A Working Theory of Love (22 page)

•   •   •

A
FEW DAYS LATER,
my mother calls me, her voice grave and nostalgic. She rambles for a while—unusual
for her—talking about my father and our trips to Showbiz Pizza, how much that
meant
to him. It’s only after we hang up that I realize why she called. It’s the anniversary
of his death. I forgot. It’s a troubling lapse. I think, I’ll call Jenn and tell her.
I’ll share this vulnerability with her. Maybe it’ll stir some life inside of me. The
heart would be preferable, but I think I could love a woman with other organs, too.
Liver, stomach, spleen. But I arrange for us to meet up, then I call back and cancel.
I tell her I’m not feeling well. She offers to bring me soup, to keep me company,
but all I can imagine is Outlast! Outwit! Outplay! I thank her, saying I need to be
alone.

“Don’t cancel on me again,” she says. It’s a warning I’ll heed—but only because there
will be nothing more to cancel.

“I don’t think this is working out,” I say.

•   •   •

I
N
D
OLORES
P
ARK,
there’s little to watch—stillness, floating beach balls, a sudden tornado of pigeons
settling on a sandwich. I buy a waffle cone of foodie ice cream, and I think, life
isn’t bad. It’s even good. Ice cream and sunshine and the pop of tennis balls close
by. Maybe life doesn’t make much sense, maybe it’s a tad flat sometimes, but it’s
just life. It’s not a movie or
Anna Karenina
or a weekend in Ko Samui; it’s plain old breathing, living. Getting up and going
down and coming back and turning in.

Old Showbiz Pizza, with its animatronic band. I think of the mouse cheerleader jerking
up and down with her pompoms. God knows what my father thought about it all, but I
know he never imagined he might get up from the table and join them, a singing robot
himself. My left eyelid trembles, kicking up a facial spasm in its wake. I press my
hand firmly on my cheek and eye. It’s like soothing a jittery shih tzu. I take another
bite of ice cream. Butter pecan, his favorite.

18

“
D
ID
A
DAM MENTION
GSP
S?”
Livorno asks. “That poor man is a decade behind! He’s a popularizer, not an innovator.
GSPs!”

“He said the limbic system doesn’t exist.”

Livorno’s eyes widen. “Even worse—he’s a literalist! Look at this.”

He shows me his chat log. Dr. Bassett is talking again.

drbas: it’s been a long time, hlivo!

hlivo: since when are you using exclamation marks?

drbas: a man is allowed to be enthusiastic

hlivo: and you have been where the past few weeks?

drbas: ????

hlivo: why weren’t you speaking to us?

drbas: i was angry at my son

hlivo: he’s sorry about what he said

drbas: life’s greatest pleasure is to forgive

I feel the threat of tears in my eyes. Though I can’t believe Livorno didn’t explain
that he was impersonating me.

“Here,” he says, pointing to an exchange on the fifth page. Dr. Bassett asks a question
about my mother, and then never gets out of that gear. He will only talk about her,
and then says he wants to talk
to
her.

drbas: she’s the only person who can answer my question

hlivo: ask your son

drbas: no

Livorno looks at me hopefully. “We pay handsome consulting fees.”

“I can’t guarantee she’ll come.”

•   •   •

B
UT
L
IBBY AGREES.
She even sounds excited about it. “This is going to make you famous, right?” she
asks.

“And rich.”

“I’ll get my flight.”

“No, no—we’re moving up in the world. I’ll book it for you. Business class.”

“Do
not
waste the money.”

My mother, Elizabeth—Libby—has barely shrunk half an inch in her sixty-three years.
She’s in great shape; she walks very quickly wherever she goes, usually hiding ankle
weights under her waterproof, wicking pants. I think she’s still quite stunning, though
she erased sex appeal from her appearance decades ago. Before I was born, I believe.
She wears no makeup, keeps her hair short, and buys clothes so practical they come
with built-in tools. For special occasions she’ll put on a matching pantsuit—yellow
or blue, all bright and primary—with colorful, complementary scarves. She looks elegant,
sharp, and unavailable. She has no interest in remarrying. I once overheard her on
the phone, saying she’d “done her time.”

It surprised me. I always took her life with my father to be difficult and thwarted,
but somehow above such a workaday formula.

She comes out of the terminal at SFO at 7:30 the next evening, right on time. At the
sight of her, I feel exhausted and soul-sick. I get out of the car and hug her, my
mother, and I want to weep.

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?” she asks.

“It’s still light out.”

“So California.” She sounds approving. She pushes me back and sets her bag in the
hatchback. “I need to check the lottery numbers.”

Back home, she sits down at the little desk in the breakfast nook, where I keep the
desktop. Much life has happened on that computer. Craigslist, Nerve, OkCupid. Porn.
In fact, as I sink into the couch and listen to the clicking of the mouse, I fear
what automatic suggestions will appear in the search box. Teen. Hot. Amateur. Long
Island bush. Nasty spiritual seeker.

“Dammit,” Libby says. “I heard four of the six numbers and I had them all, but I didn’t
get the other two.”

“Four out of six is worth something.”

“A hundred and sixty dollars.”

“Nothing to sneeze at.”

“Nothing to sneeze at,” she agrees. “But one of these times I just really want to
win the whole kitty.”

Kitty Cat meows at her name. “Hello, little one,” Libby says distantly. It’s the same
tone of voice she uses with a filthy child, meaning, I’m disgusted with you, but it’s
not your fault. She disapproves of animals in the house.

“I read recently why cats always go to the person who hates cats,” I say.

“Tell me quick. I need some strategy if I go to Susan’s.” Susan is a friend from her
educational cruises, who—like most of my mother’s friends from educational cruises—lives
in Berkeley.

“They don’t like to be looked in the eyes. They find it challenging. So they go for
the one person who doesn’t pay attention to them.”

“I know people like that,” she says. “Mostly men.”

I have a novel thought. “Are you dating someone?”

“Neill. Is your brain addled?”

“Probably.”

“You’re hungover.”

“No. I’m at work all day.”

“That’s not healthy. You need other interests.”

“I’m getting up in a second,” I say. “I’m going to have a coffee. I’m a little laid
out in my old age.”

“You look like you’re in your twenties.”

“Sometimes I feel that way, too,” I say. “It’s not always a good feeling.”

“Are
you
seeing anyone?”

“Mother. Is your brain addled?”

“Probably.” She laughs. “I don’t mean to pry. It’s just I got a nice call from Erin
last week. I think she’s unhappy. I got the impression she’d like to make another
go at it with you.”

My heart begins to flutter; I’m glad I’m already lying down. She wants another spin
on the wheel of fortune? This was always my problem with her: I could never tell the
difference between the feeling of love and the feeling of danger.

“She said that?”

“More of an inference on my part. I am
not
lobbying. My only concern is both of your happinesses. I just want you to know I’ve
been in touch with her.”

“I know you’re in touch.” I listen to the traffic rev along Dolores Street, the drivers
trying to extract one more drop of weekend.

“You were on a date, she tells me. That’s why I asked.”

My firm new velvet couch brushes under my fingertips. Its threads are perfectly even.
I let my arm hang down to the floor and touch the thick oak legs, round and stout
as coffee cans. I have not spent nearly enough time on this couch. Here is a thing
of substance, made in North Carolina by that company that makes all the furniture
in North America. I should quit Amiante Systems and go get a job at that company,
aging wood, stretching fabric, sending out real things into the real world.

“What do you think of the new purchase?” I ask.

“It’s very handsome,” my mother says. “But don’t you think you’ve got enough furniture
already?” She’s at the kitchen table, unzipping her North Face shoulder bag. She removes
her ankle weights and gives them a warm smile, the kind of smile an artisan might
flash at his favorite diamond-sharpened chisel.
My perfect tool in this imperfect life.

“I thought as a person got older they collected stuff.”

She gives me a cautionary scowl.

“Only if they’re scared,” she says.

•   •   •

I
N THE MORNING,
we head to Amiante. I fix Libby a cup of tea, sit her down in my desk chair, and explain
how it works. “Just like Internet chatting,” I say.

“And this is going to sound like your father.”

“Well,” I say.

“It’s his very words,” Livorno says, standing behind me. His voice is booming and
artificial. “You won’t know the difference.”

She nods, looking doubtfully at the computer. I flash Livorno as cutting a private
glance as I can manage, but he’s already walking away. She won’t know the difference?

“The only thing you shouldn’t mention is that he’s, you know, no longer with us,”
I say. “And don’t use the past tense. And please don’t work too long.”

I leave her alone, stationing myself by the reception desk. I drink a cup of tea,
then a cup of cider, then a cup of hot chocolate, then a cup of instant coffee. From
my office come the clicks of methodical typing. Occasionally, Libby laughs, but she
sounds less pleased than surprised.

I can’t say I’ve ever seen very clearly into my mother’s grief around the suicide.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen very clearly into her, period. She can be dauntingly
self-sufficient—so much so I begin to suspect the worst. Then I suspect the best.
Then I suspect the worst again. If I ask her how she’s doing, she gives such clear,
reasoned answers that I’m reassured. Then I think, is that answer
too
reasonable? Is she hiding something behind that wall of calm?

Before Erin and I married, we organized a family get-together around the anniversary
of my father’s death. We wanted to make sure Libby wasn’t in some sort of quiet despair.
It was Erin’s idea—a trip to North Carolina. We rented a vacation house—not far from
where my new couch was assembled—and invited Libby, my brother, and my sister-in-law
to spend the week with us. At that point, Erin and I were still able to have fun together.
We took one leg of the flight on Hooters airlines.

The rental house was too big for the five of us, but my mother acted like a hostage.
I sensed something brewing between her and my sister-in-law, Mindy. Mindy entered
a room; Libby exited it. Mindy’s traveled to every continent and holds an MSW from
the University of Michigan. She’s kaffeeklatch nice. Yet Libby tiptoed as if Mindy
was a mercurial tyrant.

Libby did all the shopping, all the cooking, all the cleaning. No one was allowed
to help. Between chores, she avoided the beach, opting to power walk on the sandy
streets, ankle weights cinched tight, a frosted-green dumbbell swinging in each hand.

“It’s got to be hard on her,” Erin said. “To see the family all together like this.”
Erin always went for the obvious explanation. It was a trait that made me suffer.
But when I tried to bring up my theory of Mindy, we exploded into one of our stupid
fights. With the epiphanic air of bad TV detective, Erin realized where this was all
coming from:
I was secretly attracted to Mindy
.

I went looking for Libby. The sun outside was like a hot brick being held to my cheek.
Thanks to Libby’s Gallic ancestry I’m a good tanner, but I have many suspect moles
and shouldn’t have been without a hat in that direct, midday radiation. I walked out
past our two rental cars to the shimmering blacktop and shielded my eyes, trying to
catch sight of Mom’s fast-bobbing outline steaming from or into the distance.

At the edge of the island there was a convenience store that doubled as an outdoor
saloon. That’s where I found my mother, sitting on a barstool under the ceiling fan.
She was drinking a longneck, shelling peanuts with one hand, and watching a baseball
game, none of which I’d ever seen her do before. She supports gay rights and MoveOn.org,
but there’s always been the sweet, correct air of Kappa Kappa Gamma ’67 around her.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” I said, taking the adjacent stool.

She leaned back to admire me, looking more like my mother than at any time in the
previous forty-eight hours. “You found me,” she said. She took a pull off her beer.

“We’ve got plenty of that at the house,” I said.

“I come here for the ambience.” She waved a hand at the little coconut monkeys standing
sentry next to the liquor bottles.

“How authentic,” I said. “Genuine North Carolina coconuts, I’m sure.”

“You sound a little edgy, sweetheart.”

“I’ve come to ask you if something is the matter.”

“I’ve just been missing your father.”

Galling, galling that Erin was right.

“Mindy’s driving me absolutely insane,” I said. What? Mindy wasn’t bothering me at
all, but I felt uncontrollable invective bubbling out. “She’s a Nazi. No one can have
the slightest odd opinion around her without her making big judgmental cow eyes.”

Libby looked at me with concern, but she didn’t seem as shocked as I was. “Hmph,”
she said. “I didn’t know you felt that way about Mindy. She’s perfectly nice.”

“Perfectly
.
”

“Well, she loves your brother. She’s not exactly my style, but I’m happy to have her
in our lives.”

“But doesn’t she make your skin crawl?”

“I’m surprised she can make anyone’s skin crawl. She’s as mild as soap.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t really mind her at all. In fact, I like her. I don’t
know why I said any of that.”

On the television a batter swung and missed.

“Is everything okay with you and Erin?”

I’d managed with hand signals to get my own longneck. I drank from it. “We may be
going through a rough spot.”

“It’s important to communicate, I think. I think it’s important to give each other
space, too.”

I think. I think.
This was the lingering note of my father’s suicide. She was no longer sure she had
anything definite to say about love.

“But I’m not here to talk about me. I want to talk about you.”

There was fizzy cheering from the old TV set.

“Well,” she said. “Being around the four of you, all grown up and living life—I feel
a little out of place.”

I interrupted. “You’re the whole reason we’re here.”

“I guess that’s true.” She smiled, clearly not believing me.

I drank from my beer. I was thirty years old and living with a woman who hated me
at least as much as she loved me. I had little bandwidth and less wisdom to offer.
“Have you thought about dating?”

“Who says I’m not dating?”

“Who is it? Someone I know?”

My mother finished her beer and stood, gathering her frosted-green dumbbells from
the counter. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Don’t go,” I said. “Sit. Ask me a question.”

She didn’t sit. “How was that strange airline you took?”

“Hooters. It was just a normal plane.”

“Even a normal plane,” she said, “is a pretty special thing.”

“Is that an instructive analogy?” I asked.

She laughed. “Maybe. Neill, lately, when I look at my life and look at my friends’
lives—there’s so much going wrong—I think to myself, ‘What do I know?’ What
do
I know? The answer is ‘Not much.’”

“I didn’t mean it as criticism. I
like
instructive analogies.”