by Zoe Fishman
“The most gorgeous boy—no, the most gorgeous man—in the whole wide world!” she shrieked, causing the soon-to-be passengers rolling their bags through the revolving doors to stop in their tracks, the weary just-traveled to crack smiles.
Behind her, his grandfather stood, tall and thin, a wry smile of his own playing across his lips. His bald head shone in the same sun, his eyebrows as expansive as his mother’s, although far less groomed. He was wearing his usual uniform of blue button-down and flat-front khakis, a gold Rolex on his remarkably hairy wrist and brown loafers on his feet.
Before he knew what his feet were doing, Teddy was running to them, as though he were five and not thirteen, longing to be enveloped in the heady scent of honey and vanilla that was his Bubbe.
“Let me look at you,” she cooed. “Such a face,” she exclaimed with delight. “Max, have you ever seen such a handsome face?”
His grandfather came closer and palmed Teddy’s chin, lifting it up so he could peer into his eyes.
“Never,” he agreed.
“Mom’s on the warpath,” said Teddy. “Let’s move to the curb.” He took the handle of his Bubbe’s suitcase and began rolling it behind him.
“Careful!” she yelled. “That luggage costs more than you have any right to know!”
And then, there was his mother, out of the car in a flash of malcontent, no hellos to his grandparents, nothing but huffs and sighs as she loaded their things into the trunk and ushered them into their seats. Once back behind the wheel, after she had guided them out of the maze of cars, she finally spoke.
“Zone Six is not Zone Three, Mom. You almost got us killed,” said Sylvie.
“I’m sorry,” his Bubbe replied. “It’s nice to see you too.”
“Mom, that’s not what I meant,” his mother said with a sigh. “It’s just, like, how hard is it to read a sign correctly?”
“Hey, Sylvie, give it a rest, okay?” said his Zadie. “We said we were sorry. Traveling is not so easy for us now; we’re not as young as we used to be.”
“Fine,” said Sylvie. “I’m sorry. I’m being a bitch. I’m just stressed out about the Bar Mitzvah, I guess. Sorry.”
“That’s okay, Sylvie,” said his Bubbe, reaching forward over the seat to squeeze his mother’s shoulder with her bejeweled hand.
Her veins rose like skinny green snakes from her sunspotted skin. It was funny what you could do to a face to hide your age, but your hands always told the truth, Teddy thought. He looked down at his own, which were folded in his lap, as taut and smooth as gloves.
“God, it’s hot here,” said his Zadie. “I’ve been schvitzing like a schmendrick since I got off the plane.” Teddy pulled his notebook out of his back pocket to copy down his grandfather’s Yiddish. It was the most wonderfully weird language he had ever heard, and he only heard it from them and, very occasionally, his mother.
“It’s definitely hot,” his mother agreed.
“I hope the synagogue is air-conditioned,” said his Bubbe.
“Of course it’s air-conditioned, Mom. Where do you think we are?” Sylvie snapped back.
“Oh, Teddy, I can’t wait to see you on the bimah,” his Bubbe said. “You’ll wear a tie and jacket, yes?”
“I dunno,” Teddy mumbled.
“Yes you do,” said his mother. “A tie. No jacket.”
“No jacket?” asked his Zadie. “For a Bar Mitzvah?”
“Dad, leave it alone.”
Teddy stared out the window at the hot sun baking the asphalt of the road, the people crammed into their cars with their windows rolled up, blasted by a steady stream of frosty air inside. Everyone looked miserable, he thought, as he passed a man digging so far into his nostril it was a wonder he didn’t run straight off the road.
“The yard looks nice,” his Bubbe said, as they pulled up the driveway at last. “You ready for Saturday?” she asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” answered Sylvie.
“Well, we’ll stay with you tonight and tomorrow, but then we’ll head out to our Air Beebee to give you some space,” said his Bubbe proudly.
“Airbnb, Mom, not Air Beebee,” said his mother.
“Potato, potahto.”
“And thank you, for that,” his mother added. “It’s going to be an absolute shit show here once we start setting up for the brunch. I wish Paul’s parents had the same sense of—”
“Hey, isn’t that Granny and Pop’s car?” asked Teddy as they pulled up.
“What!” his mother shrieked. “What in the sam fuck!”
“Sylvie, really, watch your language,” said his Zadie as they idled next to their maroon sedan.
“But what are they doing here?” asked his mother, seething. “They’re not supposed to be here until Friday! I’m going to kill Paul.”
Everyone was silent in the car for a moment as they watched his mother process this information. This was not going to be good. Not at all.
“Let’s just go inside and see what’s what, shall we?” asked his Bubbe. “Even though we know what’s what. Really, the nerve of them. We never get to see our grandson; you would think they could at least back off for two days,” she mumbled under her breath. But you never visit, Teddy thought. You could, but you don’t.
Out they all tumbled, his Zadie taking the bags from the trunk and handing his, a beat-up, proper suitcase instead of the pristine, patterned and oiled small vehicle his grandmother claimed, to Teddy.
“Hi,” said Teddy’s father, opening the door. Sylvie stormed past him and into the house.
Teddy wished Krystal would appear. He needed to see her, to hold her hand, to absorb her as defense against the passive-aggressive hysteria that was the hallmark of the few times in his life his parents’ families had gotten together. And all for what? For this Bar Mitzvah he didn’t even care about. He was angry again.
“Hello, Sylvie,” said his Granny, standing behind the marble island over a bowl of something white and gelatinous. “I brought French onion dip and some chips!” she offered cheerily.
“Teddy, look at you, all grown up,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”
She shuffled clumsily over to him, clad in turquoise Bermuda shorts and a fuchsia T-shirt with a bedazzled parrot woven into its fabric, its sleeves cuffed. Her short brown hair was frosted and hair-sprayed into place, both sets of nails French manicured.
Teddy loved his Granny too, this polar opposite of his Bubbe. She let him eat Cheetos and made banana pudding, the kind with Nilla Wafers rimming the circumference of the bowl like synchronized swimmers on the precipice of a plunge.
“Hi, Mary,” said Sylvie. She put her purse down on the counter, his other grandparents standing awkwardly behind her, like penguins at the zoo. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were arriving today.” Teddy saw her glare at his father.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I asked Paul if it was all right, and he assured us that it was,” said his Granny. She stood, her arms by her sides.
“Paul? You never mentioned this to me,” said Sylvie.
“I didn’t?” His dad threw up his hands. “I’m sorry if it slipped my mind. Barbara. Max. Good to see you. Let me take your bags to your room for you.”
“Careful with—” said his Bubbe.
“Your bag,” finished his father. “I know, I know.”
“Well, hello, Mary,” said his Zadie. “You’re looking well. And Paul Senior, is he here too?”
“Oh yes, just comatose in front of the television, as per usual,” said Mary.
“Hey, Sylvie,” said a slightly familiar voice from the living room. Moments later, his aunt Gloria had joined them. “Guess it’s a real party now, huh, Teddy?” she asked.
“I guess so,” Teddy replied.
He had not seen his aunt in years, even though she lived with his grandparents. She was thirty-nine, recently divorced for the second time and a perennially unemployed nail technician. When Teddy had overheard his father expressing displeasure at the fact that she had o
nce again moved into her childhood room, his Granny had replied, What’s the big deal? It’s not like she takes up any room. And she was right. His aunt Gloria was as thin as a needle. Teddy had never seen her eat. What he had seen her do, however, was smoke. A lot. And that’s where she was headed now, her pack in hand.
“I hope you don’t mind, Sylvie, I’m using one of your mugs as an ashtray,” she announced to Teddy’s mother as she passed by her.
“My mugs?” Sylvie was irate.
“Nothing a good run through the dishwasher won’t fix,” Gloria replied. “By the way, you’re looking thin, girl. Good for you.”
His mother blushed. Her jaw relaxed. “Oh. Thank you.”
“I was going to say the same thing,” said his Bubbe.
“Let’s have some of that dip, shall we?” declared his Zadie, moving toward the bowl.
“Really, Max, your cholesterol,” Teddy heard his Bubbe murmur to him.
“When in Rome,” he murmured back.
“I’m just going to run upstairs to freshen up,” said his mother. “I need a minute.” His father was avoiding her gaze. As she took the stairs, Teddy watched her closely. He knew exactly where she was headed. To the red purse in her closet. It was now or never. He followed her.
He found her in the closet, just as he had suspected, and his heart felt like it might burst from disappointment and fear. Disappointment that Krystal had been right and fear because now he had to do something about it. It shouldn’t be this way, a thirteen-year-old having to parent his parent, but here he was, standing silently behind his mother in her closet as she dug for her fix. He watched her pull out the orange bottle in the dimness; she hadn’t even bothered to turn on the light.
“Mom,” he said quietly.
She unscrewed the cap, her back still to him. She hadn’t heard his voice.
“Mom,” he said again. This time louder.
She shoved the bottle into her right front pocket quickly, its white top in her left, before turning around.
“Jesus Christ, Teddy, you scared me!”
She looked weird, like a marionette puppet whose mouth was being manipulated by an unseen source. Teddy felt so many emotions at once—sadness, anger, fright, pity—that he thought he might disappear into thin air. Yet still he stood.
“Mom. I know about you and these pills,” he said.
“Teddy, what are you talking about?” she had the gall to ask, with the bottle bulging out of her pocket.
“Cut it out, Mom,” he said, and his voice broke. Goddamnit, he was crying. That had not been part of his plan.
“Teddy,” she said, in the voice he knew as that of his real mom, not this weird, lying drug mom. The mom before Delilah, even. And of course, that made him cry harder.
She reached around behind him and closed the door to her closet before pulling him to her in the pitch-black darkness.
“Oh, T,” she said. “Shit. Here, let me turn on the light.” She did, and there they were again. “Let’s sit,” she said. She pulled the bottle and its top out of her pockets and stood them up on the floor beside her as they faced each other, cross-legged.
“Mom, why are you doing this?” asked Teddy.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “Because they make me feel good and I haven’t felt good in a really long time?” She put her head in her hands. “Oh my God, what a nightmare. Here I am, telling my son that drugs make you feel good. This is really the bottom. Like, this is it. Teddy.” She looked at him. “I am so sorry. How did you—”
“I was in your closet for some reason, I don’t even remember why,” said Teddy. “The bag fell, and when I picked it up, I heard the pills rattle. I read the label. And then I kept checking, every week or so, to see if the pills were disappearing. And they were. And then there were more from David, Dad’s friend.” Teddy sighed. “What the hell, Mom?”
“What the hell, indeed. Listen, these pills are horrible, okay? I’m not going to lie to you about facts I’m sure you already know. I took one of your father’s on a whim, and I haven’t looked back. And it’s a problem, okay?” She reached forward and grabbed his hand. “But it’s a temporary one. I swear to God. As soon as the Bar Mitzvah is over, it’s over. The whole thing is over. I swear.”
“Why do you need drugs to get through a Bar Mitzvah?” Teddy asked. “You’re the one who’s been so adamant about this thing and now here you are, hiding from it? None of this makes any sense.”
“I know it doesn’t to you, T. See, the thing is, I’m terrible with emotions. Or I have been, since Delilah died. I never dealt with it, is the bottom line. And that was stupid. Because the whole time, she was haunting me. She still haunts me. And an event like this, which is supposed to be about family and joy and transfer, it just has me all shook up inside. Worse than before. But these pills, they make me less so. Less impatient, less of a bitch, more of my old self before grief knocked me sideways.”
“So, Mom, you’re telling me, your son, that drugs are the answer when life gets too complicated? You realize the insanity of this conversation, right? I mean, this is like, How Not to Parent 101,” said Teddy.
“I’m being honest with you about why we’re sitting here in this closet together. About why my thirteen-year-old son is staging an intervention with me. I am mortified, okay? But I can’t lie to you,” said his mom. “I’m fucked up. And this is an incredibly fucked-up way for me to deal with that. And I will pay the price when it’s over. But now, with your Bar Mitzvah three days away, is not the time to stop.”
“Mom, I want you to stop.”
“I know you do. But I can’t right now. The withdrawal alone with my parents, Mary and Paul Senior? And Gloria? Can you imagine, Teddy? I mean, someone could die by my hands. I can’t have that.” Despite himself, Teddy smiled.
“So listen. I’m going to take the rest of these to get me through this. And then it’s over. I swear to God.”
“You swear to God?” Teddy asked.
“I swear,” she replied. “Your father doesn’t know, does he?”
“No, not that I know of,” said Teddy.
“Okay.”
He watched his mother put a pill on her tongue and swallow it whole. She stood up and reached out her hands to help him up too.
“I love you,” she said, hugging him. “I’m so sorry you have to deal with this. I’m ashamed of myself, but I don’t know what else to do but to be honest with you at this point.”
“You swore to God,” he reminded her, looking her straight in the eyes.
“I did. Now come on, let’s go get sick on onion dip.”
“You go ahead,” said Teddy. “I need a second.”
“Okay,” she said. She put the bottle back in her bag and hung it on the hook.
When he could no longer hear her footsteps, Teddy turned out the light.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sylvie
Today is Thursday, thought Sylvie. She was in the bathroom, just out of the shower, and could make out Paul’s shape shifting beneath the covers of the bed. She was going to be upbeat. She had just taken a pill, which left her with only seven, and she had today and then tomorrow and then the next day to get through and then it would all be over.
The day before had been a bottom, although Sylvie realized with a fair amount of shame that every time she reached her supposed bottom she allowed herself even a few more thousand feet to fall. To be confronted by her thirteen-year-old son in this very closet about her drug problem—she couldn’t get much lower than that. To have him beg her to stop taking them, lower still. But! She was going to stop; that had always been the plan, and now she had sworn the same to Teddy, so it was fact.
Still. It was shameful, and Sylvie was mortified that the conversation had had to take place at all. She hadn’t learned that her parents weren’t who they claimed to be until her early forties, that the code of ethics they expected her to follow had no real place in their own lives. Sure, it was on a smaller scale than, say, illegal drug u
se—Sylvie had realized that her mother had the follow-through of a gnat, despite the fact that she had been riding Sylvie to finish what she started since she was in diapers and that her father had had a short-lived affair with his secretary back when you could call them secretaries—but her former ignorance had been a sort of bliss.
Poor Teddy. He had experienced too much pain for his age, and it was all her fault. Because first her body had failed her, and then, her self-control.
She combed her hair and faced herself in the mirror. Don’t do this now, she told herself. She would also not think about how she had screwed up her son right now; or about David, whom she had not seen since she had prostituted herself for his pills; and certainly not about her job, which she currently no longer had. She would not.
Not when she had a house full of people to host—she could kill Paul for inviting his parents and sister early—and entertain. She had never really liked Mary, but Delilah’s death had turned her dislike into outright hatred. She had actually had the gall to say that God needed Delilah for something else. To Sylvie’s face, as though that was a perfectly plausible explanation for her granddaughter’s death. Oh really, what did God need an unborn baby for? Sylvie had screamed back before Paul had ushered his mother out of their bedroom.
So there was that.
Sylvie took a deep breath as the pill began to take effect, calming the tornado of rage and anxiety that swirled within her. She considered her hair dryer but then decided against it. It was too much work; her hair was curly, it had always been curly; deal with it, world. She applied her foundation, her concealer, her bronzer and her blush. She curled her eyelashes and dutifully painted them a deep, dark black. She swiped her lipstick over her lips.
There had been no further movement from Paul. She would let him sleep. She moved to the closet, selected a striped blouse that floated over her stomach, creating the illusion of flatness, and pulled on a pair of expensive designer chinos that she had driven to the mall and treated herself to after being fired. She was ready.