The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus (12 page)

Even as I click the shutter

to capture this moment forever—

Samantha's swirling blue curtain

of robes,

her classic square hat

tipped at a rakish angle,

her hair cascading down from beneath it

like a shining brunette waterfall,

the glimmer in her eyes

so full of future…

Even as I click

the shutter

I can almost hear

her
daughter saying,

“Wow! Look how cute mom

was when she was my age…”

And I can almost hear

her
daughter saying,

“Omigod! Look at Grandma's

weird old-fashioned hairstyle…”

And I can almost hear

her
daughter saying,

“Whoa…What an amazing old photo!

I wonder who that girl is…”

Her voice is two octaves higher than usual.

She says she's been looking all over for her cat,

Max, but she can't find him anywhere.

Then,

in a tone colder than dry ice,

she hisses, “Why did you steal him from me?”

“Mom,” I say. “You're confused.

Max wasn't
your
cat.

He was
my
cat…Remember?

He used to sit on my lap while I wrote.

But then, last summer, that car hit him…

Remember…?”

My heart

heaves itself into my throat

at the memory of this…

But my mother's not having any of it.

“You had that poor creature put to sleep

and now you're trying to have
me
put to sleep!”

So I hang up and call Dr. Hack

to ask him when he can start weaning her

off the steroids.

He says

cutting back before mid-July

would be unwise

because the good news is

that the drugs are working—

my mother's stronger and in much less pain.

He says the bad news is

that they've affected her mind:

she's hostile, delusional, and paranoid.

Plus, he says my mother's got this spiky fever.

He says the polymyositis could be causing it,

but that cancer could
also
be causing it.

He says she has a mass in her breast

that they should test.

“She has a
what?”
I say.

“A maaaasssss,” he repeats, slowly and clearly,

as though explaining something to a small child.

“And she'll need to have her colon tested, too.”

Suddenly, I feel like

I've been shot through with Novocain.

“Of course…” I say. “Her colon…”

I hang up the phone

without even saying good-bye

and hear Pinkie yapping

like there's no tomorrow.

Then I call my mother right back

and tell her I'm going to book a flight

and spend the July 4th weekend with her.

She doesn't sound angry anymore,

but she says she doesn't feel up to

having any visitors.

I hang up and try to book a flight anyway.

But I guess the universe

is on my mother's side—

because, for the first time in recorded history,

there are no weekend flights available

to Cleveland.

I don't let that stop me, though.

I keep right on

scouring Travelocity.

Maybe I can get there

on Sunday or Monday or…

Then Michael intercedes.

“Myra may be nuts right now, Holly.

But she's made it pretty clear

she doesn't want any visitors.”

“Besides,” he adds,

“you're so anxious you'd probably

just make
her
more anxious.”

And,

damn it all—

he's got a point.

She says

Michael's absolutely right.

She says if I showed up in Cleveland

I'd drive my mother

even crazier

than she already is.

“Besides,” she says, “Don't you realize

what a fantastic sign this is?”

“What are you talking about?” I say

“If Michael were having an affair,

he'd be
encouraging
you to leave town.

Not trying to convince you to stay home!”

Relief washes over me.

I really, really want to believe her…

But then another thought strikes—

“What if Michael's just using

reverse psychology on me,

to try to trick me into
going?”

I can almost hear

Alice's eyes rolling

in the silence that follows.

“What…?”
I say.

“Nothing…” she says.

“You think I'm an idiot, don't you?” I say.

“No,” she says,

“I think you are overwrought.

And I think you should stay home.”

So I do.

Dr. Hack says the good news

is that my mother's fever

has finally broken.

He says the bad news

is that the lab is backed up

because of the long holiday weekend,

so the biopsy results

won't be in

for at least a week.

“But no news is good news,” he quips.

“No it
isn't,
” I snap.

“No news is
no
news.”

And I guess

he thinks my snarky remark

is a joke,

because he starts chuckling—

that hideous, nerve-jangling,

nails-on-the-blackboard chuckle of his…

I swear to God,

if he keeps this up

he's
going to need a doctor.

Is it a bad sign

if whenever the telephone rings

you break out

in such an awful case of hives

that your skin feels bumpier

than a book written in Braille?

Still no word

from Dr. Hack.

Time creeps by

like a snail on quaaludes…

Samantha spends her days at the beach

with Wendy, Tess, and Laura.

Michael holes up in his studio and paints.

I wander through a fog that never lifts—

ignoring Roxie's emails and calls;

trying my best to tune out Jane's trumpet,

Duncan's drums, Madison's tantrums,

and Pinkie's constant yapping.

I call my mother every day to check on her,

but she's so crazed from the steroids

that she's oblivious to the fact

that her body might be riddled with cancer.

I, on the other hand,

can think of nothing else.

I've given up trying to write.

I've given up trying to do
any
thing.

The only upside

of being so worried

about the results

of my mother's biopsies

is that it's keeping me

from worrying about

You Know Who

and You Know Who

doing who knows what.

Flowery stationery.

Scented candles.

Polka-dot socks.

Gardening books.

She doesn't really need any of these things,

but I couldn't bear another minute

of just sitting around the house

waiting to hear from Dr. Hack.

Besides, it'll make me feel better

to stick them into the box

with the butterscotch brownies

Sam whipped up for her last night.

Though when I spread out all the gifts

and sit down to wrap them,

I discover that my scissors are missing.

Big shock, right?

But there's no point

in calling Michael to ask him

to bring them down to my office—

because he's out buying art supplies.

At least that's what

the note he left

claimed

he was doing.

And storm past our ailing pepper tree,

taking the stairs to Michael's studio

two at a time.

But as soon as I shove open the door,

my eyes land on his computer screen,

which happens to show his email in-box.

And I have no desire to even
glance
at it

Really.

I don't.

But there's like

this irresistible gravitational pull

or something

because, before I know it,

I'm reading subject headings

like:

“can you sneak away?”

and “something ‘secret' to show you…”

and “will I see you later on?”

And all of them

are from someone named

“Redmama”!

What if

Michael's with Redmama

this very instant?

What if

“later on”

is right
now?

What if

life as I've known it

is over?

I can feel my face turning

whiter than the untouched canvas

propped on Michael's easel.

My fingers
itch

to open those emails.

Should I…?

Or shouldn't I…?

And hovers

over the mouse.

I am

one click away

from finally knowing

for sure

whether or not

Michael's having an affair with Brandy…

But do I really

want
to know?

The kitchen's screen door

slams open—

Oh, no! It's Michael!

I yank my hand away from his computer,

my blood churning now

like river water during a flood.

But then I hear
Sam's
voice.

“Mom…? Where are you?

I'm back from the beach…”

I hadn't known

I'd been holding my breath,

but now I exhale and shout, “Here I am!”

while relief and…

the
opposite
of relief

ricochet through my body like pinballs.

So I stagger down the stairs

and head into the kitchen with her.

“Any word on Grandma?” she asks.

“Not yet…” I say, feeling my cheeks flush.

I haven't even been
thinking
about my mother.

I am the worst daughter ever.

“Where's Dad?” Sam asks.

“Out,” I say, cracking two eggs into a bowl.

“Out where?” she asks.

That's what I'd like to know,

I think to myself.

Or what I
wouldn't
like to know…

But I don't say any of this out loud.

I just tell Samantha

her father's buying art supplies.

“Well,” Sam says, taking out a frying pan,

“I called him half an hour ago

and he didn't pick up his cell.”

An icy tremor races up my spine.

I begin beating the eggs

to a bloody pulp.

“Oh, you know how Dad is…” I say,

beating the bejeezus

out of those eggs.

“He's always turning off his phone

and then forgetting

to turn it back on.”

And when I reach

into the drawer for a knife,

I somehow manage to nick my finger.

“Shit!”
I say,

as tears start rolling

down my cheeks.

Sam doesn't know

the
real
reason

I'm crying.

But she sees the drop of blood

seeping from my finger

and runs for a Band-Aid.

A minute later,

while she's helping me put it on,

she says,

“You're really letting

this biopsy thing get to you, Mom.

What
you
need is some retail therapy.”

I don't tell her

I just spent all morning

shopping for my mother.

I leap at the chance to get out of the house—

away from those emails

and my roiling thoughts.