Page 94 of This Is How It Started
I find some kind of caftan thing in her closet. It reminds me of something Joan Crawford would’ve worn while smoking from a cigarette holder. Very Mommie Dearest. I help her out of the shower and into the caftan and find her a pair of slippers.
“Want me to call in that order now?” She really should eat.
“Let’s have wine first.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mom. Not with the painkillers.”
“You’re no fun,” she says. “Well, then, I guess it’s fizzy water for me.”
“Come on into the living room and I’ll get you some.” I lend her my shoulder. Between that and a crutch, together we maneuver her to the sofa, where I stuff a bunch of throw pillows under her hip and hand her an ice pack to apply to the swollen area. “Keep it elevated, and I’ll get you a drink.”
I find her flavored seltzer water in the fridge next to a bottle of vodka. There isn’t much in there otherwise.
“Mom, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were a lush.” I hold up the bottle of Hangar 1.
“It was a gift from a gentleman friend.” She throws this out casually, but it’s clear she wants me to know there’s a man in her life.
“A gentleman friend?” I raise my brows, playing along, even though I don’t want to. It seems my whole family is living secret lives.
“I’m old, not dead.”
“Who is this friend? Do I know him?”
“Just a neighbor.” She waves her hand in the air dismissively, then quickly adds, “He’s a certified public accountant.”
“Yeah? So?” My mother drops people’s professions like some drop names. Once we went for a walk in her neighborhood, and she proceeded to tell me who lived in each house and what they did for a living. An hour I’ll never get back.
“I’m just telling you about him,” she says with feigned innocence.
“So, are you dating this guy?”
“I wouldn’t call it dating.” She’s being coy and enjoying it.
Fine, I don’t really want to know anyway. The idea of my mother dating...of my mother...Eew!
“Did you know Dad wanted to be a photojournalist when he was young?”
She seems put off by my sudden change of subject. “Where is this coming from?”
“The day before he died, he told me that he worked for the school newspaper at Yale and that one of his pictures made it onto the cover of theNew York Times. Did you know that?”
Her lips turn up in a wistful smile, and just as quickly it’s gone. “Of course. He was very proud of that photo. I had it framed, you know?”
I can’t remember ever seeing it hang anywhere. Not in the house on Vallejo or even my father’s office.
“But did you know he wanted to be a photojournalist before he wanted to be a doctor? That he chose medicine because it was a more practical decision.”
“We talked about it.” She readjusts herself on the couch. “We all have our phases. There was a time when I wanted to be an interior decorator. Then I had your sister and your brother and you. And that was out of the question.”
I don’t know why. Most of the mothers I know work. But I don’t refute her comment.
“Your father loved being a doctor. Do you think we could’ve given you, your brother and sister the life we did on a photojournalist’s salary?”
The question isn’t really about us. What the question comes down to is my parents. What changed in their master plan that made my father reassess his decisions, including marrying my mother? What gave him regrets?
“Did he ever talk about backpacking around Alaska, visiting Denali?” I ask because it seems so counter to the man I knew. But maybe I never really knew him. Maybe what I knew was him and my mother as a unit.
“Frequently. Don’t you remember that time we were debating whether to take you kids to Alaska for the summer or Hawaii?”
