Antiques Knock-Off (2 page)

Today Mother graced us in a pale yellow blouse and matching capris—one of several new outfits I’d gotten her because she’d lost so much weight during her manic phase, when she slept little and ate even less.

Now, some of you may be asking why I didn’t just talk to her about going back on the medication. I did talk. She wouldn’t listen.

Why did she refuse to listen to reason? Because, at the age of seventy-whatever, the manic phase makes her feel like Superwoman! She’s on a high that can last for months. But then comes the inevitable depression stage (laced with paranoia) and, inevitably—like a jet going three hundred miles an hour at thirty-six-thousand feet—she runs out of gas and nose-dives to Earth.

I just prayed the crash wouldn’t happen until after the baby was born.

(I’m not proud of this, but I tried crushing one of her pills and hiding it in her favorite pastry—a vanilla cream-horn—but she caught on with one bite, and threw the rest of the pastry—and her medicine—away.) (This technique doesn’t work on Sushi, either.)

“If you don’t stop doing that,” I said, “you’ll polish the silver right off.”

Mother held the teapot out by its ornate handle, saying proudly, “Look, dear, I can see my face in it!”

So could I, a funhouse reflection with giant bug eyes, and I could only wonder if it was how she viewed the world at the moment—recognizable, if distorted.

“Mother,” I said, “we should hurry—before it gets too hot out.”

“Oh, yes, dear,” she said with a pensive frown. “The clock.” She set the teapot down and began wiping her hands with a dishtowel. “You’ve packed it well?”

I nodded.

“What about Sushi? Do you think the little doggie would like to go with us?”

“Moth-er,”
I groaned.

Groaned, because at the mention of her name, Sushi would no doubt come running, and did. That and the word “go” had her dancing at our feet.

“Oh, I
am
sorry,” Mother said. “The little devil knows the word ‘go,’ doesn’t she? I should have
spelled
‘go,’ instead of
said
‘go.’”

“Will you please stop
saying
‘go’?”

Sushi was in a frenzy now, yapping ever louder.

Mother put hands on hips. “Now
you
just said, ‘go.’”

“There you go
again!”

We glared at each other in what was an all-too-common
occurrence around the Borne homestead: a stalemate of idiocy.

I sighed. “Well, now, she’ll
have
to go with us.”

“I guess she will,” Mother huffed, “because
you
keep saying ‘go.’”

I left
(not
trundled!) to get the dog carrier in the front closet, Sushi underfoot, almost making me trip. Normally, I enjoyed taking Soosh out with me on short errands, but this time we were going to a new place—Timmons Clock Repair—and I didn’t know if there would be another dog on the premises, or how long we would stay … and, besides, we were toting along a valuable antique.

But now, if we didn’t take Sushi, the little furball would surely exact her revenge, and that could mean (but would necessarily not be limited to) any of the following: peeing on the Oriental rug, chewing the leg/arm of a Queen Anne chair, tearing up a feather pillow, unrolling the toilet paper. Barricading the blind barker in the kitchen never worked—the one and only time we did that, she chewed off all the corners of the lower cabinets.

I did own a rhinestone-studded dog-carrying bag, but the pink balboa feathers made Sushi sneeze, so I’d replaced the bag with a baby front-pack (pink, pictured with rattles and pacifiers and diaper pins), which was better because it freed up my hands.

I had just strapped the front-pack on and was preparing to deal with the dog, when the doorbell rang. Our post-woman—short brown hair, no make-up, athletic build— handed me the mail and, after exchanging a few words with her about how hot it was, I closed the door, then put the correspondence on a nearby Victorian marble-top table reserved for such things as car keys, loose change, sunglasses, cell phones, and grocery lists.

I’d been waiting for a rebate check on my new phone—
which I intended on blowing on the end-of-summer shoe sales, because shoes would still fit after the baby came—so I took the time to sift through the mail.

Electric bill, water bill, church bulletin,
You-Could-Win-a-Million-Dollars!
notice, letter with no return address, phone bill, fashion magazine …

… letter with no return address!

I snatched up the familiar white envelope with distinctive computer font, but was surprised this time to see it addressed to … Vivian Borne.

Mother.

And she was right there, instantly suspicious. “What is that you have there, dear?”

I whirled, hiding the anonymous letter behind my back.

“Nothing. Just more junk mail.” And I laughed a little, in that unconvincing way the guilty do in movies.

Mother’s eyes narrowed, her voice taking on a strange, dubious tone. “If it’s
nothing,
dear, why
conceal
it?”

I was in a kerfuffle—should I lie about the letter, and increase her paranoia? Or give it to her, knowing its contents might well send her on a downward spiral? Not the best of options….

I handed the letter over, with a “You’re not going to like it” look.

She ignored that, and strode over to her favorite Queen Anne needlepoint armchair, and sat regally, while I crossed the Oriental rug to the matching needlepoint sofa, settling as comfortably as I could on the rigid furniture.

I watched with increasing anxiety as Mother opened the envelope, unfolded the single-sheet contents, then brought it up closer to her glasses.

Sushi, sensing a postponement in our trip, found a stream of sunlight to swim in, placing her head on her crossed front paws, her lower lip protruding poutily.

I could pretty much guess what the letter said, going by
the two I’d already received. But as Mother slowly read it aloud, I clearly had underestimated the depth and scope of viciousness intended by its sender.

“‘Soon all will know that Brandy is not your daughter,’ “Mother said, then paused, realizing what had just come out of her. Then she resumed, in an atypically hushed voice. “‘… and that Peggy Sue is her real mother. And Senator Clark can kiss his political career good-bye.’”

Mother’s hand containing the letter dropped to her lap, her face turning ashen; then a bright red burn began at her neck, working its way up.

She turned to me, eyes blazing. “You
knew?”

I nodded.

“How
long
have you known?”

I shrugged, as if I were the one who’d wrongly withheld a secret. “A few months. First one I got was about Peggy Sue. Second one was about Senator Clark.”

“And Peggy Sue? She
knows
that …
you
know?”

I nodded again. “She got her own nice anonymous notes.”

Mother stood, pointing at me,
j’accuse.
“And
you
kept this from me? How could you
do
such a thing?”

“Hey!
You
kept it from
me
for thirty years! So don’t get up on your high horse.”

Mother stared for a long moment, then nodded. Her manner was disturbingly calm. “Point well taken, my dear. You have a perfect right to be miffed.”

“Miffed?”

“But you must understand … we did what we thought was best.”

“Best for
whom,
Mother? You and Peggy Sue, you mean?”

Mother came to join me on the couch, putting one hand on my knee. “No, Brandy … best for you. Peggy Sue couldn’t have cared for a baby properly—she was only
eighteen, and unmarried—times were so different back then. And since the man you thought of as your father— my husband, Jonathan Borne—had just died, you gave me great comfort.” Her eyes seemed about to overflow. “Did … did I do such a bad job, dear?”

I had already thought about that. “No, Mother. Life with Peggy Sue would have been pretty dull compared to living with you.”

After all, would Sis have pulled me out of school when I was seven, to try her luck on Broadway? (Mother only made off-off-off Broadway. Off-off-off meaning the Newark Community Playhouse.)

Or would Peggy Sue have been chased through a cornfield by the county sheriff with commitment papers, and me bouncing around in the back seat of the car? Not likely.

Those were the makings of, if not exactly
fond
memories, certainly vivid ones.

Mother was saying, “Remember, dear, that at that time Peggy Sue was in no position to give you the kind of luxurious life she could later afford to provide her own daughter, Ashley. She was only able to do all that by completing college, and snagging a good husband like Bob.”

I said, “I know.”

I’d been all through that little exercise with my therapist, Cynthia Hays. And I didn’t care to revisit it.

“Are we … all right, dear? Have we changed, you and I?”

I allowed my eyes to meet her exaggerated ones behind the lenses. “I’m not sure either one of us is capable of much change, Mother. I’m always content with just not regressing.”

“I mean, darling … am I still your mother? Am I still
Mother?
I think it would just kill me if you began calling me … calling me …”

I put a finger to her lips. “Mother. Always Mother.”

Not Grandma.
Not now. Not at this late date.

Mother gave me a hug and I hugged her back. Then she sighed and stood, and went to retrieve the fallen letter.

“Who do you think sent this?” she asked, waving the paper in one hand, an angry prosecutor flinging evidence at the jury.

“My money’s on Connie Grimes.”

Mother blinked owlishly. “Peggy Sue’s good friend?”

“Peggy Sue’s
so-called
‘good friend.’”

Mother frowned in thought, then went to the picture window and gazed out, her back to me.

After a long moment she turned dramatically. Make that melodramatically.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I do believe you’re right, dear. The little witch has always been jealous of Peggy Sue….”

“That’s witch with a
b,
Mother. And it’s a long time since she’s been ‘little.’”

“… and after all, you
did
throw her down the escalator at Ingram’s Department Store last fall!”

“No, I didn’t!” I held my head high. “All I did was push her into a display of Halloween sweaters.” After she had called Mother and me crazy. “It was a soft enough landing.”

Mother looked disappointed, clearly liking the other version better. “Oh, I’ve been telling everyone it was the escalator. Well, no matter … the Grimes woman
is
the likely candidate for wanting to cause trouble for all of us.”

Mother’s use of the word “candidate” put me back on point. I asked, “Did Connie work on Senator Clark’s campaign along with Peggy Sue?”

Mother qualified her nod. “But she didn’t go on the campaign trail, like your … sister.” She paused, adding, “That’s when you were conceived, dear.”

I grunted. “I hope in a five-star hotel, and not the back of a campaign bus.”

“It was, dear. The Drake in Chicago.”

I smirked. “Sis always does go first-class.”

Mother wadded up the letter in an angry, shaking fist. “The question is—what can we
do
about that horrible woman?”

“What about Mr. Ekhardt?” I asked. “Could he send her a cease-and-desist?”

Wayne Cyrus Ekhardt had been our family attorney since long before I was born. Now a spry if somewhat snoozy ninety, Ekhardt still kept an office downtown, with limited hours, and only a handful of clients, us among them.

Mother said, “I’m afraid not, dear—not unless we have
definite
proof she is the culprit. If we have Wayne send her a threatening letter, she could turn around and sue us for false claim!”

I shook my head, burning. “And she’d do it, too.”

Mother returned to nestle next to me on the couch, sweeping a loose strand of hair away from my face, then patting it back into place.

“Now don’t you worry your pretty little head about this,” she soothed. “Mother will take of it.”

“That’s what I’m
afraid
of….”

Mother arched an eyebrow. “And what do you
think
I’m going to do?”

“Well, I don’t suppose you’d kill Connie…. Would you?”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Mother said with a shake of her head.
“You
know very well which side of murder cases I come down on…. Why, all I’m going to do is apply the tactic of our president—
talk
to the enemy. Open a line of communication.” She slapped her knees like a department store Santa summoning the next brat. “Now!

We best go on our antiquing errand before the heat sets in.”

Sushi, previously prone in a depressed puddle, now snapped to attention, and when my rise from the couch confirmed our eminent departure, the pooch began running in circles, as if chasing her tail—which was unlikely, since she couldn’t see it.

A few minutes later I was behind the wheel of my gently battered burgundy Buick, Mother beside me, holding Sushi on her lap, three Musketeers heading to the clock repair shop. One for all and all for Mother.

While tooling along Mulberry Street—a main artery to the downtown—an all-too-common occurrence happened: Mother suddenly sat forward and yelled,
“Stop!”

Any other driver might have thought a child had run into the street chasing a ball, or a dog had chosen an unfortunate time to cross the road, or perhaps a despondent squirrel had picked that moment to commit vehicular hara-kiri …

… but, since it was garbage collection day along Mulberry Street, I knew Mother had merely spotted something with her magnified eyes that she had decided simply
must
be salvaged.

Dutifully, I pulled over—ours not to reason why and so on. Mother passed Sushi to me, hopped out of the car and scurried back to a pile of junk at the curb. Moments later, she returned, put her find in the back seat beside our boxed clock, then resumed her position in the rider’s seat.

I looked over my shoulder at the dirty old coal bucket and said, “It has a hole in it.”