She Has Your Eyes (24 page)

The walls of the room were painted bright yellow and adorned with framed 8” x 10” photographs of hibiscus flowers, but the sunny disposition didn’t outshine the ubiquitous antiseptic smell or detract us from the reason we were there. “You can sit here.” The nurse directed me to a chair beside the
station where Mom sat while an assistant hooked up an IV to her. Mom looked impatient, but I could see she was just trying to mentally distract herself from the pinch of the needle insertion, the dread of the side effects (so far the nausea had been at a minimum, but it was the unpredictability she couldn’t stand), the whole goddamned thing. Once she was hooked up, the nurse and the assistant left us alone with an assurance that they’d check back in a few minutes.

“They seem to be nice enough here,” I said, trying to make small talk to further distract her (and myself).

“At least they’re not patronizing.”

My brain searched for something else to say, but what kind of conversation do people make when they’re getting chemotherapy? I should’ve asked Joey and Tony what they talked about.

As if reading my mind, Mom stamped out the silence. She pointed to my briefcase with a nod. “Tell me about what you were reading.”

“It’s part two of a three-part memoir. The assignment is to take three different life events, seemingly unrelated, find the common link, and then write about them in a three-part series.”

She processed this. “Was the assignment your idea?”

“It was. The one I was reading in the waiting room was about the day the student decided to come out.”

“Come out?”

“He’s gay.”

She made the connection. “Oh.” Mom remained focused on the briefcase, as if she could see through it and read its contents. “What do you look for when you read them?” she asked.

“I often don’t know until I see it. Generally speaking, I’m observing how well the elements of memoir are expressed—a
narrative voice, character development, use of sensory description and scene-setting.…”

“Character development? Aren’t memoirs nonfiction?”

“Yes, but even real people are characters. You want the reader to be as invested in them as they would be in any fictional character.”

I let her ruminate on this.

“I yelled at you once for writing about all of us,” she said, as if it were news to me.

“More than once,” I said, “and you refused to read anything I wrote after that, regardless of what it was.” I instantly regretted saying it, realizing she’d think I was being judgmental rather than pointing out a fact. But before she could respond I added, “I don’t blame you for getting angry. Not everything I wrote was pleasant. In hindsight, I think my real purpose for writing those memoirs wasn’t about my telling a truth as much as it was about power. It was the only control I ever felt. In fact, I don’t even like to read most of what I wrote anymore. It all rings very inauthentic to me now.”

She seemed taken aback by this admission, as if she’d never considered it before.

“It’s a very powerful tool, isn’t it,” she said. “Writing, I mean.”

“Yes, it is.”

“When was the last time you wrote something nonfiction?”

“Just an occasional scholarly essay with Maggie,” I said. “I’ve been enjoying writing fiction too much.”

“Why?”

“Strange as it may seem, it feels more honest to me, even though I’m making up the stories.”

The nurse interrupted us to check on Mom, ask if she was OK, inspect her IV. She left, and Mom closed her eyes for a few seconds.

I echoed the nurse. “You OK? Is there anything I can do?”

“What events would you choose?” she continued.

“Excuse me?”

“If you were doing your own assignment. What three events would you write about?”

My students had asked me the same thing in the middle of a brainstorming session. I told them I had no idea, but I had thought about it ever since.

“Do you remember the day I fell off my bicycle? I was racing down the hill in front of the house, hit a patch of sand, swerved, and just missed a car.”

“Got the wind knocked out of you pretty good,” she said. I was surprised she remembered.

“You just so happened to be looking out the window when it happened. Raced out to help me.”

She nodded, and I could tell that in her mind’s eye she was there, in the street and by my side, all over again. “Scared me to death.”

“That’s one. The second is a day when I worked at Macy’s. A guy had shoplifted, and I’d let him walk right out.”

“Why?” she asked.

The question seemed odd. I didn’t respond. “The third was a date with Devin.”

“Who?”

My eyes widened when I realized what I’d just said. Then I overcompensated. “David. David and I had had a date a long time ago, and…”

“I could’ve sworn you said Devin.”

And then suddenly, inexplicably, every fiber of my being told me to come clean. And suddenly, inexplicably, I heeded it.

“I did.”

“Who’s Devin?”

“David was.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“When I first met David he didn’t go by
David
. He went by
Devin
.”

“Why?”

“He…” Oh God, how was I going to get myself out of this? Or worse, how was I going to get through it? “Maybe I should talk to David first. It’s a bit personal.”

“Was he into something illegal?”

“No, it wasn’t illegal, not exactly.”

“
Not exactly
?”

“I suppose you can say it was morally questionable, though.”

“Geez, Andi, what was he doing, running an escort service or something?”

Of all the dumb fucking luck!

“Wow. That was an incredible guess.” I shouldn’t have said anything at all. But I was too baffled to think straight. Like watching someone slip on a banana peel in slow motion and not doing anything to stop it or help.

“You mean I was
right
?”

I sheepishly nodded. “An escort service. And he was one of the escorts.”

Mom looked as flummoxed as I felt. “When?”

“Long time ago. When I moved back to Long Island after Andrew and I broke up.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Cocktail party.”

“Did he solicit you?” she asked. The way she said
solicit
sounded so sordid.

“No!” I recoiled.

“Oh God, you didn’t… did you solicit
him
?”

“Not at first.”

Mom dropped her jaw in horror. “Andrea!” she said. A patient sitting nearby turned her head in our direction.

“It wasn’t like that,” I backpedaled, lowering my voice. “We met casually, through mutual acquaintances. I got in touch with him, and we got to… to know each other. We became friends.”

“So you never…”

“No,” I said sternly. “Not until after Sam died,” I lied.

Mom exhaled a sigh of relief. I, on the other hand, felt like the wind had been knocked out of me again.

“You should have,” she said after a few minutes had passed.

“Should have what?”

“Solicited him. Probably would’ve loosened you up.”

I burst into astonished laughter. “Are you serious? This coming from one of the most sexually repressed parents on the planet?”

“I was never
repressed
,” she said in a staunch tone. “I just didn’t believe that was proper dinner talk.”

“You didn’t believe it was proper anything,” I corrected. “You all acted like I was supposed to remain a virgin my entire life. I’m surprised you didn’t send me to some convent!”

“You’re exaggerating just a little, don’t you think?” she asked.

“Are you kidding? I’m being subtle!”

She mulled over this before she shot her next question.

“So when did you lose your virginity?”

I sprang up and held out my hand as if to block her. “Whoa. OK. Mom, if you’re making up for lost time, this is totally weirding me out.”

In perfect timing, the nurse returned to the room. Mom’s treatment was done. Hospital protocol required patients to be wheeled out to the lobby. I left her there and retrieved the car, replaying the last part of our conversation, squinching my face as if I’d just sucked on a lemon and muttering, “Ugh.”

Mom stepped out of the chair and into the car slowly, and leaned back against the headrest, closing her eyes. Neither of us said a word for the first forty-five minutes of the drive. She opened the window, a sign that she was feeling nauseous.

“You want me to pull over?” I asked, a wave of fear crashing over me.

“Not yet,” she said. “I need the windows open, though. I’m sorry if you’re cold.”

“Please don’t apologize,” I said.

I slowed to just under the speed limit, flipping off impatient drivers who zoomed around me and honked their horns. Gotta love New York. I didn’t know whether to talk to my mother or leave her be.

When we pulled up to the house, I could tell she was miserable. I ran to the other side of the car, opened the door for her, helped her into the house, and finally to bed. She kept an empty waste pail next to it; the sight of it sobered me.

“Have you ever used that?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not yet.” Somehow I knew its christening was coming. “Leave me alone, please,” she said. Her tone wasn’t angry or impatient. More like a plea.

I left the door ajar, retreated to the kitchen, and heated some broth just in case. I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and took two bites before pushing it away after
hearing the sounds coming from my mother’s bedroom. Those sounds would haunt me for the rest of my life.

Hours later, when the house had gone dark, I tentatively opened the door and peeked in, frightened of what I might find.

“Mom?” I called out softly. A night-light was plugged into a nearby socket, and I switched it on. When I entered the room, the stench of vomit pierced my nostrils, and I covered my nose and mouth with my hand. I took the pail, threw it in the tub, and twisted the faucet on, trying not to look at any of it. I then stifled a gag and splashed some water in the sink on my face before shoving a cupful into my mouth and spitting it out. I turned off the tub faucet and left the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

This is what it’s going to be like from now on
, I thought.
And it’s only going to get worse.

I crossed her room and opened the window a crack. Then I returned to her side of the bed. “Mom?” This time she stirred, and her eyes fluttered open.

“What time is it?” she murmured.

“About eight thirty,” I answered.

“What day is it?”

“It’s still Wednesday.”

She closed her eyes again.

“I made some broth. Can you—do you want me to heat it up?”

“No,” she said over me, her voice exerting more force.

“OK. Do you mind if I sit here for a little bit?”

She nodded weakly. “Please.”

I pulled up a chair to where the pail had been.

“Do you want me to read to you or anything like that?” I asked.

She shook her head. I sat in silence and listened to the whistle of the wind through the window.

“Andi?”

I leaned in. “Yes?”

She opened her eyes. “What was the connective theme? Of your events?”

It took me a second to realize she was referring to my writing assignment and our conversation in the chemo room.

“Safety,” I answered.

She closed them again in satisfaction.

“You used to sing with your brothers,” she said after a moment.

Emotion took my throat into a vise grip. She had never brought the subject up, never recalled the memory, out of nostalgia or fact or for any other reason. No one did. Not even me. “That was a long, long time ago,” I finally managed to say just above a whisper, a tear slipping down my cheek, followed by another, like a parade.

“You had a lovely singing voice,” she said. “Did you know that?”

I shook my head, although she couldn’t see. “No.” I forced the word out. “No one ever told me.”
No one
meaning her or Dad. “I mean, Joey and Tony said it was good, but, well, I guess I never believed them.”

“Sing to me, please,” she beckoned, her own voice frail.

I choked on a sob. “I don’t know what to sing.”
And I don’t know if I can.

“Anything,” she said.

My mind went blank as every lyric to every song I’d ever known disappeared like deleted computer files. And then one surfaced, as if summoned: And then one surfaced, as if summoned: "Two of Us." The Beatles song Tony and I sang at a brother-sister talent show when I was still in grade school, and we took home first prize. The song that had been Sam’s and my wedding song.

I don’t know how I managed to sing the first verse. Every note had come out rusty, the key broken. I sobbed it more than sang it. But when I finished and couldn’t bring myself to open my mouth for another verse, Mom said quietly, “That was very nice, Andi. Thank you.”

She went to sleep. I sat in the chair for hours and cried until I was so tired I circled to the other side of Mom’s bed, crawled in, and closed my eyes.