Sweet Love (17 page)

That’s one whole Britney Spears away from eternity.

Color is returning to her face and I begin to relax, remembering that this morning Mom was out killing slugs and hammering the tomato posts into the ground before I was awake. (Actually, that’s how I came to be awake.) The woman does not stop. She’s always weeding or walking back and forth to Waverly Square or hanging out sheets. No wonder she’s dizzy.

“I’m getting you to the doctor.” Letting go of her hand, I reach for the phone, though I have no idea whom to call.

“Doctor?” Mom perks up immediately. “I can’t. Not today.”

“Why not? Doctors work on Saturday.”

“I know and I’m going to see one, the optometrist. That’s why you’re taking me to the mall, remember?”

Boom!
My heart nearly explodes as the top of the double boiler rockets up and lands on the floor while the frothy custard bubbles over the sides of the pot fueling sizzling flames of orange and blue.

“The filling!” I scream, turning off the burner. Immediately the froth subsides, releasing the nauseating odor of burned egg.

“Don’t put it in the sink,” Mom barks. “You’ll ruin the pot. Let it cool on the stove, then soak it. It’ll take you a couple of hours to get off that junk, but you don’t want to toss it in the trash. That’s a good pot. What were you doing covering it, anyway?”

Just back from the dead and already she’s a critic. Slipping on my trusty red pot holders, I carry the double boiler to the sink and try very, very hard not to sound hysterical when I calmly ask what time she needs to be at the mall for her optometry appointment.

“I have to pick up my new glasses at twelve-thirty. Don’t worry. It won’t take long, only a half hour.”

The most pivotal date I’ve had in eons and mom has to ruin it with a 12:30 eyeglass appointment. I mean, who makes an appointment smack in the middle of a summer Saturday?
Little old ladies with nothing better to do, that’s who.

Yet another example of my mother assuming I have no social life. Which, considering, is not that crazy of an assumption.

“Is it that you can’t drive because of these dizzy spells?” I ask, scraping at the hardened filling.

“No.” She takes another sip of water and squints at what I’m doing, clearly disapproving. “They’re putting drops in my eyes. I’m not allowed to drive afterward. You’ll gouge the coating on that pot if you’re not careful.”

“You mean, this is not just an eyeglass fitting. This is a whole
eye appointment.
”

“I suppose it is, if they’re giving me a test, too. The girl on the phone did say my prescription had expired. Oh, well, I guess I’ll be there longer than I thought.”

Adding up the hours in my head—a half hour to get to the mall, a half hour to wait for her appointment, a half hour appointment, an hour plus to wait for the glasses, provided there’s no line, which there will be, a half hour to get back. “Mom, that’ll take all of three hours.”

“What do you care? You got a date?”

Yes, I do. A date to visit Michael’s mother and I’ve just realized I’m actually really excited about it. It’s not his mother I’m interested in, really, though it would be nice if I could trigger some memory for her. It’s
him.

He’s changed. Maybe it’s the mellowing effect of middle age, but he doesn’t seem nearly as egotistical as when he was at the height of his career running the FitzWilliams campaign.

Mom used to say Michael’s self-absorption was a survival mechanism he developed in college to compensate for his slovenly family situation with their roaches and house that always smelled of rotted oranges. Kind of a fake-it-to-make-it thing, I suppose. To be among the best he had to pretend he wasn’t from the worst.

Some women on the FitzWilliams campaign staff told me they found him irresistible when he was in his “master of the universe” mode. Not me. I liked him when he wasn’t on guard, usually when he was telling me an interesting story or reminiscing about our childhoods. I liked how he’d lean close and look so deeply into my eyes, I’d forget where he ended and I began. It was intense. Too intense, perhaps, because he would inevitably catch himself, clam up, and go back to being Michael—smart, busy, and forever on his cell.

“How about Em?” I suggest to Mom. “She could drive you.”

“I couldn’t do that to Em. It’s her one Saturday off. Besides, I don’t trust her behind the wheel. She nearly killed us on the way back from your dessert class yesterday when she cut off a tractor trailer on Auburn Street.”

“Okay. Then what about Dad?”

“Nope.” Mom shakes her head as if that’s not even up for discussion. “Can’t do it.”

“Why not? Why can’t he do
something
for goddamn once.”

“Julie! Don’t swear at your father.”

“I’m not . . .” Gripping the sink for composure, I lower my voice and say slowly, “I’m not swearing
at
him. He’s not even here. I just want to know why he can’t drive.”

“Just can’t. He’s got plans.”

As do we all. The selfish S.O.B. probably doesn’t want to leave his TV and miss the Red Sox doubleheader. But I can’t yell about it or at Dad because that’ll upset Mom. And I can’t yell at her because, my lord, she just collapsed. She’s so fragile and annoying. Annoyingly fragile.

There’s nothing I can do. I’m stuck.

Tossing the ruined pot in the sink, I say, “Gotta make a phone call. Maybe you should get ready.”

Then I head for my bedroom to give Michael the bad news.

Chapter Fourteen

— OTHELLO, ACT II, SCENE 3

When I called Michael, he was so understanding and sweet I wondered if his feelings for me really have changed.

“Don’t worry. I know how mothers are. It’s fine,” he said. “Visiting hours are until five o’clock on Saturdays, so we have plenty of time. And if we get a late start, we’ll skip the swimming among the flotsam and jetsam in Revere to go straight out to drinks and dinner.” There was a moment of hesitation. “Unless you have other plans for tonight.”

“Guess what? George Clooney just cancelled. You’re in luck.”

He laughed a bit and said, “Well, then. It’s a date.”

Is that what it was . . . a date?

What am I saying? Michael and I are old friends turned enemies with the possibility of turning back to friends again. Nothing more. Besides, I’m not his type, being that I’m neither a) blond, b) a former debutante, or c) a waif.

As for
my
type, I’m not sure what that is anymore. Male. Responsible. Fairly good-looking. Able to take care of himself without being too needy. A kind personality and gentle sense of humor.

I think I’ve just described Aunt Charlotte’s basset hound.

Anyway, my call to Michael has landed me in a relatively better mood when Mom, Em, and Nadia climb into my car. I’m thoroughly disgusted with my daughter for spending her one Saturday off from work at the mall when she could be outside soaking up the sun on this glorious day.

Hey, it’s her life. I’m not going to tell her what to do—unlike some people present.

“Buckle up, everyone,” Mom reminds us, as if this is a revolutionary idea.

“I don’t even think about putting my safety belt on,” Em says to Nadia. “Do you?”

“Nope.” Nadia pulls her gum out of her mouth and wraps it around her finger.

“Well, you should,” Mom scolds. “Seat belts save lives.”

“They know that, Mother,” I say. “They mean it’s so automatic, they don’t have to think about it.”

Mom goes, “Oh.” And pouts.

Too bad. I have resolved not to let her or anyone bring me down this afternoon. I am going to be upbeat and positive by doing a bit of shopping in preparation for my afternoon at the beach. I needed a new swimsuit, anyway.

A half an hour down the Mass Pike and we’re at the humongous mall. I let Mom off at one of the one thousand entrances and then find a space way far away so I can get a little exercise. Nadia and Em complain, the couch potatoes, but they’ll thank me when they’re middle-aged and fitting into their daughters’ jeans—a fantasy of which I’ve often dreamed.

Inside, Em and Nadia head to Abercrombie while I check on Mom, who’s perusing through a copy of
20/20
magazine in the waiting area of C-Rite optometrists.

“They’re backed up,” Mom says. “Looks like I won’t get in for another hour.”

“An hour?” That’s rubbish.

Obviously, Mom is being pushed around. They spot a little old lady, assume she has nothing better to do, and move her to the back of the line. Well, we’ll have to see about that. One of the most helpful things I’ve learned as a reporter is not to accept the first answer to my question, the first seat assignment on a plane, or the first hotel room offered. There’s always something better being held in reserve.

“It’s been crazy today. Sorry,” the receptionist says, tapping on the keyboard and (supposedly) checking the screen for sooner openings. “If your mom would like to come back on the twenty-fifth, we could do it then.”

Perfect. Find Em and I’ll be out of here in ten minutes. Revere Beach, here I come.

“How about Tuesday?” I ask Mom.

“Okay.”

“The twenty-fifth isn’t a Tuesday,” the receptionist says. “It’s a Friday. The twenty-fifth of August.”

“That’s two months away!”

Mom shakes her head. “Let’s just get this over with now.”

I’m getting a very, very bad feeling about this bad start to our mall adventure. But as I swing out of C-Rite and head for the food court to fetch Mom an iced tea, I remind myself there’s no point in getting upset. The outcome will still be the same whether I’m anxious or not, so I might as well add a few days to my life by being not.

This is known as the Zen of middle age.

Having delivered an iced tea lemon, no sugar, to Mom, I head out to find a swimsuit that will cinch my waist, extend my legs, and uplift my apathetic breasts.

This is known as the pipe dream of middle age.

Like most “normal” women, I dread shopping for swimsuits. The deal is that for nine months out of the year, I maintain an image of my body as being fairly decent. Not great, but decent.

This illusion lasts until I get into the dressing room with five or six swimsuits for which I have extremely high hopes and discover much to my surprise I cannot pull any one over my thighs. Or that another makes my belly balloon out like a frog’s.

Suddenly my body’s not decent, it’s hideous. I am so unsexy and fat it’s unfathomable I could be attractive to any man besides lifers and hard-up hermits. The end result is me in tears, a pile of suits at my feet, and a saleswoman banging on the door asking if I’d like any help.

In my campaign to keep a positive attitude, however, I have resolved to approach today’s swimsuit shopping with an open mind. The fashion industry’s come a long way over the years, I remind myself. It’s no longer ruled by sadistic misogynists who are out to mortify real women. New fabrics, new technology, a renewed appreciation for the Rubenesque frame—surely I’ll be able to find something flattering.

Errr . . . no. Every “figure-flattering” suit I try is a tricky disaster, hidden panels or no hidden panels. Black, the color of choice, makes my skin as pale as the underbelly of a dead snake. The leopard prints on my middle-aged body scream Moira of Boca Raton, not Pam Anderson of Malibu, and anything in bright green, pink, or blue looks preteen. Who am I kidding? I’m no Barbie.

Plus, what the heck are all these bumps on my thighs? Cellulite, I know that. But this isn’t cellu
-lite
, this is cellu-
palooza.
It’s disgusting. I can’t walk along a public beach looking like this.

Which leaves me with the one remaining option: the dreaded skirt suit. My mother wears those. Big one-piece numbers in navy or turquoise with crazy huge Hawaiian flowers stamped all over them. Yes, I am aware the skirted suit is making a comeback. It’s not our grandmother’s suit anymore. That said, a skirt is a skirt. It screams, I’M SELF-CONSCIOUS ABOUT MY CRAP BOD. Also, I’M OLD.

Thoroughly depressed, I leave a huge lump of suits in the dressing room of Macy’s (serves them right for selling such cruel designs) and head back to the food court for the cold calorific comfort of an iced mocha latte. That’s where I bump into Em and Nadia ordering carmellatos.

“We were looking for you,” Em says. “Is it okay if we go to the one-thirty movie? We’ll be out by three.”

My tendency is to say no since Mom might get out earlier. Then I do the math and come to the conclusion that by the end of the matinee, Mom will just be picking out her new eyeglass case, floral or clear.

“Yeah, okay. But keep your cell phone on vibrate in case we need to go,” I say. “We’ll meet back here at the food court as soon as the movie’s over. Be prompt. I don’t want to have to sit around waiting.”

“Sure.” Their answer is in teenage singsong, a clear indication they haven’t heard one little thing.

I check on Mom and find she’s in with the doctor at last. Great. It can’t be that much longer now. After all, C-Rite does promise to have glasses ready “in an hour,” though I’m not clear if this is followed by an unspoken “or else.” Like pizza. “Glasses ready in a hour,
or else
the pair is free.” Or, on a more threatening note, “glasses ready in an hour
or else
every C-Rite employee is fired.” When I’m freed from the basement of WBOS, that’s something I’m going to look into, the whole eyeglasses-in-an -hour scam. It’ll probably be the most popular story I ever do.

With plenty of time to kill, I’m leaning toward a manicure to boost my spirits but find the mall salons are booked solid, it being the wedding season.

“How about a spray tan?” Lanelle, the woman at Salon Goodbye, suggests. “I could do one right now for thirty-five dollars.”