’d always undermine me and she’d get her way. It got to a point where she stopped asking me for anything and went directly to him. And I let this happen. Now I’m trying to undo the damage, and let me tell you, it’s very hard.”
Ruth smiles at me. “See, if you stayed with Alex you would have created a brat. You saved Gabby and that’s a good enough reason in itself.” She takes a long sip of her latte. “Do you still have that check?”
I giggle and nod. “Yup.”
“Well, you should divorce his sorry ass and cash that check.”
“I dunno. It seems, well, sort of degrading.”
Ruth laughs. “I know degrading, trust me. And that’s far from it. Besides, you could do something spectacular with that money. Imagine all the fun you could have.”
It’s true. A million dollars is a lot of money for me. It would take me over eight years of really hard work to make that kind of money. But I don’t think I can do it. It’s letting Rose win. Giving her the last word. Telling her I can be bought.
The waitress comes over to ask if we want something else.
“You haven’t been here in a long time,” she says. “I just remembered that I have something for you.”
She returns a few minutes later with a package wrapped in brown paper. She puts it in front of me.
“For me? Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. I’ve been holding this for a while now. Open it.”
I do.
It’s the photo. “Baby, Five Minutes Old.” I smile hard for the first time all day.
“Wow! This is great,” I say, staring at it. “How much do I owe?”
“Nothing,” the waitress says, smiling. “J.D. wanted you to have it.” She pulls a pamphlet from her dress pocket. “He’s having an exhibit in Studio City in a few weeks. Here’s the information. He said he hoped you’d stop by, with some friends.”
Ruth looks at me quizzically. “You know him?”
I shake my head. Then I look at the pamphlet—Photographs by J.D. Wolfe. “I’ve never met the guy in my life.”
Ruth laughs. “It sounds like you have an admirer.”
I snort. “He probably has me confused with someone else. Besides, I’m a real catch. An almost forty-year-old woman with a five-year-old.”
“You’re almost forty?” Ruth says. “I thought I was the only oldie in the group. Geez, Ally, you look like you’re barely thirty.”
Ruth grabs the pamphlet from my hand. “I still think we should go to his exhibit. You never know.”
15
Jingle Bell Rock
It is Christmas Eve and I am struggling to feed my mother a puree of beef, broccoli, and potatoes. Since yesterday, Gabby has been at Alex’s Marina del Rey condo with all the other divorced dads and children. There will be a holiday parade complete with Santa, presents, toasted marshmallows, and fireworks.
Trinity is with her sister, having a quiet dinner.
Feeding Mom has gotten easier. It’s become like meditation. But whereas in traditional mediation, you concentrate on your breathing—in and out, in and out, ham sa, ham sa—in this form, I focus on the simple motions it takes to get the food from the plate into my mother’s stomach. Unwavering patience is my religion. I must not think of anything except the movement of the spoon. Scoop up the puree. Pry open Mom’s mouth. Push in the spoon. Turn the spoon over. Dump out its contents. Watch as my mother sloshes the food around in her mouth. Catch the food that drips down her chin with the spoon, shovel in that food. Watch again as Mom sloshes it around until slowly, ever, ever so slowly, she swallows it. Begin again.
I forget about all the chores I need to get done and all the problems in my life. Instead, I become one with the rhythm of these motions until I am numb. Until there is nothing else I can think about.
I’m not complaining. It feels good not to think about anything but the spoon.
When I am done feeding Mom, I wipe her face with a wet cloth and remove her bib. Half the food I fed her has fallen out of her mouth and onto her lap and the floor. I wonder how many calories my mother actually gets in her body. She is so thin. When I dressed her this morning, I was shocked by how skeletal her body looked. Her bones jut out of her transparent skin as if death is not waiting for an official notice, it’s already taken up residence.
I slowly hoist Mom out of her chair and guide her to the couch. I plop her down to face the Christmas tree. I bring the hot chocolate I made in an attempt to be festive and sit next to her. With the fire blazing, the tree glowing, and the hot chocolate to imbibe, we could almost be a Thomas Kinkade painting. Although I’m sure none of Tommy’s figures look as cadaverous as Mom or as sad as I feel.
About two weeks ago, Sherri Gold from 2804 Delacroix came to the house. She wasn’t bubbly this time.
“I thought you were on top of things, Alice, but today I’ve been fielding complaints from many of the neighbors. There’s two Spidermans. Three Simpsons. Four—did you hear me—four SpongeBobs. I thought last year was a disaster, but this is worse. Much worse. This is the worst year ever. And we had a committee! How could this have happened?”
I used the standard response I’ve been giving the bill collectors, the water company, the gas company, Gabby’s teachers, my boss. “I’m going through a divorce, Sherri, okay? I haven’t been able to get it together.”
Sherri closed her eyes and massaged her temples. “I understand, Alice. I really do. I’ve been there. A lot of us have been there. But I wish you had just come to me and told me this was too much for you. I mean, you did volunteer.”
“I did? As I recall, you volunteered me.”
“You could have turned it down if you wanted to,” she says. “Regardless, you should have come to me if it wasn’t your thing.”
“I know. I know. I should have. It was on my list of things to do, but well, I never got to anything on that list,” I said. It’s true. For weeks I had “Call Sherri” on the top of my to do list. But it just seem
ed too strenuous. Every day, I told myself I’d do it tomorrow. Until tomorrow was the moment when Sherri was at my house screaming at me.
Then I forced out a smile. “But did you see my decorations?”
Sherri didn’t say anything. She just gave me a look of pity.
I don’t know why I added that. My decorations aren’t something to be proud of, and I know it, even Gabby knows it. But I figured maybe quantity could replace quality in Sherri’s eyes. After all, the woman is bedazzled up to her neck in rhinestones and faux diamonds and just about anything that sparkles.
“I had to talk the neighbors out of coming over here with pins to pop everything,” Sherri said.
A week earlier, I had gone to Target and bought all of their inflatable Christmas decorations. There’s an enormous Santa, Mrs. Claus, elf, Grinch, reindeer, candy cane, Christmas tree, and a snow globe. Trinity and I had spent a day positioning them on the lawn while Mom supervised from a chaise lounge.
I thought it looked festive enough. Well, I knew it was pretty lame, but I thought it would look wonderful to Gabby.
But as I drove back to the house after picking Gabby up from kindergarten, I realized how horribly cheesy it looked. It was haphazard—the Grinch looming over a candy cane while Santa stood next to the snow globe. It was a mishmash and bizarre and almost menacing. Gabby sniffled when she saw it.
“What’s wrong,” I said, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible.
“It’s not beautiful,” Gabby said. “It’s not magical. It’s ridicleus. I wanted a fairy tale. This isn’t a fairy tale.”
“Did you see the snow globe? Snow falls while the snowmen sing ‘Jingle Bell Rock.’ ”
“I hate that song. It’s like someone took a song that doesn’t sound like Christmas and forced the words jingle bells into it. It’s stupid.”
I hate that song, too, but I didn’t know why until Gabby just explained it.
“Well, I think our house looks very festive.”
“I think our house looks like the Christmas aisle at Target,” Gabby sniffed.
So now the neighborhood hates me. Gabby is disappointed in me. She had begged me to create a princess wonderland. She’d even drawn pictures of her “vision” of snow blowing and fairies dancing and princesses milling about. Every day I promised Gabby that we’d get to it soon, but the days rolled along while I remained stagnant. Another undone thing on my to do list.
“I knew it,” Gabby had said. “I just knew it. You promised and it didn’t happen. Just like the dog. You said we’d get a dog, but where is it?”
I sip the hot chocolate as I sit next to Mom. It’s cold and the chocolate is clumpy.
Christmas in Larchmont: As soon as Thanksgiving was over, Mom would turn the house into a fantasy of lights, colors, and smells—a glorious confection of pine from the spruce and spices from her nonstop baking. Every day, it seemed, I’d come home from school and embark on another holiday task, whether it was decorating cookies, stringing popcorn or cranberries, arranging the Hummels in the crèche, making a wreath, caroling with friends, or wrapping gifts for neighbors.
Now the neighbors hate me. I have blow-up Santas on my front lawn. My daughter is with my soon-to-be ex-husband. I am sitting on a couch staring at a Christmas tree that I had nothing to do with.
I tried hard to get in the spirit—I really did. I bought a Christmas tree. I hung up a few balls, but I lacked energy. And Trinity seemed to be having so much fun with Gabby that I felt like I didn’t belong. It felt like I was dead and watching from beyond the grave while my daughter and her surrogate mom happily continued without me. They sang and laughed as they pulled out the decorations that have been in my family for half a century. I felt like a downer, slogging through the motions. I could sense that Gabby knew I was acting. So when the phone rang, it seemed like a perfect escape.
It was my boss. I had told him I’d be back right after the New Year. He was calling to make sure I wasn’t going to flake out on him again.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll see you January second.” After all, Gabby will be fine. It’s probably the best for both of us. Gabby will be at school most of the day. I’ll start fresh. Get my life in order. Be invaluable again. Plus, work will help me take my mind off my life. Isn’t that the point of work anyway?
I hadn’t even shopped for Christmas presents for Gabby until a few days ago. The shelves at Target and Toys “R” Us had been picked clean. Gabby really wanted a lifesize Barbie, but they had none left. Instead, there was a generic-looking doll that was three feet tall. It was made with that really stiff plastic and its face was expressionless with wide eyes and a puckered mouth. The fingers were too long and narrow and attached to each other like a fin. The clothes were sewn on and couldn’t be removed. I also found a trunk filled with princess clothes, which I figured she’d love. I filled my cart with as many dolls and toys as possible. I tried to convince myself that Gabby would love most of these gifts. Quantity over quality again.
Gabby was still in school when I got home, so I spread the toys on the living room floor and took inventory before I wrapped them. Every year I tried to get a gift that would thrill her, but this year nothing seemed outstanding. The doll I’d gotten her was as horrible as my inflatable decorations. I went online, hoping there would be a lifesize Barbie doll available somewhere. Anywhere.
“Missus!”
I flinched. Trinity had snuck up on me. She was holding giant Barbie—the one Gabby had wanted.
“I found this the other day. I knew he wanted it badly, so I bought it just in case.” She paused. “I know you been berry, berry beesy.”
“Trinity!” I stood up and hugged her. “I don’t know how to thank you. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. I want to give him something. But put it under the tree and tell Gabby Santa brought it.”
“Thank you so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I said.
She smirked at me and then pulled out a box. “For you, missus. A little gift.”
“Trinity! You should be saving your money.”
“Take it, please,” she said.
I opened it. It was a sterling silver bracelet with a small heart locket. I unclasped the locket. Inside was a picture of Gabby, in her Cinderella gown, holding her butterfly net.
“Thank you, Trinity, but I can’t take it.” She must have used a lot of her savings for this. The poor woman sent most of her money back to Manila. She probably had nothing for herself.
“No. You must. I would be very hurt if you did not. I wanted to cheer you up. So it is a gift for me, too—your happiness.”
“Well, thank you. It’s beautiful. Very beautiful.”
I look at my watch. Gabby still isn’t home and it’s getting late. Alex was supposed to have her back sometime tonight so she can wake up in her own bed on Christmas morning, just like she always does. I imagine she’s begging Alex to let her stay at the condo with marshmallow roasts and caroling and Santa on the beach and fireworks and too, too many gifts. It’s Mom’s bedtime, so I hoist her off the couch. She quietly moans—every joint in her body aches. Then we shuffle toward the guest house. She stares at me, smiling, as if I’m the mother and she’s trying to make me happy. I lay her on the bed and change her wet diaper. Then I tuck her in. I don’t attempt to brush her teeth. She just bites on the bristles until I let go. She only allows Trinity access to her mouth.
Since Gabby isn’t home yet, I read Mom The Night Before Christmas, just like she used to do for me. I read it slowly, trying to remember the spots where she’d add suspense, pause, whisper, shout. Before I get to the part where Santa commands the reindeer to dash away, Mom is asleep. I watch her for a few moments, her mouth wide open, her breathing labored. Then I kiss her cold, moist forehead, switch on the baby monitor, and head back to the house.
A few minutes later, Gabby is home. Alex drops her off along with boxes and boxes of presents.
I can tell Gabby is in a bad mood.
“She’s got to be really tired. She had a really, really busy day,” Alex says proudly.
“Yeah,” Gabby says. “I saw Santa and toasted marshmallows and opened lots of presents and played with my best friend, Charlotte. I wished Charlotte lived near me. I miss her so much.”
“Gabs, you just met her yesterday,” Alex says. Then he adds all too merrily, “Well, give me a kiss, okay, baby?”
I brace myself.
“What? Daddy, you can’t go! It’s Christmas Eve. I want you to see me open my presents. I want you to stay. That’s what I asked Santa today. For you to stay here with me and Mommy. For you to love Mommy again. Why don’t you love Mommy anymore?”
Alex bends down and stares into Gabby’s eyes. Their noses practically touch. “I still love you and I love Mommy.”
He gives me a smile. I wonder if he’s saying this to console Gabby or if he and Rose have finally and inevitably broken up.
“Then stay! Stay! Stay!”
She clings to Alex’s neck.
“Come on, Gabby. I’ve gotta go.”
She lets go of Alex and balls her fists.
“This is going to be the worst Christmas ever,” she screams, running down the hall into her bedroom. The door slams.
We stare at each other for a long time.
“What do I do?” Alex says. For the first time since I’ve married him, he looks helpless. I’m convinced he has been dumped and he’s waiting for an invitation to stay. Do I ask him? Do I really want him here? What’s best for Gabby?
“If you want, you can come back in the morning to watch Gabby open presents.”
Alex looks at the floor and shuffles his feet. And I know he has plans with Rose.
“Well,” he starts. Then he coughs into his hand.
“No,” I interrupt. “It’s probably for the best if you leave. You go. I’ll deal with Gabby.”
That’s become my mantra. He gets the Santas and marshmallow roasts and the laughs. Then he leaves. I get the tears and the tantrums and the I hate yous.