“It wouldn’t be dishonoring her mother!”
“Yeah.” She stands still, considering. “She hates me. I don’t blame her. It’s what I expected. It’s what I deserve.” She shrugs, picks up her briefcase, and walks out before I can say what I think is true: her daughter will change her mind.
“We’ll talk about it tonight,” I call after her, but I’m not sure she’s heard me.
“Talk about what?” Lise asks, coming into the kitchen and pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“Renie and her daughter,” I say.
Lise turns to look at me. “What happened?”
“I think we should all talk about it at once, if Renie wants to.”
She sits at the table, studies me. “Were you a Brownie?”
“Yes.”
“A Girl Scout?”
I hesitate, then say, “Yes.”
“Did you also get good grades in comportment?”
“Comportment!”
“Yeah, didn’t they used to have comportment on report cards?”
I say nothing. They did used to have something like that, but I can’t remember what they called it.
“Go to work,” I say.
“You need to learn to gossip better,” Lise says.
“I know how to gossip; don’t you worry about me.”
“Renie’s not the only one having problems,” Lise says. “I told Sandy last night that I was going to see her father and did not exactly get the response I was hoping for. She had, as they say, a fit.”
“Why?”
She sighs. “She wants to protect him, I suppose.”
“From what?”
“From me. From my awfulness. I am an awful person, just ask her.”
I sit there for a moment, then say, “Okay, you want to gossip?”
“Not about my daughter.”
“I don’t like how she treats you. Can I say that?”
“No. She wasn’t always like this. Once she told me I was her golden mommy. Only she said goden. She also said—and I thought this was profound—’When you’re done being my mommy, I’ll be your mommy.’ She had such sweet curls at the back of her neck and she smelled like sugar cookies. I loved her so much. The first time she got a cold I slept by her crib. I got up every hour to listen to her lungs to make sure she wasn’t getting pneumonia.”
“You know, Lise, you don’t need her permission to go and see your ex or to do anything else.”
“Oh, I’m going to see him. I emailed him and he was … Well, he didn’t say no.”
“Good.”
“I’m going!”
“Good!”
“I just wanted her to be happy about it. I want her to be happy, period. I just want all the time for her to be happy.”
“I know.” It occurs to me to say that if Lise would stop lobbying so hard for her daughter’s happiness, Sandy might find it on her own. And if she finds her own happiness, she might stop taking her discontent out on her mother. But what do I know. I can hardly manage Riley, whose wet muzzle is on my chin, his eyes rolled up in entreaty. “I got nothing,” I tell him.
He wags his tail.
I hold up my empty hands.
He walks away, drops into a heap in a corner of the kitchen, rests his muzzle on his crossed paws, and sighs through his nose. After Lise leaves the room, I get a piece of bread and give him one half of it, then the other. “Don’t tell,” I say. Riley weighs too much. No one else in this house is old enough to understand that there comes a time when you are at peace with such things. Penny used to say she slept with her belly like a lover, her arms wrapped around it. “You old fatty,” I say to Riley, and he thumps his tail.
I take my empty dishes to the sink to rinse them off. Conduct! That’s what it was called.
“YOU DON’T MISS YOUR HOUSE?” MICHAEL ASKS. I’VE FILLED him in on a little of my background, including the fact that I recently moved in with three other women.
“I miss it a little, every now and then,” I say. “But I realize I was ready to move long before I did.”
I smile at him. I brought him some Tootsie Pops and he has one stuck in his cheek; he looks like a lopsided chipmunk.
“It’s just the stage I’ve come to,” I say. “I never thought I wouldn’t want all these things I worked hard to get. But …” I shrug. “They weren’t it. It turns out to be true that what matters—”
“I get it,” he says and looks away from me. He takes the pop from his mouth and lays it on the nightstand.
A moment, and then he says, “Anyway. Going from living alone for so long to living with so many others—wasn’t that weird for you?”
“It just seems natural, and it did from the very beginning. I guess I miss not having to compromise about anything. But it’s offset by so many good things. I find I like the company. I’ve come to rely on it, in fact.
“But mostly … Well, life is always changing, right? And I think it’s human nature to be fearful of change. Even if the changes you dread most end up being the ones that are best. That’s what happened to me, anyway.”
“Yeah. For me, I guess I’m a little worried that I … that I … Wait a second. Hold on.” He puts his hand up to his forehead, touches it lightly, touches it again, then puts his hand back at his side.
“Michael, are you … Do you need something for pain?”
“Not yet.”
“I could go and ask for something for you. Annie told me it’s important to not let the pain get too bad before taking something.”
“Oh. Is that what Annie said?” His tone has become sharp.
“You just seemed to get really uncomfortable.”
“The pain medication makes me go to sleep,” Michael says. “And I don’t want to go to sleep now.”
“I understand. But you’ll let me know if—”
“I’ll take care of getting something when I want it. What with it being my decision.”
A moment. And then I say, “Okay. Good. Then I can goof off a little more. I mean, this is too much work, running around and getting you this, getting you that. I’m exhausted.”
He smiles. “So, what, are you retired?”
“I’m taking some time off.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a motivational speaker.”
“Ah. I guess that fits.”
“It does, huh?”
“Anybody besides your parents ever die on you?” he asks, abruptly.
The question is so sudden and out of the blue, I answer it before thinking: “Yes. My best friend. Fairly recently—a few months ago. Penny was her name.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Were you with her in the time leading up to it?”
“Yes.”
“Was it hard? Didn’t it just make you sadder, seeing her decline that way?”
“Well, of course it was sad. But also …
“Look, I know how this might sound, Michael. But also it was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life, and I am so grateful for having been with her. For me to have been there just in case, you know? And to try to tell her in every way how much she meant to me. Before, then, always.”
“Do you ever …” He looks at me, his face full of longing, of such delicate weariness. “Do you ever see her? You know what I mean? Do you ever see her?”
“I feel her. And I believe I hear her.”
“Really?”
“Really. Not often, but … sometimes. I don’t tell everyone that, but it’s true.” I pause, then say, “I suppose it might be my own voice I’m hearing, some thought that comes from me that I assign to her. Who knows? I guess I don’t want to know. Or need to.”
Michael winces, touches his head again, then presses the call bell. His hand is trembling now.
I stand. “I’m sorry, I should have—”
“Just keep talking,” he says.
Just then, a nurse in a pale pink smock appears. She goes over to Michael and turns of
f the call light. “Need some pain medication?” she asks, gently.
“Yeah, I do.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Michael looks over at me. “So tell me about your friend.”
I smile. “Well, she was smart and perceptive and she had no problem letting you know what she thought about things. She was fun. She would take chances. Once, on a hot summer day we—”
“Fuck!”
“Michael.”
“What?”
“I let you wait too long. I’m sorry.”
He closes his eyes again. “Not your fault. It will get better. Oh, Jesus, fuck! Sorry. Sorry. It will get better.”
I have no idea what to do. Stay? Go? But then the nurse comes back and says, “I’ll take care of him. Thank you.”
I gather my things. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Yes,” he says, from between clenched teeth, as the nurse turns him on his side to give him an injection. “Cece?”
“Yes?”
“What did you … on the hot day, what did you …?”
“Oh. We broke into someone’s backyard and went swimming in their pool.”
“Cool.”
“We were in there for forty minutes before one of the teenagers who lived there came home. We told him we were from Pool Pros and everything looked fine. And he thanked us and went inside, and Penny and I went home and grilled hamburgers.”
I see the nurse smile as she helps Michael onto his back and straightens his covers. He closes his eyes and says, “See you tomorrow, Cece.”
“See you tomorrow.”
I stop by Annie’s office in order to confess about letting Michael wait so long for pain medication. But did I do something wrong? She’s not there. And anyway, he said yes, about seeing him tomorrow.
I walk home under a still gray sky, the air heavy with moisture. One thing about doing this kind of work, you develop a keen appreciation for the fact that you can walk. And see the sky. And feel the air on your face. And that you can check high and low and no, nothing in your body is hurting, not one thing.
I AWAKEN FROM A NAP to hear someone coming in the door, then hear an unfamiliar voice greeting Riley. I go downstairs and find a young woman standing there, dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt.
“Who’re you?” she says.
I tell her, then wait for her to introduce herself. As I suspected, she’s Lise’s daughter, Sandy. She doesn’t look like Lise at all: her features, her bone structure, are much coarser, though she is a very attractive young woman. She must take after her father.
“Is my mom here?”
“She’s not home from work yet. She said she’d be late tonight; she’s finishing up some things before we leave. We’re going—”
“I know where you’re going.”
I nod, and she stands there.
“So … can I ask you something?” she says.
“Sure.”
“Do you like my mom?”
I keep myself from reacting in any way. “Yes, I do. Very much.”
Sandy shifts her weight, crosses her arms. “She’s a good doctor.”
“Yes, so I’ve gathered.”
“Yup. She’s interested in healing everyone but her own family.”
I say nothing.
Sandy shrugs. “Never mind.” She starts for the door.
“Should I have her call you?”
She doesn’t turn around. “No.”
“Tell her you stopped by?”
She looks over her shoulder at me. “Yeah. Tell her I stopped by to tell her not to go. Again.”
“You know, maybe—”
“Or nothing. Tell her nothing. That’s all she hears anyway.”
I watch her go out to her red Corolla and drive away. I’ll tell Lise her daughter stopped by to say goodbye, if I tell her anything.
I’M FINISHING UP a letter to Dennis when from downstairs I hear Renie call, “Hey, Cece!”
I open the door and stick my head out of my room. “Yes?”
“Can you help me make dinner?”
“Sure,” I call back. “Two minutes.”
I go back to the letter, where I’ve been telling Dennis about Michael. I finish the paragraph, then write:
I’ll see you soon. Consider yourself mapquested.
When I come into the kitchen, Renie is at the stove, her back to me. “Okay. What do you need, you slacker?”
When she turns around, I regret having said it. Her face is full of misery. I’ll bet she got fired. You can’t be as out there as Renie and not expect that at some point it’s going to catch up with you. “What happened?” I ask. “Did you get fired?”
Her face changes. “No! Why would I get fired?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why would they fire me? They love me!”
“Then … Your daughter?” I ask, and she turns back to the pot she’s stirring.
“Chicken chili with salsa verde,” she says. “Can you make the corn bread?”
“Is there a recipe?”
“On the cornmeal box. And yes, my daughter. I just had the brilliant idea of calling her.”
“What did she say?”
“Not a lot. First hello, then … Click! Well, she didn’t say ‘click.’ The phone did. On her behalf.”
“Yeah, well, guess what?” I say.
“What?”
“I don’t know, nothing.” I had been going to say, We’re going to see her anyway. But now that seems ill-advised. Especially when Renie says, “Forget my coming on the trip. I can help Joni watch Riley.”
“He’s coming. Lise is all excited about bringing him. He’s getting ice cream at every Dairy Queen we pass.”
“He’d probably rather have a hamburger. Before they cook it.”
I get out the measuring cups. “How come Joni never measures anything?”
Renie snorts. “Once I asked her the same thing. She reached in the flour sack and said ‘Okay, one third of a cup.’ And she pulled out a handful and put it into the measuring cup. Exactly one third of a cup.”
“So?” I say, and Renie says, “Yeah. Exactly. La-di-da. Who even cares. Are you done with the quarter-cup measure?”
We’re about half an hour away from dinner when we hear the front door slam, then slam again. We stand still, waiting, and then Joni walks in. She’s wearing her chef’s jacket and her face is flushed. She stands before us with her fists clenched. “Okay. There are two words I never want to hear again. Chef and restaurant.”
“What happened?” I say.
“Where’s Lise?” she asks. “Get Lise down here. Lise!”
“She’s not home yet,” I say.
“What happened?” Renie asks.
“I’ll tell you all at dinner. I’m only telling this once.”
She starts to walk away, but then she comes back into the kitchen. “Okay. I just got yelled at for nine minutes straight. A sauce separated, and Gaetano yelled at me for nine minutes straight. In the kitchen, in front of everyone. Then he followed me into the walk-in and yelled at me some more. In the time that he yelled at me, I could have made three more sauces. I could have fixed the problem! But he wanted to yell at me because he loves to yell at me. And swear at me. And pound his fat fist into his fat hand half an inch from my face. So this time? I just walked right out of there. Right when I was supposed to baste the veal. I hope it’s ruined. He told me I didn’t have the skills to work at Denny’s. He told me he was going to put me back on salad prep and that I should consider myself lucky for that. I am a very talented chef! Person! When I met Grant Achatz he asked if I wanted to come on at Alinea!” She starts to cry. “Now I won’t have any health insurance. But I don’t care. Because at least I will never have to be in that goddamn kitchen ever again. I am never taking that kind of abuse again. Never! I quit!”
She takes a breath. “Sorry to yell at you. I’m going up to take a shower. And I’m going on that road trip with you all. I am taking a vacation. Which
I so deserve.”
She leaves the room, and Renie and I look at each other. And to think I thought it was Renie who was having problems at work.
IT’S THE NIGHT BEFORE OUR TRIP, AND WE’RE ALL SITTING AROUND the living room, too full to move. Joni made a spectacular pasta pesto and mission fig salad and every one of us overindulged.
“We should go to bed,” Joni says. “We have to get up at five.”
“I’m not getting up at five,” Lise says. “Five-thirty.”
“Five-fifty,” I say.
Renie says nothing. She’s been quiet all night. But then Joni asks again if she’s sure she doesn’t want to come, and it’s as though a dam bursts. “What does she think?” she says. “Does she think I went into that hospital and delivered her and walked out and … and … went shopping? Which P.S. I hate under any circumstances? How can she believe I ever forgot about her? How can she think I didn’t care? Why can’t she see my side of it, how it was so hard for me to do that, how I did it for her?”
None of us answers.
“What kind of parents did she get, anyway? How could they raise such an insensitive child? And one with no apparent curiosity! Isn’t she even curious? Why is she still living in Winona, is she ever going to leave Winona? I don’t even … Is she even mine? Maybe I got the wrong information. My kid wouldn’t be such a jerk. I’m her mother, doesn’t she even want to see what I look like?”
Lise speaks up. “Maybe she—”
“I’m going to bed,” Renie says. “Have a great time, you guys. I won’t be getting up to send you off. But really, I hope you have a great time.”
After she’s left the room, Joni whispers, “Ten bucks she comes.”
“You’re on,” Lise whispers back. To me, “You in?”
“No,” I say.
It’s not funny. Or at least it’s nothing to bet on.
I go upstairs, too, wanting suddenly to be alone. I lie on my bed and look up at the ceiling, wondering if Renie will change her mind. I doubt it. I’m sorry about that. Without her, things won’t be as much fun. If it were anyone else, I’d try to think of some way to persuade her. But Renie is the kind who has to come to things herself, or she won’t come to them at all.
I’M UP EARLY, IN SPITE OF MYSELF. FOUR MINUTES OF FIVE. I turn on my bedside light, turn off the alarm, and sit at the edge of my bed, thinking about how we’ll soon be on our way. In my nightstand drawer is Dennis’s latest letter, received yesterday, and I read it again now.