by Sue Margolis
“Kind of.”
“Right. You really do owe me. I will expect your full and undivided support organizing this wretched event.” I can’t help feeling that Ginny’s tone is similar to one Lady Bracknell might have used to a minion.
“You got it.”
Ginny grunts.
I tell her that I will help, too.
“That’s very kind of you, Judy,” she says with a smile. “I appreciate that.”
Tanya says her good-byes because she needs to get home and start her day’s work. Ginny and I stroll back to our cars, which are parked at the end of the street.
We get chatting and I find myself asking Ginny how she got to be so posh. She looks affronted, but amused and says she isn’t remotely posh. I tell her that posh people always say that.
“Of course you are. You remind me of one of those formidable women who swanned around Bombay during the Raj.”
She laughs. “Actually I was born in New Delhi.”
“Aha—I rest my case.”
“My father was an engineer. He went out there to build bridges and aqueducts. We moved back when I was ten. I don’t remember much about it—apart from the heat. My mother used to lie in bed all day and get up at night to go to parties.”
“I bet you had servants.”
“Dozens. But life changes. I’m not who I once was. Haven’t been for decades.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say that I fell from grace.”
“In what way?”
She looks at the ground and back up at me. “Do you mind if we don’t talk about it?”
“Of course not. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You weren’t.”
She says she has to run. She needs to pick up a prescription before the doctor’s surgery closes for lunch.
CHAPTER
five
“Judy, can you come here? I’m a bit confused.”
Mum is sitting at the kitchen table e-mailing on the laptop that Estelle Silverfish gave her. I’m surprised at how quickly she’s getting the hang of the Internet. Tom was as good as his word. Before he and Abby left for Nicaragua, he spent an entire morning setting up the computer and getting her going. Despite her age, she’s a fast learner. I can’t help feeling rather proud.
She’s been on the phone to all her friends telling them that she’s now a Googler. “I never knew you could get so much off the computer.” She’s even set herself up as an unofficial health help line. “Let me know your symptoms and I’ll Google them and tell you what you’ve got.”
I gave her a long lecture on the dangers of consulting Dr. Google, but she’s not having it. She’s already successfully diagnosed her friend Lillian with bursitis and she’s over-the-moon. Lillian less so.
“OK, what is it?” I say, regarding her request for help. Before she can explain, her cell phone starts playing “Amoré.” She changes her ringtone all the time. Last week it was “Delilah.” She picks up the phone and peers through her specs, fingers dithering. Finally she hits “connect.”
“Hello. Frieda speaking … Hello? … Hello? … Is there anybody there?” Mum looks at me with a shrug. “Nobody there.” She shakes the phone and puts it back to her ear. Still nothing. She shakes it again, harder. This time she also bashes it against the table.
“For crying out loud, Mum. What are you doing? You’ll break it.”
She carries on shaking the phone. She’s like a child with a snow globe. “Damn stupid thing never works.”
She hands it to me. No battery. “Mum, how many times do I have to remind you to charge your phone?”
She looks sheepish. “Is that what it is? I’m sorry. I keep forgetting.”
I take the phone and put it on charge next to mine on the countertop. By now she’s staring into the laptop again. “OK, so here’s my problem… .”
She explains that over the last few days she’s sent three e-mails to her cousin Miriam in Montreal and Miriam hasn’t replied.
“Give her a chance. Maybe she doesn’t check her e-mail that often.”
“OK—but meanwhile I keep getting e-mails from somebody called Mailer-Daemon. I’ve got no idea who he is—or what his first name is. And I don’t understand what he’s trying to tell me, but I’ve replied to his e-mails. I thought it was rude not to.”
“Hang on… . You’re in correspondence with Mailer-Daemon?” Was that a thing? Could you even do that?
“So you know who he is?”
“Not as such. He doesn’t exist. By that I mean Mailer-Daemon isn’t a person.”
“What do you mean, he doesn’t exist? He’s been e-mailing me.”
I lean over her shoulder and stare at the computer screen. As I try to explain what Mailer-Daemon is and at the same time work out how she could possibly have replied to it, Rosie appears. She’s carrying my laptop, which I’ve let her borrow. She puts it down next to Mum’s.
“Nana, Nana—you have to watch this. It’s my favoritest thing on YouTube.”
“On what Tube?”
“Just watch.”
On the screen a woman’s fingers, nails covered in Mickey Mouse transfers, are removing the foil from a Kinder-style egg, but bigger. “Ooh, what do we have here?” purrs the disembodied voice. “Yum … lovely, creamy milk chocolate.”
“Rosie, darlink—why are we watching a person unwrap a chocolate egg?”
“Shush. It’s awesome. Keep watching.”
The fingers crack open the egg. Shards of chocolate fall to an unseen surface. Inside one of the halves is a small plastic container. The fingers remove the lid and rummage inside. They produce a tiny plastic figure. “Who do we have here? Wow, it’s Queen Elsa.”
Rosie claps her hands. “It’s Elsa! Yay! Maybe the next one will be Kristoff or Anna.”
My mother looks at me. “What is this? Do you understand it?”
Meanwhile another egg appears and the process is repeated. This time Olaf emerges from the plastic box. Next up is the Duke of Weselton.
“Oh no! We hate the Duke of Weselton. Boo!”
“It’s called unboxing,” I tell my mother.
She frowns as she repeats the word. “But what is it for?”
“It’s not for anything. It just is.”
I explain that, left alone, kids Rosie’s age will spend hours watching chocolate eggs or even toys being unwrapped.
“And this is a good thing? This is healthy? Doesn’t it mean they just nag their parents to go out and buy the toys?”
“Abby says not. It’s the actual unwrapping they seem to love.”
“I don’t get it. What a world.”
Mum has no trouble understanding Polly Pockets, Moshi Monsters, Furbies. As a kid, I had trolls, so these new creatures make sense to her. She gets them. She gets loom bands because I used to spend hours braiding odds and ends of knitting wool and turning them into bracelets. She gets Pokémon trading cards. My generation traded sweet cigarette cards. But unboxing is bizarre and beyond her ken. If I’m honest, it’s beyond mine, too. I don’t understand the satisfaction that Rosie and her friends get from such a mindless activity. But since I have no intention of relinquishing my Cool Grandma status, I will not be letting on.
When I tell Rosie that she’s spent enough time watching her unboxing video and maybe she should find something to do that doesn’t involve a computer screen, there are no cries of protest. For the time being at least, she and Sam are pretty much doing as they’re told. But I’m guessing this honeymoon period won’t last long.
Rosie disappears to her room. I go back to explaining Mailer-Daemon to my mother. “So what you need to do is phone Miriam and check that you’ve got the right e-mail address.”
I hand Mum the landline and go upstairs to take a shower. It’s Saturday lunchtime and I’m still in my dressing gown. All morning, I’ve been waylaid by kids’ squabbles and demands that I play games or sit and watch TV with them. I haven’t had the heart to refuse them. As I cross t
he landing, I can see into Rosie’s room. My granddaughter is sitting on the bed unwrapping Polly Pocket figures, which she’s wrapped in toilet paper. At the same time she’s delivering a singsong commentary: “And who do we have here? It’s Shani. Isn’t she beautiful? I adore her hair. She loves fashion and music—especially the drums … OK … and this is Lila. She is such a drama queen like you wouldn’t believe… .”
Abby says that these days she’s too scared to ask her daughter what she wants to do when she grows up because she’s pretty sure she knows the answer.
Next door, Sam is playing chess against himself. I watch him chewing his bottom lip as he considers his next move. He’s wearing a red bucket hat. Once he’s repositioned the chess piece, he turns the board around and swaps the hat for a baseball cap.
I decide that a bath will be more relaxing than a shower. I turn on the tap and pour in posh jasmine bubbles. As I lie in the tub, I realize how much I’m enjoying a few minutes’ peace. Both children are playing quietly in their rooms. There is no fighting. Nobody is demanding bits of me. Downstairs, Mum seems to have come off the phone, because I can smell bacon frying. Bacon bagels for lunch. For as long as I’ve known her, Mum has refused to keep kosher. She has no interest in religion. The only time she’ll set foot in a synagogue is for a wedding or bar mitzvah.
It’s not long before I find myself thinking about Brian. Since the night Abby and Tom left, I’ve hardly given him a thought. Usually even when I’m busy I make sure that after I’ve gone to bed we have one of our one-sided chats. “Hey, Bri … it’s me. I’m doing a bit better. But I still can’t bring myself to throw away your clothes. Oh, and by the way, where did you hide the Allen key … you know, the one you always used to bleed the radiators? Can’t find it anywhere. Try to give me a sign to indicate its whereabouts. Miss you. Love you… . Bri … are you OK?”
I’m always asking him to give me signs. Not that he ever does and not that I really expect them. I know that stuff only happens on Ghost Hunters.
These last few days, the gap between climbing into bed and falling asleep has been reduced to moments. I’ve been too tired to make conversation with my late husband. I’m starting to remember what it is about children that’s so exhausting: They run everywhere, usually yelling as they go. They’re self-obsessed. They have egos that require constant boosting and massaging. They couldn’t care less about anybody else. In a nutshell, they are loud, pint-size narcissists with the energy of puppies.
As I scrub myself with the loofah, I say sorry to Brian for being absent these last few days. I imagine his reply. “Will you stop apologizing? You’re getting on with your life, and about bloody time.”
Eventually I realize that I’m lying in lukewarm water. I could top it up with hot, but lunch will be ready in a minute. I haul myself up. My knees ache. I find myself wondering, as I often do, when my body started to feel so heavy. I step out, dripping onto the mat.
“Grandma—I want to do some painting. Where are my paints? And I can’t find any paper either.”
I have forgotten to lock the bathroom door. Rosie is standing in front of me. She carries on yammering about her paints and paper and where she had them last. Finally she tilts her head to one side. “Grandma, why are your boobies so long? Mummy doesn’t have long ones. Hers are more round and doughnutty. Yours are like sausages.”
“It’s all about gravity, my darling.”
I manage not to make a sudden grab for a towel. I don’t want to give Rosie the impression that I’m embarrassed about her seeing me starkers—particularly as Abby and Tom waltz around the house naked in front of the children. They’re determined that the kids should grow up at ease with nudity and not see it as something smutty. So I reach out, casually remove a towel from the rail and wrap it around me.
“We did gravity in school. So, will I get long boobies? Do they sway from side to side as you walk?”
“Only if I’m not wearing a bra.”
Any second now, she’s going to ask me to swing them over my shoulder like a continental soldier. Then I remember that according to the wartime song, it was balls, not boobs.
I am saved from further humiliation by my mother calling upstairs to say lunch is ready. I tell Rosie I’ll be down in a sec and I’ll help her find her paints.
• • •
“Miriam had given me her old e-mail address,” Mum says.
“That figures.”
She hands me a bacon bagel and tells me it’s my fault the bacon’s gone cold. “How long does it take to get dressed?”
“Sorry.”
I don’t tell her that I was standing in front of the mirror scrutinizing my breasts and wondering if at my age it was worth getting them lifted. I decided it wasn’t. Not because I’m too old, but because of the barbarism factor. Nobody is going to hack into my breasts, slice off my nipples and stitch them back on.
I turn to Sam and ask him how his chess game is going.
“Great. I opened with the queen’s gambit. The clever thing about the queen’s gambit is that white sacrifices a pawn for rapid development and usually gets its pawn back.”
I have no idea what he is talking about. “Wow. Sounds complicated.”
“Not really. I’ve been studying it with Bogdan. He’s my chess coach. Bogdan’s Russian, but he knows a lot about English history. He says the queen’s gambit goes back hundreds of years—to before Henry the Eighth.”
“Huh, nearly as old as me,” Mum says. “So, what’s he like—this Bogdan?” My mother doesn’t care for Russians because of the pogroms and because at the start of the war they sided with Hitler. Then decades later they wouldn’t let Jews emigrate.
“A bit scary,” Sam says.
Mum rolls her eyes. “They all think they’re bloody Cossacks.”
“You know what, Nana, I could teach you to play chess.”
“Nah—I’m too old.”
“You’ve managed the Internet.”
“No, I haven’t. I can do a few basics, that’s all. I couldn’t get my brain around chess. Chess is for clever people.”
“Sam isn’t clever,” Rosie pipes up. “He’s stupid. When he was little he thought fish sticks could swim.”
“Yes … when I was little… . At least I didn’t think teachers lived at school.”
Rosie looks like she might burst into tears. Her hand is making a fist.
“OK, that’s enough. Who’d like some pineapple?”
They both would. Mum declines. Pineapple gives her heartburn, which means she has to take an extra proton pump inhibitor.
I ask Sam if he’s looking forward to the county chess tournament he’s got coming up in April.
“I’m a bit nervous. Bogdan says that if I’m going to do well, I need to up my game and start focusing. He says I’m only fair to middling and that there are loads of kids who could wipe the board with me. So I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“You have to work for what you want in this world,” Mum says. “You get out what you put in.”
Sam shrugs. “I guess.” He seems subdued all of a sudden. I’m not sure I like the sound of this Bogdan.
I’m gathering up plates when my phone rings. Mum tells me to go ahead and take it—she’ll load the dishwasher.
It’s Ginny. She’s at a loose end and wants to know if I feel like popping over to hers for a cuppa and to brainstorm creative ideas for the spring fair. “I’d say let’s meet somewhere halfway, but my daughter has borrowed my car.”
“I’d love to come over. But I’ve got the kids. I’m not sure if Mum can cope on her own.”
“Go,” Mum says with a wave of her hand. “Rosie has found her paints, so she’s going to busy herself with them while I wash up, and after that she’s going to teach me how to make loom bands.”
Mum is making a real effort to play with Sam and Rosie. When I was a kid she almost never played with me. She was always cooking, cleaning and resting. My dad was the one who read to me and got down on the floor to bui
ld bricks and play Snakes and Ladders.
I’m more convinced than ever that my mother is experiencing some kind of renaissance. But last night, when I suggested that the children being here was doing her a power of good, she wouldn’t have it. She got huffy, as if I’d insulted her, and insisted that she was simply “keeping my chin up because I don’t want them to see me miserable.”
I tell Ginny that Mum is happy to look after Sam and Rosie. She gives me her address—a street on the Butcher’s Row Estate.
I’m confused. How does somebody as well bred as Ginny end up in public housing? Presumably it has something to do with her “fall from grace.”
“I hope you don’t mind coming over to the dark side,” she says, sounding as gung ho as ever. “There are those that do.” Then I hear it, the faint hint of anxiety in her voice that says “Now that you know I don’t have much money, will you still want to be my friend?”
The unpalatable truth is that there are those who wouldn’t. Around here, in the privileged organic-squid-ink-and-tapenade ghetto that is Eden Hill, people rate people by how close they live to Butcher’s Row. I am overcome with the need to let Ginny know that I’m not one of them. I want to tell her that Brian and I bought in to the neighborhood years ago, before it became gentrified; that I almost never shop at Whole Foods because I agree with my mother that their prices are a chutzpah. I want to enlighten her about my house, which by Eden Hill standards is an eyesore. There are no plantation shutters. The porch isn’t guarded by twin bay trees in zinc pots. My front door is not painted a matte gray. Instead it is covered in cheap and chipped red gloss. There is no brushed chrome house number, letter box or doorknob. My door furniture, such as it is, came from Home Depot circa 1981. But I’m worried that if I blurt all this out, Ginny will think I’m protesting too much. So I say nothing about Whole Foods or the house.
Instead I tell her not to be so daft. Why on earth would I mind where she lives?
The estate is a ten-minute drive away. I know the streets well. For twenty years they were my shortcut to work. The place has its share of dog shit, discarded needles and rusting jalopies minus their wheels, propped up on bricks. It’s pockmarked with satellite dishes. There are problem families. The teenage arsonists and drug-dependent burglars make headlines in the local paper, which in turn stir up fear among the residents of Eden Hill. Then again, the appearance of a car more than five years old stirs up fear in Eden Hill.