Goodbye To All That (2 page)

But all those Swedish people didn’t seem to be hobbling around like cripples. They were too busy skiing and playing hockey to kvetch about their bad backs. Platform beds were probably as orthopedically sound as any other bed. And extra storage space never hurt anyone.

What did Richard know, anyway? He was a cardiologist. Since when was he an expert on the subject of back support?

“There’s a laundry room in the basement,” the rental agent noted, hovering near the window as if she wanted to draw Ruth’s attention back to the spectacular view of the parking lot. “Very well lit, very safe. The buildings are secure. We’ve never had a problem here.”

Well, there was always a first time. Ruth had enough Russian blood in her to expect the worst. But how much more dangerous was this apartment than the house? Richard had installed an alarm system shortly after they’d moved in, and Ruth had screwed it up so many times, pushing the wrong buttons or the right buttons in the wrong order and accidentally summoning the police, who would then bill her a hundred dollars for the false alarm, that Richard had wound up having the system removed. What a waste. Ruth had never felt safer with it.

“This particular unit,” the rental agent said, “gets a lot of sunlight. It’s really a very bright unit.”

Ruth wished she wouldn’t call the apartment a “unit.” It was a residence, a dwelling. A home.

Not a home like the house where her children had grown up and where Richard still lived. Not a spacious colonial with rhododendrons and daffodils and spirea that Ruth herself had planted, and ancient pines bordering the backyard and towering above the roofline. Not a house with a kitchen big enough to prepare a Thanksgiving feast or a Seder for the whole family and a finished-basement rec room with a ping-pong table, and a formal living room that always looked pristine because it was so rarely used. Not a house with an elegant master bedroom suite, with two walk-in closets and a sleek fiberglass tub in the bathroom.

This place—this
unit
—was very bright. That would be enough.

It would be perfect.

Taking a swig, she savored the fizzy burn of the carbonation across her tongue and up into her sinuses. She hoped the caffeine would give her brain a needed jolt, like those paddles doctors used to restart the hearts of patients in cardiac arrest. Jill was in mental arrest; she needed her brain shocked back to life,
stat
, as they said in medical dramas on TV. Geoffrey needed the shantung-scarf copy by five p.m. Which meant she had to get it written and emailed by three. Once the kids got home, Jill’s time, like her language, was no longer her own.

Geoffrey Munger, the editor of the Black Pearl catalog, favored what he called “nature-based yet sensuous metaphors” in the copy describing the company’s offerings. Lois Foreman, the editor of the Prairie Wind catalog, had a strong preference for “bright and breezy.” Sabrina Lopez, the editor of the Velvet Moon catalog, preferred “edgy and erotic.” Jill appreciated how lucky she was to be writing catalog copy for three different companies—not just because the money was three times better than writing for only one but also because the three different commissions offered her creative variety. She only had to remember which catalog she was writing for on any given day.

She also had to try not to let the catalogs’ refusal to describe colors by their actual names distract her. “Blue” didn’t exist for any of the companies that employed Jill. A customer could buy a garment in periwinkle, navy, aqua, royal, sky, tiffany, ocean, peacock, azure, powder or indigo. Not blue. Never blue.

Another hit of Diet Coke and she was back at her desk, shoving the blues to a remote corner of her brain and reminding herself that today she was writing for Geoffrey Munger at Black Pearl. If she sent him edgy and erotic text instead of natural yet sensuously metaphorical text—if, for instance, she described the shantung scarves as being ideal for lashing one’s lover to a four-poster—he’d probably keel over.

She stared at her computer monitor so long her eyelids synchronized their blinks with the pulsing cursor. A sharp shake of her head broke her trance, and she took another stab at describing the scarf Black Pearl hoped to entice thousands of women into purchasing.
More refreshing than a waterfall, lighter than a breeze, perfect to protect bare shoulders during a romantic evening stroll. Our shantung silk scarf is available in every color of the rainbow. Be playful in persimmon. Lyrical in lemon. Mysterious in midnight. This scarf is available in a wide array of hues to match your wide array of moods.

The phone rang.

“Shit,” Jill said.

She supposed she could ignore the phone and let the caller leave a message. But before the machine picked up, she’d have to listen to four more rings, which would shatter her concentration. As if one ring hadn’t already shattered it.

She allowed herself a brief fantasy of setting up her catalog copy business in a real office rather than a corner of the kitchen—an office with a separate phone number, just for her. She imagined commuting to her office every day
 . . .
in bumper-to-bumper traffic, in blizzards, in flooding downpours and tornado-like microbursts.

No. She’d settle for an office right here in the house, but soundproofed so she wouldn’t hear the family phone when it rang. In the unfinished part of the basement? Too dark, and there were spiders. In the attic? Too hot, and there were spiders. Maybe she could hire a contractor to build an extension off the back of the house. An office suite, spider-proof, with a private bathroom and kitchenette to go with the private phone line. It would only cost about twice what she earned in a year.

The phone rang a third time. Two more rings and the machine would pick up.

Her caller might be one of the kids. Or the school nurse, informing her that Noah had puked his lunch all over the floor in gym, or Abbie had gotten her period and needed Jill to bring her some clean panties and jeans. That very disaster had occurred last spring, and for the following week Abbie had moped around the house, whining that the humiliation had been so awful she wanted to die.

Jill was a Good Mom. How could she ignore her ringing phone when the caller could be her daughter, wanting to die?

She shoved away from the desk, mumbling a few therapeutic curses, and strode around the center island to reach the phone. “Hello?”

“Jill? It’s your mother.”

As if, after thirty-six years as Ruth Bendel’s daughter, Jill wouldn’t recognize the woman’s voice. “Hi,” she said.

“Have you got a minute?”

Jill sighed. Her monitor glared at her, the cursor flashing imperatively, a computer version of a nagging, wagging finger. “I really don’t,” she said.

“I’ll be quick,” her mother promised. “I want you to invite your brother and sister to your house this weekend. Saturday afternoon would work. No need to fuss.”

Jill was a Good Daughter as well as a Good Mom, so she refrained from cursing—just barely. “You want me to host a family gathering?”

“I’d host it, but I think it’s better if everybody isn’t at my house.”

“Why do they have to be at
my
house? What do we need a gathering for? And so last-minute. We’re all busy, we all live hectic lives—”

“I know, but this is important. And it’s better we get together to discuss it. It’s not something I want to talk about over the phone.”

Jill suddenly felt wobbly. She gripped the kitchen counter and swallowed. “What is it, Mom? Is Dad sick?”

“No.”

“Are you?”

“Everyone is healthy,” her mother said, sounding vaguely annoyed, although Jill failed to see anything annoying about good health. “Just call your brother and sister and invite them to your house. One o’clock? Two? Whatever is easier for you.”

What’s easier for me is not doing this
, Jill thought glumly. “Why can’t Doug host this gathering?” she asked. No point suggesting that Melissa might handle the hostessing duties. Melissa lived in Manhattan and the rest of the family lived in the suburbs west of Boston. Besides, Melissa was ditzy and disorganized and couldn’t be counted on to do anything useful.

“You know Doug,” her mother said.

Yes, Jill knew her brother. He was like her father: brilliant, a doctor, with an ego the size of Antarctica before global warming had reduced its glaciers. Doug’s wife loved to entertain, though. “I’m sure Brooke—”

“Don’t start with Brooke,” Jill’s mother said. “She’d turn it into an affair, with catering and a music ensemble and a bartender mixing drinks on the three-season porch.”

A bartender sounded good to Jill.

“She’s so
 . . .
elaborate,” her mother continued. “She’s wonderful, I love her like a daughter, but
 . . .
” A long, deep sigh. “You know Brooke.”

Jill knew Brooke well enough to know Brooke might indeed hire a bartender, which made her the ideal person to host this gathering. “Mom, you’re asking us to turn our schedules upside-down. Abbie and Noah have soccer games Saturday morning, and I’m supposed to put together a family reunion in the afternoon?”

“They shouldn’t have games on a Saturday morning. It’s not fair to the Jewish kids.”

As far as Jill knew, none of the Jewish players in the town’s soccer league—including Abbie and Noah—were the least bit bothered about missing Saturday morning services to play soccer. “I don’t see why you can’t tell me what this is about,” she said. “You’re asking us to rearrange our lives. Doug plays golf with Dad on Saturday afternoons. Brooke probably spends the entire day getting a facial or something. Melissa has to schlep all the way up from New York. What’s the big mystery?”

“It’s not a mystery.” Ruth’s tone was tart. “It’s just not something I want to discuss over the phone.”

“So we have to have a party?”

“Not a party. A get-together.” Her mother sighed again. “If you don’t think it’s important when your parents are going through something
 . . .
”

“What are you going through?” Jill asked with forced patience. “We’ve already established that no one’s sick.”

“I’ll tell you on Saturday. You said you didn’t have any time to talk, so I’ll say good-bye. I’ll see you this weekend. Give me a call, let me know what time.”

Right. As the hostess, as the person who had to telephone her siblings and organize this stupid party—correction: get-together—and run out to stock up on gourmet coffee because Doug wouldn’t drink the stuff that came in a can, and organic herbal tea for Melissa, assuming she was still on
that
kick, and the sticky honey rugelach her father loved, and she’d have to vacuum because her mother would notice if she hadn’t, and Gordon would crab about how her mother was too demanding and she really ought to develop enough backbone to say no to the woman every now and then, Jill would get to decide what time this affair would take place.

Through the window she heard the low-pitched rumble of Abbie’s school bus chugging past the house. The bus dropped Abbie off at the corner, and it took her anywhere from five to fifteen minutes to walk the half-block home, depending on how much she and Caitlin Orensky had to discuss in person before they parted ways, entered their own homes and started texting each other.

In any case, Jill didn’t have time to prolong this conversation, let alone decide whether lemon, as in “lemon shantung scarf,” was actually a lyrical color—whether
any
color could be lyrical, although she did like the alliteration. She wasn’t going to get the catalog copy done by three, damn it. She might not get it done by five. Geoffrey would fire her, and all because her mother was being not just demanding but ridiculously cryptic.