The Art of Forgetting

by Camille Noe Pagan

  “Fascinating,” I finally tell the woman.

  “Isn’t it? As you might have guessed, I’m a bit of a bird fanatic,” she responds. “Anyway, I’ve kept you too long. But it was very nice to chat with you. I hope you have a lovely day, my dear.”

  “Same here,” I tell her. I’m almost down the bridge when I turn back to her. She’s exactly where I left her, leaning against the bridge and staring at the water. “Happy anniversary,” I call out.

  “In many ways, it is,” she responds, and turns back to the water.

  Twenty-eight

  The rest of the week flies by so fast that I don’t have time to give much thought to Ashley’s article, let alone stew over Julia’s loose lips. Before I know it, it’s Friday night and Dave and I are on the Metro-North to Chappaqua to see his parents. As the train whizzes along, Dave stares out the window, pretending to be fascinated by the scenery, but in the glass reflection, I see that he’s smiling. It’s obvious that he’s up to something, but exactly what has yet to be revealed.

  “What is it?” he asks, eyes opening innocently when I give him yet another suspicious look.

  “Come on. Even your clothes scream guilt,” I scoff, referring to the fact that he’s wearing a button-down and gray wool pants instead of the usual jeans and T-shirt he lives in when he’s not at work. Meanwhile, I’ve (just barely) squeezed into my favorite stretchy black dress—which, under the train’s glaring lights, I now discover is covered with fuzz and looks as though I bought it at Goodwill. I say a silent prayer that whatever Dave has in store, it does not involve anything fancy, because this dress is the nicest thing I brought to wear for the weekend.

  “You’re as bad a liar as I am,” I tell him, but he continues to play dumb. “Okay,” I say. “Just know that I will figure out what it is sooner than later.”

  “Well, Nancy Drew, you’ll figure out that there’s nothing to be figured out,” he says cryptically, and offers me some of the cheddar Chex Mix he’s been snacking on.

  I shake my head. “I’m back on the wagon.”

  “You’ll only be on the wagon until you get a whiff of my mom’s coconut cake,” Dave informs me. “Then I guarantee that you’ll throw yourself off the side as fast as you possibly can.”

  “Thanks for the motivation. You’re a real pal,” I tell him. He kisses me lightly on the lips, then makes a show of having more Chex, which results in neon orange crumbs falling on his freshly pressed shirt. “Serves you right,” I say with a smirk, but he just keeps grinning.

  When we get off the train, Dave’s father, Len, is leaning against the door of his navy blue Volvo wagon in the parking lot. Built like a bullet, Len is short but sinewy from his twice-a-week squash game and daily six-mile runs. Dave is taller than his father, and from the pictures I’ve seen, more handsome than he ever was, but there’s no doubt that Len is a crystal ball of Dave’s future self. It’s a comforting thought, because there are far worse ways to age.

  Tonight, Len looks calm and normal, making me wonder if my imagination has been on overdrive—or conversely, if he simply has no idea what Dave has in store. He greets me warmly, as though I’m his relative and not just his son’s girlfriend. “Marissa! Joyel and I are so happy that you’re here for the weekend.” Then he gives Dave a hug. “Hey, champ. Good to see you,” he says.

  “Hey, Dad,” Dave says, hugging him back, and although I know I shouldn’t, I have a momentary twinge of envy because they have a closeness I don’t have with either of my parents, and never will. There are some things you just can’t create out of thin air, and that kind of affection is one of them.

  After we load our bags into the station wagon, Dave and Len spend the five-minute drive debating the statutes pertaining to a case Len, who is also a lawyer, is currently trying in court. My understanding of the law is so dim that they might as well be discussing quantum physics, and so I find myself zoning out while they banter back and forth.

  Even though I deleted Nathan’s e-mails, I kept thinking about them all week, and wondering if I did the right thing by not responding. In the end, I stuck to my original plan. It felt like a failure of sorts, because if I was trying to be the new, assertive Marissa, I would undoubtedly send some sort of a “no really, leave me alone” message, even if it was curt and poorly executed. And yet something in me said: Let silence be your answer.

  Before I can get too verklempt, the Volvo pulls into the Bergmans’ gravel driveway. “Here we are!” says Len cheerfully. “Home sweet home.” And it is. In an otherwise pitch-black night, the lanterns on the porch of the expansive slate gray ranch beckon us to enter, and above, the stars are bright and plentiful. It’s hard to believe that we’re less than an hour outside of the city.

  “It’s good to be here, Dad,” says Dave, opening the front door. As he does, the most amazing savory-yet-sweet smell wafts over me. “Guess you’re right about my diet, huh?” I say to him, my mouth watering.

  “I’m not one to say I told you so”—he grins—“but I did tell you so.” I swat him playfully.

  “What did I hear about diet?” says Joyel, coming to greet us at the door. Although Dave most resembles Len, he and Joyel have the exact same smile—bashful and welcoming. She embraces me, and then says, “Marissa, I should warn you: That word is completely verboten in this house. It’s my duty as your surrogate Jewish mother to make sure you are stuffed like a Christmas pig.”

  “Is that kosher?” Len jokes, and Dave groans. “Here we go. The Punch and Judy show,” he says. Their mood is infectious, and I find my earlier jitters evaporating.

  But no sooner have I relaxed when Joyel says, “Marissa, come with me into the living room. We have a little surprise for you.”

  “Okay,” I say, hoping that I sound at least a little more enthusiastic than I feel. Marissa Rogers, guess what’s behind door number two? I robotically follow her into the next room, afraid to even wonder what they have in store.

  It is not a what, but a who, that I find waiting for me.

  “Mom? Phil? What are you doing here?” I feel momentarily panicked, until I realize that my mother and stepfather, who are sitting on the Bergmans’ leather sofa sipping red wine, are clearly not here because of an emergency. They appear to be deep in conversation, and they wait a second too long before looking up at me.

  “Well, hey there, Marissa,” says Phil jovially, hoisting himself out of the deep, low sofa. He extends a hand to my mother, who gracefully pulls herself into a standing position and glides over to where Dave and I are standing. I can tell immediately that she’s in what Julia used to refer to as “Susan mode,” where she pretends to be charming and witty and carefree. That is to say, not herself.

  Clutching my upper arms, my mother leans forward so that our cheeks meet, but our torsos don’t touch. “Marissa, honey,” she says in a normal voice. “Can you believe we’re here?” Then, as she airkisses my cheek, she whispers, “What on earth are you wearing?”

  “Great to see you, too, Mom,” I say through clenched teeth.

  Dave embraces my mother, then turns to me, beaming. “I thought it was about time our parents met, so I arranged for your mom and Phil to come in for the weekend and stay with my folks.”

  “So you’re staying here? At the Bergmans’? Really?!” I give Dave a look that says I am so going to murder you.

  “Of course! I wouldn’t dream of putting them up in a hotel, not that there’s even a good one to be had around here. And Susan and I have been getting along famously all afternoon!” says Joyel, putting an arm around my mother, who giggles. I am certain that this is a sign of the impending apocalypse, but I just smile as though it’s the best news I’ve heard all week.

  “We really do appreciate you having us,” says Phil a little awkwardly, which makes me feel better. If he and Len were suddenly thick as thieves, I’d have to grab my bag and find a sympathetic yuppie to give me a ride back to the city.

  “Dave! This is so not okay!” I whisper as the parents make their wa
y into the dining room.

  “I thought it was important for them to meet,” he says, looking wounded. “And I didn’t want you to say no without thinking it through. I figured that once you saw your mom, you’d realize it wasn’t such a bad idea . . .”

  “After three years together, you should know me better than this! I hate surprises. Especially surprises involving my mother.” There are about seven trillion things she could say or do to make this weekend a disaster. And damn it, I like the Bergmans and they like me. The last thing I need is for my mother to ruin that.

  “Marissa,” Dave says gently. “Family is important to me. And although you have a hard time admitting it, I know it’s important to you, too. Your mother may not be perfect, but she’s yours, and I want my parents to at least have a chance to get to know her.”

  “Hmph.” I sulk, still convinced he could have handled our little reunion better. “If this goes badly, I’m blaming it on you.”

  “Deal,” he says, and puts his hand on my back to guide me through the arched door of the dining room together. “I love youuuu,” he says in a silly voice, and I can’t help but smile. “Now let’s go make nice.”

  For dinner, Joyel has put together a light spread of cheese, cured meat, hummus, fruit, and homemade bread. After we’re seated, Len pours us each a glass of wine, and raises his to signal a toast. “To family,” he says, looking across the thick mahogany table at each of us. “And to the future.”

  “Cheers,” I say, but instead of clinking glasses with me, Dave leans over toward my ear. “Our future,” he says so that only I can hear. “Our family.” Then he kisses me softly, and brings the edge of his wineglass to mine.

  “Our future,” I whisper back, and my words hang in the air, a promise to him.

  Twenty-nine

  The next morning, I wake up a new woman. It’s a beautiful day, I slept well, and most important, my mother behaved herself last night. In fact, she was downright docile throughout dinner, and even insisted on helping with the dishes afterward instead of begging off on account of her French tips like she usually does.

  “Good morning, gorgeous,” says Dave, slipping into the guest bathroom while I’m brushing my teeth.

  “Hey, you,” I say through a mouthful of toothpaste suds. By the time I’ve spit and rinsed, Dave’s in the shower. “Come join me,” he says, poking his head out from behind the damask shower curtain.

  “Shhh,” I say, trying to get him to lower his voice. “Your parents are right down the hall.”

  “First of all,” he says, grabbing the edge of my pajama pants, “Mom is in the kitchen making coffee. And Dad has definitely been up for two hours, if not more.” “Like father, like son.” I laugh, swatting his wet hand away from my silk pants. “I’m surprised you weren’t awake at the crack of dawn to go running with him.” “I wouldn’t dare. You were so warm and cozy this morning,” Dave says, grabbing my pants again, this time pulling them down. “Come on,” he says. “Get in.”

  “Sounds like someone’s begging,” I tease, then strip down and step in the tub.

  “So what are we going to do the rest of the weekend?” I ask Dave as he soaps up my back.

  “Well, after breakfast, I thought we’d take your parents on the scenic tour of Chappaqua, and then do a little shopping. And maybe pizza for dinner?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  I rinse off one last time and hop out of the shower. Dave gets out behind me, and wraps a thick white towel around my torso and shoulders before I have a chance to do it myself.

  “You are too good to me,” I tell him, rubbing the soft cotton on my skin. “Although you do still owe me for this whole surprise gettogether.” Truth be told, I’m no longer annoyed about my mother being here. In fact, I feel so relaxed that I could probably fall asleep on the spot. There’s just something about the Bergmans’ house. It’s similar to being at the Ferrars’, but better. I always felt at home at Julia’s, but could never quite shake the sensation that one wrong move and I’d break something irreplaceable. At Dave’s parents’ place, I know I could spill red wine on their sofa and they’d laugh about it and flip the cushion over. The only thing I regret is that I can never expect Dave to be equally comfortable at my mom and Phil’s place, particularly given that I myself feel like an impostor when I’m there.

  “I like it here,” I tell Dave, combing out my hair (a much easier task now that there’s not two full feet of tangles to pull through).

  “I do, too,” he says. “I never felt like I had to escape. The way most kids in the suburbs do.” He pulls my hair back and stands behind me, so that we are both facing the mirror. Talking to my reflection, he says, “This would be a good place for us to live one day. You know, when we have kids.”

  “Kids, huh?” I say with a grin. “I think I can handle that. Not right now, obviously. Susan doesn’t approve of babies out of wedlock and whatnot. Look at how she freaked out on Sarah when Marcus knocked her up.”

  “Oh, I’m not Marcus, sweetie,” Dave says deviously. “I will tell Susan where she can put her opinion, and how.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing that,” I tell him, slipping into the heavy terry guest robe that Joyel hung on the door for me. “Now, let’s go get ready before they wonder why we’re suspiciously absent.”

  Sure enough, everyone’s sitting around the kitchen table drinking coffee when we finally make our way to the kitchen.

  “Ugh, I’m sorry. Have you guys been waiting for ages?” I apologize. My mother raises her eyebrows as though to say, Obviously, but Joyel brushes my concern aside. “Of course not. Len barely brought breakfast in a minute ago,” she tells me, pointing to an enormous brown paper bag filled with the most delicious-smelling bagels I’ve ever had the misfortune of encountering.

  “What, Mom, now that you have an empty nest you won’t make me waffles anymore?” Dave jokes.

  “I think I recall a specific request for Angy’s bagels,” Joyel shoots back. “But I’d be happy to eat them all myself if you’d like.”

  As they banter back and forth, I notice my mother peering out from behind her New York Post like Margaret Mead observing Samoans in their native habitat for the first time. I’m tempted to tell her, “Yes, Mother, this is how happy families interact.” Instead, I pull the bagels out of their bag and place them on the vintage tray that Joyel hands me. At the bottom of the bagel bag, I discover Len has purchased not one or two but three different types of cream cheese. “Half a tub for each person?” I ask, eyebrows raised, and he laughs. “Something like that.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that Marissa will take care of at least one of those on her own,” my mother pipes up, and Len turns to see if she’s serious. She gives him a smile that I know to be about as authentic as a designer handbag from Chinatown. “Kidding, of course!” she twitters.

  Please God, don’t let her get started, I plead silently, placing the tray on the table like nothing’s wrong. Apparently I’m due a favor from the Big Guy, because my mother doesn’t make another even remotely snarky comment through breakfast. Equally impressive, she polishes off an entire bagel, which cost her more Weight Watchers points than she’s normally willing to part with at one meal.

  Sticking to Dave’s proposed schedule, the six of us drive around Chappaqua in two different cars: Dave and I with Len; Joyel with my mom and Phil. We stop at a market holding a tasting for several Hudson Valley wines, and hit up Joyel’s favorite boutique before driving around to see some of the mansions in the area. Then we head home to relax for a few hours.

  Dinner is at Chappy’s, Dave’s favorite pizza joint. “You’d never know it was run by French Canadians, right?” he jokes to Phil, referring to the fact that the red-checked tablecloths, woodburning oven, and wall of wine give the restaurant an old-school Italian feel.

  “If the pizza’s good, I don’t care if a herd of goats owns the operation,” Phil says good-naturedly.

  Dave slaps him on the back. “Then you’ve come to the right p
lace. I have yet to find better pizza anywhere, even in Brooklyn.”

  “Not so loud,” Len whispers jokingly. “That kind of comment could get us shot if the wrong person hears.” He turns to me. “If I were you, I wouldn’t sit near him tonight. Could be dangerous if he keeps up those fightin’ words.”

  I laugh; their ridiculousness is contagious. “I think I can handle it, Len.”

  Dave suggests that we order two large pizzas, and takes a poll to find out what toppings to order. When he gets to my mother, she says, “Oh, I’m not going to have pizza, dear. That bagel just about did it for me this morning.”

  “Really? Not even a little tiny slice?” Dave asks, mildly perplexed. “It’s really ridiculously good. No one should visit without trying it.”

  “Really,” my mother insists. She looks at me. “I’m going to order a chicken Caesar. Marissa and I can split it.”

  “That’s okay, Mom,” I tell her. “We’re going to get a big green salad with the pizza. That should be fine for me.”

  “Marissa, don’t you think you should go easy on the carbs? Especially after the bagels and wine?” my mother says shrilly. The minute she closes her mouth, she flushes with embarrassment, as though she just realized I’m not the only one at the table.

  No one utters a word—not even Phil, who is used to smoothing over my mother’s gaffs. I sit on my hands, frozen, the band of my jeans digging into my love handles. It’s a cruel reminder that—although she shouldn’t have said it—my mother is right.

  Just when the silence becomes unbearable, a waiter swoops over to us. Like the rest of the servers at Chappy’s, he is loud and showy, with a molasses-thick New York accent, and harasses us about our order until he gets a few smiles. It’s a welcome interruption, but still raw with humiliation, I feel like I may burst into tears at any minute. The minute the waiter disappears, I excuse myself to the restroom.

  Leaning over the white basin of the sink, I splash cool water on my face, careful to avoid my eyes so my mascara doesn’t run. Then I reapply my foundation, concealing the dark circles under my eyes and the tiny capillaries under my nostrils that always turn bright red when I’m upset. I sweep a little blush on my cheeks, take a deep breath, and push my way through the swinging door. It hits my mother with an unexpected but satisfying thwack.