Goodbye To All That (21 page)

Richard lifted the blotter, stared at the sheet from his prescription pad and lowered the blotter, hiding Shari Bernstein’s phone number. When had he lost his nerve? How had he wound up so cowardly? He was a doctor, for God’s sake. A successful man who saved lives and pulled down a comfortable six-figure income. Not too bad looking, either. Ruth always said he was as handsome as the day they’d met.

He lifted the blotter again and pulled the sheet out. Coffee, that was all. He’d ask her to join him for a cup of coffee after work. No big deal.

Tomorrow. He’d call her tomorrow. Maybe he’d have a little more courage by then.

“You could watch sports if you wanted.”

Abbie grimaced as if Jill had just suggested she could drink Drano. “So Dad and Noah are eating pizza tonight—and I bet they’re eating in the den so they can watch TV while they eat,” Abbie complained, her gaze fixed on some flaw on her thumb nail. It, like the other nails, was painted a glittery silver, as if she’d glued aluminum foil to the tips of her fingers. “You never let us eat in the den, but you aren’t there and I bet they’re going to eat on the couch and slobber melted cheese all over the upholstery.” She paused to allow Jill the opportunity to envision the mess Gordon and Noah would undoubtedly make, then added, “Anyway, girls’ night would be me and Emma and Caitlin. Not me and my mother and my grandmother.”

“She’s making pot roast. You love her pot roast.”

“I love lots of things, and I wouldn’t want to eat them for dinner.”

Jill was tempted to question her about what multitude of things she loved. She suspected that at the moment, Abbie would be hard-pressed to name a single thing she loved, and that would include her mother, her best friends, that pricey, skimpy cotton-ramie sweater Caitlin had convinced her to buy at the mall—using Jill’s credit card, of course—and her grandmother’s pot roast.

She contemplated discussing her own misgivings about her mother’s current living situation with Abbie, then thought better of it. A Good Mom didn’t involve her children in the ridiculous dynamics of other branches of the family.

Shit. She had to be both a Good Mom
and
a Good Daughter this evening. The strain might just cause her to snap.

She could use a Diet Coke right now, preferably one diluted with copious amounts of rum. Didn’t girls’ nights include a certain amount of alcohol consumption?

Only when they didn’t also include a twelve-and-a-half year old child. Jill had to remain sober, calm, in control. One petulant, sulky, selfish female was more than enough, and tonight Jill might find herself in the company of two petulant, sulky, selfish females. Who knew if her mother would be as ebullient now as she’d been when she’d invited Jill and Abbie for dinner?

“This place is the pits,” Abbie opined as Jill steered into the parking lot of her mother’s apartment complex. She didn’t think it looked that awful, unless you compared it to the lovely suburban house on a manicured half-acre plot where Jill’s father was currently residing in solitude. The apartment complex had a kind of college quad look to it, half a dozen bland three-story red brick structures with evenly spaced aluminum-framed windows, bargain-basement landscaping and outdoor lighting that reminded Jill vaguely of old World War Two movies about stalags.

Jill’s mother had told her to look for Building 4, the one nearest the corner by the crosswalk. Her mother had also warned her not to park in a numbered spot, since those were reserved for tenants. After meandering around a figure-eight of driveways, she finally looped to Building 4. The nearest unnumbered spot she found was by Building 6. Not that it mattered; with the glaring spotlights making the parking lots brighter than Fenway Park when the Red Sox were hosting a night game, she was sure she and Abbie would be safe walking to Building 4.

The air contained a wintry nip. Or maybe the chill Jill felt creeping down her spine as she and Abbie walked along the paved path, passing undersized yews and dormant rhododendrons, was a result of panic. This wasn’t like the first time she’d visited Grandma Schwartz after her move into the assisted-living facility. For one thing, Grandma Schwartz lived alone because Grandpa Schwartz had died, not because she’d grown tired of his channel-surfing. For another, Grandma Schwartz spent large swatches of time talking to people who didn’t exist and conducting an imaginary symphony orchestra.

Jill didn’t want to believe her mother was senile, although if she was, it would simplify things, or at least explain them. But she’d visited her mother at the First-Rate across the street just a week ago, and her mother had seemed sane. Worse, she’d seemed extremely happy.

At the entry to Building 4, Jill pressed the button next to her mother’s apartment number and waited to be buzzed in. Next to her, Abbie stared at the cellulite-textured ceiling. The vestibule smelled of lemon-scented furniture polish, although it contained no furniture. Just a row of metal mailboxes, an intercom and an inner door, which like the outer door was glass with chrome trim.

“This place sucks,” Abbie said less than a second before the buzzer sounded, releasing the inner door’s lock.

“It’s where your grandmother lives these days,” Jill commented, hoping she sounded nonjudgmental. She considered reminding Abbie to exercise tact and keep her opinions about the place to herself in front of her grandmother, but decided not to. Abbie knew how to behave. And if she opted for blunt honesty over courtesy and told her grandmother what she thought of her new home, well, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Jill’s mother might respect opinions from her beloved eldest grandchild more than she respected opinions from her children.

Together they climbed the stairs to the second floor. Jill’s mother stood in an open doorway halfway down the hall, beaming as if Jill and Abbie were soldiers returning home from battle. Jill wondered whether she’d deserve a Purple Heart before the evening was done.

“Welcome!” her mother bellowed as they neared the door.

Jill noticed her mother had placed a door mat in front of the sill, a vestigial reminder of her former life as a suburban homeowner.

Abbie scampered into her grandmother’s embrace, her sullenness miraculously vanishing as the rich, heavy aroma of pot roast wafted into the hallway. After a quick peck on Jill’s cheek, her mother looped an arm around Abbie’s shoulders and ushered her inside.

“Come, let me show you around,” she said grandly, as if she were about to lead them on a tour of Versailles.

Jill hesitated on the threshold, preparing herself to be disappointed and adjusting her expression to hide that inevitable disappointment. Then she entered the apartment and closed the door behind her.

“This is the kitchen,” her mother was saying.

Jill followed the voice into a cramped, narrow, windowless space with ugly metal cabinetry, unfashionable white appliances and brown linoleum tiles on the floor.

“Not too big, is it,” her mother said, stating the obvious. The room wasn’t wide enough for her and Abbie to stand side by side, so she released Abbie and led her through to the living room. “I don’t need a big kitchen. I’m cooking only for myself. When I even bother to cook. Some days, all I want is a bowl of soup, a can of salmon, some fruit and cheese. For that, the kitchen is the perfect size. Now, here’s my living room
 . . .
”

Jill followed a few steps behind them, pausing to survey the kitchen. It was so dark. So dreary. But fragrant with the scent of seasoned roast.

“Oh, cool!” Abbie exclaimed.

Jill hurried into the living room to see what Abbie was crowing about. The room didn’t strike her as particularly cool—shag carpeting the color of faded mud, windows draped with generic beige curtains, boxy prefab furniture and a view of the parking lot. And a television set. A small one, perched on a shelf.

“Mom, see?” Abbie’s smile was bright and challenging. “Some people
do
have TV’s in the living room. Mom always says you shouldn’t have a TV in the living room,” she explained to her grandmother, “because the living room is for living in and watching TV isn’t living. So we have to go to the den to watch TV. I wish we could have a TV in the living room.”

Sure,
Jill thought churlishly.
And then Dad and Noah could be dripping melted pizza cheese all over the fancy furniture in the living room instead of the sturdy old furniture in the den.

Jill’s mother laughed. “I put the TV in the living room because I don’t have any other place for it. I thought maybe the bedroom, but then if I have a guest over and we want to watch TV, where would we sit? On the bed? So I put it there. Is there something you want to watch?”

“No. I just think it’s cool.” Abbie pranced to the windows and inspected the view, poked her head into a closet, bounced her butt on the couch and sprang back to her feet. “Cool! It’s a futon.”

“So if you wanted to sleep over, you could,” Jill’s mother said. “Or Noah. Or the twins. All my favorite people.”

Jill noted that she, Melissa and Doug were not among her mother’s favorite people. Nor did her mother indicate any interest in inviting her bridge ladies or her synagogue sisterhood friends for a pajama party.

“Mom, isn’t this cool?” Abbie’s enthusiasm seemed genuine. She darted down a short hall, announcing each highlight—“The bathroom! The bedroom! A linen closet!”—as if these features were actually special. What was it about this ghastly little apartment that had her so excited? During the drive, she hadn’t used the word “cool” once, although “cold” would have aptly described her mood.

“It’s very nice,” Jill lied.

“It’s all hers,” Abbie said, waltzing around the living room and ending her dance by hugging her grandmother. “It’s all yours, Grandma. You can put the furniture wherever you want. And it’s all your stuff.”

“I like that part,” Jill’s mother agreed.

“I want a place like this when I grow up,” Abbie announced. “I want a place like this now, but Mom would never let me.” She sent Jill a grin. “But when I grow up, I want to live all by myself, without Noah’s dirty sneakers all over the place.”

‘They’re not all over the place,” Jill defended Noah. “He’s got only two sneakers. How can they be all over the place?”

“I’m always tripping on them,” Abbie complained. “And he never hangs up his towel in the bathroom. If I had my own place, I could hang the towels however I wanted. God, this is so cool.”

Jill did not think it was cool. She thought it was just what Abbie had called it in the car: the pits. That her mother was living here instead of in her spacious, comfortable house, with its lovely, familiar furnishings and a kitchen more than one person could fit into at the same time, struck her as appalling.