Because that’s all I did last night after her lesson. And all this week. And last week. And the one before that. It’s like the feel of her in my arms leaves an imprint that’s impossible to shake. She stays with me.
“Do you and your friends have a Sunday thing too?” she asks. “Is that why you said tomorrow wasn’t a better day for you?”
I grip the steering wheel. Most of the people in my life already know about Mom. And they’re always asking about her. I know it’s just because they care or they’re trying to show that they care, but Alzheimer’s is a one-way street. And what am I supposed to say? She’s worse. She asked where my father was six times yesterday and forgot the way back to her room. Thanks for asking.
So I don’t want to go there with Iris. I skirt the ugly truth as best I can.
“I take my mom to lunch on Sundays.”
Iris’s face lights up. “That’s so sweet.”
I want to tell her it’s not sweet. It’s a routine. Not that I don’t want to have lunch with Mom. I do. But I do it—same time, same day, same restaurant—to try to keep her from slipping away. To make time stand still. Even though it doesn’t work.
“What?” she asks. I give her a quick glance and find her brows knit. “What’s with the face?”
I put my gaze back on the road. “What face?”
“The gloomy face.”
“I have a gloomy face?”
“Yes,” she says emphatically. “It’s different from your usual resting face.”
I turn my frown on her. “I have a usual resting face?”
Her nod is manic. “Oh, absolutely. You have Resting Bitch Face. But I guess in your case, it’s Resting Dick Face.”
I choke. “Dick Face?”
Iris bursts into hysterics. I steal glances at her as she comes apart with laughter. I want to laugh too, but I’m pretty sure she just called me Dick Face. And not even my worst students have called me that. I bite the inside of my cheek and try to give her my most disapproving look.
It doesn’t work. She’s laughing so hard, I think she’s hyperventilating.
“That’s not—That’s not—That’s not what I meant,” she wheezes.
“Uh huh,” I deadpan.
“I swear. I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that.”
I divide my attention between her and the interstate. She’s wiping her eyes, trying to get her breathing under control. Even though she called me Dick Face, seeing her like this makes me feel weightless. Like I’m hovering, not sitting, behind the wheel of my truck.
I force my eyes to the road. Traffic is light this morning, but I need to pay attention. “Care to explain?”
“Oh man—” Even without looking at her, I sense her shift beside me, sitting up straighter, recovering from her fit. She sniffles and clears her throat. “You’re not a dick face, obviously. It just popped out—”
Giggles spill from her, and this time, I can’t help myself. I’m laughing too.
“You just—you just have this way—” She pauses to catch her breath. “Of mean-mugging even when you’re not mad.”
I bite down on my smile, drawing my brows down. “So not a dick face,” I say, casting her a sidelong glance, “but a mean mug.”
“Yes,” she says, sounding relieved.
“And you think that’s better?” I ask, completely deadpan.
She hesitates so long that I look at her. “Yes?” she says, eyes wide and comical, her smile unnaturally bright like she’s in an SNL skit about sisters who dress alike and sing creepy songs.
I crack up. “Why aren’t you in comedy?” I shake my head in wonder. She’d be hilarious.
Iris flinches and then wrinkles her nose. “Moira.”
“Your manager?” I press my lips together, wondering why she keeps that harpy.
“Well…” Again, the pause is so long, I look her way in time to see her lift her heels to the edge of her seat and hug her knees. “She’s not just my manager. She’s my mother too.”
If my eyeballs could eject themselves, they’d do it now. My foot slips off the gas pedal because I have to look at her full-on. “Really?”
But the tint to her cheeks and the thin line of her mouth tell me everything I need to know. She’s not joking.
God, this explains so much.
I can’t stare slack-jawed at her for the rest of the drive, so I look back at the road and pick up speed. “Well… Why doesn’t she want you to do comedy?”
I hear Iris pull in a slow breath. “Oh, God, this is so embarrassing,” she says under her breath, but I hear it clearly enough.
“Then forget I asked,” I say quickly. I don’t want to embarrass her. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable at all.
She blows out the breath. “No, it’s okay… She says that I’m…”
She trails off, and I start filling in awful things this Moira could say to discourage her from comedy. Not funny enough? Not quick enough? Not smart enough? All dead wrong, and I’m ready to tell her so.
“I’m too attractive to be funny.”
For the second time in five minutes, I’m thankful my eyes can’t spontaneously launch themselves from my skull.
“Conneries complètes,” I hiss.
Iris laughs, and I’m grateful for the sound. “What does that mean?”
I shake my head. “Nothing good.”
She bubbles over with laughter again, and her hand lands on my arm. She gives my bicep a squeeze before letting go, still laughing, but I’ve stopped breathing.
Just from one surprise touch.
It was nothing. Nothing. It lasted a second. And I’m out of my head.
I swallow. Grip the steering wheel. Try to pull myself together.
Iris sighs. “Yeah,” she says, her tone commiserating. “This was back before Hexed, but she said that comedy is for those who…”
Again, she trails off, and I hear more than just embarrassment in her voice. There’s disgust too.
“Are a seven or lower,” she finishes, her words hollow.
At first, I don’t get it. “A seven or lower?”
Silence.
And then it hits me. Oh fuck. This from her mother.
“And she said you were—” but I stop myself before I finish, anger heating my neck.
“Don’t make me say it,” Iris murmurs, sounding lower than I’ve ever heard her.
A ten. I’ve never ranked a woman—or anyone—based on looks. That’s dehumanizing and objectively wrong. But to grow up hearing that applied to you? From your mom?
A memory from our first lesson comes roaring back. Iris, pale and dizzy, sitting with shaking, clammy hands. Talking about Moira.
You know I can’t eat in front of her.
Damn.
And just like that, I’m so glad—so fucking glad—I brought breakfast. My pulse speeds up, and I have the ridiculous desire to feed her every day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Angry words crowd my throat, and I have to clear it and breathe in and out for a good ten seconds before I can tell Iris exactly what she should hear—what she should have heard for years.
“She’s wrong.” It’s a pronouncement. A declaration. An objective truth. “You’d be amazing in a comedic role.”
I look over at her because I can’t not look over at her. The smile she flashes is huge, but I can see she fights to keep it under control.
“You think so?” she asks, and it’s not false modesty. A nagging doubt or disbelief tightens her voice.
“Hell, yes.” I pound the steering wheel lightly. “You’re quick. You say the funniest things. Your timing is spot-on. And you make these hilarious faces.” I crack up when I say this, thinking of her wilder expressions.
She lets the smile break free.
“After this movie comes out,” I say, seeing it clear as day, “They’re going to offer you a guest spot on Saturday Night Live, and when you crush it—because you will crush it—the offers from Seth Rogen and Judd Apatow and Melissa McCarthy are g
oing to pour in.”
Iris is laughing again, and I love it.
A minute ago when I made her laugh, she touched me. She doesn’t do it again, and I’m not gonna lie. I’m disappointed.
Maybe it’s my turn to touch her.
But I shouldn’t touch her. Not when she’s trapped in the car with me. Not when that isn’t what this is supposed to be about. She can touch me all she wants, but I need to keep my hands to myself.
God, let her touch me again.
Instead, she catches her breath and sighs. “So, I’m guessing your mom didn’t tell you you were too good looking to become a French teacher, right?”
I choke on my laughter. “Uh, no.” Even though I’m facing the highway, I can feel her eyes on me.
Did she just say I’m good looking?
I rerun her question. “I think Mom would have loved for me to join a ballet company after high school instead of going to college.”
“Shit, were you that good?” She sounds awed.
I was that good. Val and I both were. But neither one of us wanted that life.
I shrug.
“That’s a yes!” Iris swats me on the shoulder. “Holy shit. Do you know how rare that is? Do you know how many kids take ballet thinking they’ll grow up and be some prima ballerina compared to how many actually make it?”
“Um, probably about as many who grow up wanting to act compared to those who actually make it on television?” I give her a teasing grin and catch her eye roll. But she’s right. “My mom was that good. She was leagues better, honestly.”
And I feel it. The stinging in my chest that always sears me when I think about her career.
Even though it’s not my fault, I still feel guilty.
“Really?” Iris asks. “Like famous?”
“She could have been,” I say with certainty.
Silence falls over the cab. “What happened?”
My asshole dad, I want to say. But instead, I start from the beginning.
“Mom grew up here, studied ballet, and did it all. She found the best teachers she could in the area and then took Greyhounds to study in other cities. New Orleans. Houston. Dallas,” I rattle off. “She spent every summer in high school at ballet workshops all over.”
I look over and find Iris wearing a knowing smile. Yeah, she probably knows all about that kind of dedication. She’s probably lived it.
“She auditioned right out of high school and earned a spot with the New York City Ballet. In 1975, when she was just eighteen, she performed in George Balanchine’s Ravel Festival, Hommage à Ravel at the Lincoln Center.”
“Oh my God,” Iris whispers in awe.
I nod. “That’s how I feel about it.” I wasn’t there, of course, but I’m as proud of her as if I got to see her on stage. The three pictures of Regina Hebert that exist from that two-week festival live in oval-shaped frames on her dresser. When she moved into assisted living, Val and I had to pare down her belongings, but we’d guard those photographs with our lives. They’re Mom’s most prized possessions.
“She and my dad had been dating, but he worked here, lived here, and they tried the long distance thing for a while. He got tired of it,” I say, tasting the bitterness that’s only grown more putrid in recent years. “He went up there for Christmas and sprung a proposal on her one night after a Nutcracker performance, telling her he couldn’t live without her.”
Instead of tacking on the words, the bastard, I just let the statement hang there.
“And she said yes.” It isn’t a question, but I’m sure I hear Iris’s disappointment in the confirmation. And why wouldn’t she be disappointed for a young woman who worked for years to be at the top of her field. A woman with killer talent and unlimited potential. Who had earned, as she said, what thousands of others merely dream about.
“She said yes. And the dickhead left her after thirty-three years of marriage.” What’s worse than that? Half the time, she doesn’t remember that last part.
“Ooh.” I glance over to find Iris wincing. “Still, she must’ve really loved him.”
I snort. “Too much.” She still does, and it kills me.
She’s quiet for a while. And then.
“I don’t think my parents ever loved each other.”
I take my eyes off the road and catch her staring straight ahead, her gaze thoughtful.
“I don’t think I’ve ever considered that—whether or not they were ever in love.” She shakes her head and then meets my gaze. Her look is hollowed out. “But I don’t see how.”
What I see in her eyes claws at me because it’s familiar. She’s realizing a terrible truth. The day my dad left Mom, I realized she’d given up everything for him and he’d never been worth the sacrifice.
I check the road and then look back. “How long were they married?” I ask gently.
She snaps to attention. “Oh, they weren’t.” Her expression wears no hint of judgment or shame, just matter-of-factness. “But they were together until I was eight.” Unmistakable sorrow softens her voice.
I stare at the interstate. Eight is young. Watching them split had to have been hard. “What happened with you? Did they share custody?”
“No, my dad just left town.”
“Shhhit,” I hiss.
“Yeah,” she says. “It sucked, but… I don’t know.”
I glance over. She’s hugging her shins, her gaze aimed downward.
“What don’t you know?”
She shrugs, and I have to take my eyes off her to keep us safe. I’m not about to push her to answer if she doesn’t feel like it.
“I guess I don’t blame him,” she says finally. “I think he did his best. I think he did all he could.”
I’m glad I’m facing forward because I don’t think I could hide my doubt. Moira sounds like a demon queen, and Iris’s dad just left her to deal. And she was only eight.
“A few years ago, Sally told me he moved back to Broken Bow—where we’re from—and he got his old job at the casino.” Her voice is even again. Accepting. “When I found out, I sent him a couple of letters—we were already living in Tarzana—and he never wrote back. A few months after that, he didn’t show up for work. His landlord checked on the place he was renting, and all of his stuff was gone.”
When I look at her, she’s laying her cheek on her knee, facing me. The posture makes her seem childlike, but I’ve never seen such a world-weary look in anyone’s eyes.
I have to comfort her. If touching her now makes me a dick, so be it. I reach over and rub my palm between her shoulder blades.
“His massive loss,” I say.
She smiles. It’s soft and sad, but I’ll still take it.
“Seriously,” I say, wanting her to feel better. “Colossal loss. Gargantuan.”
Beneath my hand, I feel her giggles.
“Unfathomable. Astronomical.”
She cracks up. I smooth my hand back and forth, soaking in her warmth and the quaking of her laughter.
“That laugh, alone,” I say, speaking truth, “worth more than my salary.”
“Come on,” she says, still laughing but sitting up and rolling her eyes.
I bring my hand back to the wheel and cover my disappointment with a shrug. “Well, I am just a teacher. The salary isn't that big.”
This sets her off again.
I don’t know anyone else who can laugh like this or recover like this from such a heavy admission. And as I listen to her laugh and keep us between the lines on the interstate, I realize I’m recovered too. The leaden feeling I usually have when I think about Mom and the choice she made to leave NYCB doesn’t hang on me the same way. Not right now, anyway.
Not with Iris.
Chapter Sixteen
IRIS
Even before we turn off the state highway, we drive through rural country and thick woods. Oak trees draped in Spanish moss and longleaf pines crowd out the sky overhead. When we turn into the park entrance, we pass a sign for the State Arboretum, and
then Beau pulls over outside a wood-frame checkpoint.
“I’m just gonna get us a day pass and then we’ll park at the trailhead.”
I sit up straight. “I can get the day pass,” I say, reaching for my pack which holds my wallet.
“Mais, non,” Beau says, frowning. I understand him perfectly, but I don’t let him off that easy.
“I’m sorry,” I tease, batting my lashes. “I don’t speak French. What does that mean?”
“That’s a hard no.” Beau’s tone is no-nonsense.
I drop the pack. “Okay.” He can be like that. I’ll find a way to repay him later.
When he shuts the truck door behind him, Mica stomps his front paws on the seat and gives a short, impatient cry.
“I know, buddy. It’s almost time,” I tell him, reaching back to scratch his twitching ears. “Almost time to go exploring.”
I watch Beau walk away.
That laugh alone—worth more than my salary.
Smiling to myself, I relive the feel of his hand on my back. Rubbing me in soothing sweeps.
I have Ramon and Sally. They are loving and affectionate with me. I don’t lack for hugs and company.
But Beau’s touch felt different. More of a gift. Because he’s under no obligation. There’s no lifelong friendship or tie that binds. He’s free to do what he wants.
“What are you grinning at?” he asks when he returns.
I shrug. “Just glad to be here.”
With you.
He hooks the day pass to the rearview, fires up the truck, and puts it in gear. “Allons.”
When we park at the trailhead, I step out of the truck and clip on my Osprey. Mica is beside himself with impatience, so as soon as I release his seatbelt strap, he bounds down and twirls in excited circles. His antics make Beau chuckle.
“Settle down boy,” I say, holding out his lead. “We can’t go until I’ve got you.”
“You think he’d run off?” Beau asks, sounding skeptical.
I shake my head. “No, but I’m careful. He’s so excited right now, he could scent something and take off before he really gets his bearings.” As though he’s listening, Mica sits at my feet, almost preening as I attach his lead. “Once he burns off some energy, I’ll let him loose, and he’ll stick close.”
Two-Step Page 15