The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus

  floating in through the open window—

  it’s the same melody

  that used to drift from the mobile

  that spun above Samantha’s crib…

  Michael hears it, too.

  He reaches for my hand.

  And when he laces our fingers together

  the lump in my throat

  threatens to cut off

  my breath.

  EVERYONE’S UNPACKING

  Michael whistles while he works

  with a couple of the other dads,

  putting together the aluminum shelving

  for the bathroom.

  I carefully fold Samantha’s

  bouquet of new winter sweaters,

  tucking them, one by one,

  into the drawers beneath her bed.

  She doesn’t need me to do this for her,

  but seems to understand

  that if she doesn’t keep me busy

  I’ll crumble.

  She gives my shoulder

  a gentle pat,

  complimenting me

  on my awesome sweater-arranging skills.

  And I realize

  that, for the first time,

  she’s mothering

  me.

  MAKING UP HER BED

  As Sam and I

  smooth the new sheets,

  shimmy the pillows

  into their cases,

  and fluff

  the clouds of comforter,

  I try

  not to think about

  what might happen

  someday

  amidst the silken folds

  of these virgin linens.

  AN OLD FRIEND

  The constant battle

  I’ve been waging

  against a full-on

  weep-a-thon

  is nearly

  lost

  when Samantha lifts Monkey

  out of her suitcase

  and, unaware

  that I’m watching,

  clasps him

  to her chest.

  THE UNPACKING IS DONE

  The girls

  have begun the ballet

  of getting to know each other:

  “You’re kidding! I love the Beach Boys, too!”

  “Omigod! Me, too!” “Me, three!”

  Squeals all around.

  Michael whispers in my ear,

  then slips out

  to buy some roses.

  Now that there’s nothing left for me to do,

  I feel more in the way

  than an in-law on a honeymoon.

  I sink

  into the frayed cushions

  of the weary couch,

  afraid

  of saying something

  that might mortify my child.

  Maybe the other parents

  are feeling the same way,

  because all of them are as quiet as dust.

  We sneak awkward glances at each other,

  and when our eyes meet, we smile—

  like celebrants at a wake.

  AFTER WE KISS SAMANTHA GOODNIGHT

  Michael and I watch her

  skip off down the sidewalk

  with her new roommates,

  the four of them already a unit,

  their bursts of laughter floating back to us

  as they disappear around a corner,

  happier

  than a litter

  of leashless pups.

  Then, the two of us

  head out into the night,

  hand in silent hand,

  to find

  the nearest

  liquor store.

  IS IT A BAD SIGN?

  Is it a bad sign

  if even when you

  and your husband

  choke down

  every last searing drop

  of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s,

  you still

  can’t quite manage

  to get drunk

  enough?

  IN THE MORNING

  There’s not

  much time left

  before Michael and I

  have to head to the airport.

  Just long enough

  for me to snap a few pictures—

  the “before” photos,

  we call them.

  I bring the Nikon up to my eye

  and line up the shot.

  Samantha snuggles into her father,

  leaning her head on his shoulder.

  He circles her

  with his arms,

  resting his cheek

  against the top of her head.

  Have there ever been

  two more wistful smiles,

  two people so happy…

  and so sad?

  Michael,

  who never cries,

  squeezes his eyes

  closed.

  WHEN I HUG MY DAUGHTER GOOD-BYE

  A part of me

  is almost hoping

  she’ll refuse to let go of me,

  like she did

  when she was five years old

  on the first day of day camp…

  On that sucker-punch morning in June,

  Samantha locked herself onto me

  like a human handcuff

  and began to sob, chanting a single phrase:

  “How can you leave me with these people?

  How can you leave me with these people?”

  She was so distraught

  that her question began to make

  an odd sort of sense to me.

  How could I leave her with these people?

  How could I trust these strangers

  with my baby’s safety…?

  Now, as I clasp Samantha to my chest,

  it takes all my strength

  not to lock myself onto her.

  How

  can I leave her

  with these people?

  I WILL MISS HER

  I will miss her more

  than fireflies miss summer,

  more than the drum

  misses the drummer,

  more than the wave

  misses the shore,

  more than the songs

  miss the troubadour.

  She’s been my hip hip

  and my hooray.

  I will miss her

  more than a poem can say.

  THE CAPTAIN HAS TURNED ON THE SEAT BELT SIGN

  For seventeen years

  there have been three of us—

  enough to fill a whole row.

  Now,

  there’s an empty seat

  between my husband and me.

  A Grand Canyon

  between my husband

  and me.

  For the rest of our lives

  it’ll just be

  the two of us.

  Just we two.

  Just

  us.

  THE TAXI DROPS US OFF IN FRONT OF OUR HOUSE

  Michael and I

  trudge up the front walk,

  lugging our suitcases

  and our dread behind us.

  The darkened windows of our house

  watch us with gloomy eyes.

  Even the roses

  look glum.

  I turn the key in the lock

  and shove open the door,

  bracing

  for the ringing silence.

  But instead—

  I hear Alice’s voice

  wafting in from the speaker

  on our answering machine.

  “…he was so stupefyingly boring that I fell

  asleep in my soup and nearly drowned!

  And then he wanted to have sex with me,

  can you imagine?

  …Anyhow, I want to hear all about

  what it’s like in that empty nest of yours.

  But you guys are probably

  doing it on the kitchen table right now,

  so I’
ll let you go…

  Call me when you’re done!”

  Michael and I

  would be laughing right now

  if we weren’t

  so unspeakably bleak.

  OUR PEPPER TREE IS DEAD

  Root rot

  got her.

  But I can’t bring myself

  to ask Michael to cut her down.

  She stands

  outside my office window,

  the breeze sighing

  in her skeletal branches,

  her feathery leaves

  long gone.

  She’s dead, but her brittle arms

  still yearn toward the sun,

  latticeworking the yard

  with a sad spindly shade.

  Michael’s been spending hours

  sitting out in the yard, sketching her.

  How can I ask him to chop her down

  and cram her bones into plastic bags?

  How can I ask him

  to grind her stump?

  How can I ask him

  to remove every trace

  of she who once held

  my daughter in her lap?

  SAMANTHA’S ROOM

  I walk down the hall

  and pass by her room,

  then take a step back

  and open the door.

  Omigod!

  What’s happened here?

  Where’s all the stuff

  that should be on the floor?

  Gone the scattered books and papers.

  Gone the heaps of dirty clothes.

  Gone the mounds of soggy towels—

  who would have thought I’d ever miss those?

  All those years

  I spent complaining,

  nagging her

  to clean it all…

  Why do I suddenly

  yearn for the chaos

  that used to drive me

  up the wall?

  AT THE GROCERY STORE

  I reach for a bag of Ruffles.

  Then stop myself.

  Now that Samantha’s gone,

  who will eat them?

  I trudge from aisle to aisle

  not putting things into my cart—

  no Hershey’s Syrup, no extra-crunchy Skippy,

  no Honey Bunches of Oats.

  I round a corner

  and nearly collide with Jane.

  She’s taking a break from shopping

  to tickle Madison,

  whose plump feet

  dangle like happy bells

  from the seat at the front

  of her overstuffed cart.

  “Oh!” I say. “Hello, you two.”

  “Hi, Howwy!” Madison cries, in that adorable

  I-can’t-pronounce-my-Ls way of hers.

  Jane greets me with a radiant smile.

  I glance down at her belly

  and suddenly realize she’s pregnant.

  Very pregnant.

  How could I not have noticed this before…?

  I look down into my own cart—

  my crater, my chasm.

  Nothing in it

  but one lonely onion,

  the only onion

  that was ever able

  to make me cry

  before I cut into it.

  SO I’M FEELING A LITTLE SAD TODAY

  I spent half the morning

  reading every word

  of Samantha’s college newspaper online,

  and the other half bouncing around

  her school’s website, reading

  the “Advice for Freshman Parents” pages,

  and compulsively Googling

  the weather back east in a bizarre attempt

  to feel connected to my child.

  Now it’s three o’clock in the afternoon

  and I’m still wearing

  my ratty old nightgown.

  I haven’t brushed my teeth or showered

  or combed what’s left of my hair

  or eaten my breakfast or my lunch.

  Or written

  one single

  word.

  I’m as hollow as an empty womb,

  as flattened as a mammogrammed breast,

  as dark as a house that’s blown every fuse.

  I’ve got a mean case

  of the post-daughter-um

  depart-um blues.

  THE PHONE RINGS

  I suck in a breath.

  Could it be Samantha?

  My fingers itch to answer it.

  But what if it’s Roxie calling

  to ask me to give her back

  my advance money?

  Or maybe it’s my mother calling

  to spew her roid rage at me

  like pepper spray…

  Or Dr. Hack calling

  to chuckle in my ear

  and tell me more bad news…

  So I let Michael answer it.

  And when he tells me it’s Samantha,

  I dash down the hall to pick up the extension.

  Then both of us listen breathlessly as she

  tells us about the midnight walk by the river

  that she took with her new friends.

  She tells us

  they sat together on the bridge

  and couldn’t believe how beautiful it was—

  how the full moon

  winked at them

  like the moon in an old cartoon.

  She tells us

  they all felt so jolly

  that they started singing Christmas songs…

  Christmas songs in September…

  in the moonlight…

  by the river…

  Something like relief floods through me—

  something like relief mixed with joy

  mixed with heartache.

  WE SAY GOOD-BYE TO SAMANTHA AND HANG UP

  Michael leaves the room,

  and a few minutes later

  he strolls back in

  whistling “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,”

  holding a leafy little branch

  over his head.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Mistletoe…?” he says.

  I cross the room

  and kiss him on the cheek.

  Then I rest my forehead against his

  and heave a sigh.

  Wouldn’t you just know it?

  Now that we have the house all to ourselves,

  I’m too miserable

  to take advantage of it.

  THE MOTHERS OF DAUGHTERS WHO HAVE GONE OFF TO COLLEGE

  I can’t seem to step out my front door

  without running smack into

  another one of them,

  as though all of us

  are cruising around

  in bereaved bumper cars.

  Wendy’s mother,

  wandering through the mall,

  looking oddly lost.

  Laura’s mother,

  lurking in the stacks

  at the library,

  sneaking stricken glances

  at the mothers

  reading to their toddlers.

  Brandy,

  sitting alone at Ben & Jerry’s,

  staring down into her untouched banana split.

  Each time I encounter another one of these

  kindred crumpled spirits,

  I force a smile and stop to chat,

  thinking to myself,

  “If her eyes don’t tear up,

  then mine won’t.”

  But,

  of course,

  hers do tear up.

  And we fall into each others’ arms,

  like a couple of old rag dolls

  who’ve long since lost their stuffing.

  MICHAEL SAYS WE NEED TO HAVE SOME FUN TOGETHER

  So I’m getting ready for our “date.”

  But even though I wash it,

  twice,

  with shampoo that’s especially formulated

&
nbsp; with essential fatty acids

  derived from natural botanic oils

  to replace valuable lipids

  and restore the emollients necessary

  for the hair to become thicker

  and more supple

  with a healthy lustrous shine,

  and even though I remove

  the excess moisture from my hair

  and evenly distribute a small amount