The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus (21 page)

Michael has to pee into a sieve.

If he doesn't pee those stones out

the doctor will have to go in and get them—

a procedure that involves,

among other things,

having a tube shoved into his penis.

So I cheer Michael on.

Telling him I know he can do it.

Telling him I've got a good feeling about this.

Then, after dozens of failed attempts,

with surprisingly little fanfare or pain,

he finally passes the stones.

And somehow this fills me with hope—

hope that our marriage,

with equally little fanfare or pain,

will manage

to pass its stones

as well.

First it burns with desire,

with uncontrolled lust.

You touch each other

and you combust.

But if no one remembers

to stir the embers,

to feed them, poke them,

tend them, stoke them,

the blaze that once sizzled

will sputter and fizzle.

Which is why

I always say:

thank the Lord

for lingerie.

I love that when we first met,

even though he was dating

a Marilyn Monroe look-alike at the time

(I'm not exaggerating—

she was actually getting paid

to impersonate Marilyn Monroe),

he

dumped her for

me.

I love his art, his eyes, his thighs,

and the tiny flecks of paint

that dot his cheeks like freckles.

I love that he has somehow managed

to convince himself that I'm

in better shape now than I've ever been.

I love that he always notices

and compliments me

when I lose weight.

But that he never complains,

or even seems to be aware of it,

when I gain it back.

I love that he's funny,

always saying things like,

“I've succeeded far beneath my wildest dreams.”

Or, “The trouble with me is

that I can make a horse drink,

but I can't lead it to water.”

And I love

that even when he's miserable,

he never stops whistling.

Being married makes me feel

like I'm still trapped in that mine shaft,

only my husband's in there with me.

And there's plenty of air

and candlelight

and champagne for us to sip

while we munch on cheddar

and green grapes

and pecans.

There's plenty of Maugham

and Capote and Maupassant

for us to read aloud to each other,

plenty of Coltrane

and Hawkins and Webster

to saxophone us while we make love.

On a good day,

I'm still trapped in that shaft,

but I'm hoping that the rescue workers

will take

their sweet time

finding us.

The house has a hushed, awestruck vibe.

Even Pinkie is oddly quiet.

Jane and Duncan

have that new-parent glow.

Madison has that new-sibling

shell-shocked look.

She takes our hands

and leads us over to the bassinet.

“Dis is Cwementine,” she says. “She's
mine!”

“Clementine…” I say. “What a pretty name!”

“She
is
pretty,” Michael tells Madison.

“But not nearly as pretty as you.”

The little girl smiles shyly, and says,

“Wiww you push me on my swing?”

“Of course I will,” Michael replies,

and they head out into the backyard.

I look down at Clementine,

swaddled and snoozing,

bracing myself for the usual

tidal wave of yearning.

But it doesn't come!

For the first time in ages,

I'm actually able to look at a baby

and not feel like weeping.

She tells me that in 1979

a sociologist named Ellen Langer

did a study.

This study involved putting a group

of seventy-year-old men into a setting that

made it seem like it was twenty years earlier.

The only magazines, TV shows, games,

books, and music available to these men

were what were popular in 1959,

and they were told

to act and talk

as if it were 1959, too.

Sam tells me

that this study

had amazing results.

That after just one week

not only did these septuagenarians

look younger,

but their joints

became more flexible,

their posture improved,

and their fingers,

which usually get shorter with age,

actually lengthened.

Sam tells me

I should have

a more positive attitude.

And maybe she's right—

maybe if I start picturing myself

with the body I had twenty years ago,

then that little ring of fat, jiggling around

my waistline like a belt made of sausages,

will mysteriously disappear.

Maybe if I don't
feel

ten pounds overweight

I won't
be
ten pounds overweight.

And if I don't
think

I have any wrinkles

I won't
have
any wrinkles.

Maybe if I

stop thinking of my hot flashes

as hot flashes

and start thinking of them

as short private vacations

in the tropics,

I'll suddenly

find myself

with a nice deep tan.

But something like intuition compels me

to slog through the infinite indignities

of getting ready to go out—

the hair dye, the blow-dry, the plucking,

the potions, the depressing descent

into the depths of my closet:

Am I thin enough to wear this?

Courageous enough to wear that?

Daft enough to don those?

I don't feel

at all like going

to the party

but something like longing

propels me to barrel out into the night

with my husband anyhow.

And something like destiny gets us there

just in time to see our host place a match

to the logs he's laid on the hearth;

just in time

to witness the conflagration

that erupts.

And I'm so amazed I have to ask:

“How did you get the fire to catch like that

with just a single match?”

Our host smiles a that's-easy smile,

then reaches into a sack and hands me something.

“Pinecones are the trick,” he says.

Pinecones…?!

I think back on all the hours I've wasted

balling up newspaper and shoving it under logs.

I recall all the fallen pinecones

I've been passing by for years on my daily runs,

littering my path like benign grenades.

To me

they'd seemed like nothing more

than sprained ankles waiting to happen.

That sometimes,

when you

stop

and take a look around,

when you pause

for a moment

and look again,

through a whole new lens,

at what you've been looking at all your life,

you're able to see for the first time

the things you've been

taking for granted…

Which is when

I decide

that from now on

even if

I don't feel like going

to the party,

especially
if

I don't feel like going

to the party,

I will

always
go

to the party.

Now that my mother is off of steroids

and done with rehab and out of the hospital,

she's living at home.

Alone.

I've tried to convince her

to come to California and live with
us
.

But she says fish and visitors

stink after three days.

And besides,

she'd miss her house,

and her friends,

and raking the leaves.

I've tried to convince her to let me find

someone to move in with her and look after her.

But she says she likes her privacy;

says she doesn't
need
any looking after.

And no matter how much I wheedle

and threaten, no matter how much I insist,

she refuses to wear

the emergency necklace I gave her—

the one with the button on it

that she can press to summon help

in case she ever falls down again

and can't get back up.

“That thing gets in my way,” she grouses.

“It's ugly. It makes me feel

like a helpless old woman.

And I may be old, but I am
not
helpless.”

So I call her every day

to make sure she's okay.

And most of the time she's perfectly fine,

her wit sharper than a paper cut.

Sometimes, though,

there almost seems to be

a suspicious frost in her tone,

as though she's not quite sure

I am who I say I am.

My mother doesn't answer.

I tell myself she's probably

just taking a nap.

But fear's icy fingers

grab my throat

and won't let go.

I finally call

her next-door neighbor Eric

and beg him to knock on her door.

Then, I stand here waiting—

with my eyes shut tight,

and the phone nearly crushing my ear,

trying

very hard

not to imagine

my mother's corpse.

Before Eric

saunters back onto the line

and informs me

that my mother's fine,

I promise God

that if he lets my mother live

I will finish writing

my book.

Sequestering myself in my office

with Secret purring in my lap,

only emerging

for meals.

Michael's been great about

not interrupting me.

He's even been cooking

and doing all the errands

and fielding calls

from Roxie.

I've been so totally focused

on my manuscript

that when my mother calls

to ask me what I want for my birthday

she catches me by surprise.

“My birthday…?” I say.

“It's next week, dear. Had you forgotten?”

“Wow…I guess I had…”

Last year,

my birthday loomed over me

like a vulture waiting

to pick my bones clean.

But this year, I hadn't even

noticed it was coming.

“So tell me what you'd like,” she says.

“What have you been wishing for?”

“Oh, I don't know, Mom.

I don't really need anything…”

But then it hits me,

in one of those blinding flashes.

“Actually, Mom,” I say, “there
is

something I've been wishing for.”

Then I pause for effect.

“Well? What is it, Holly?”

“I've been wishing you'd wear

that emergency necklace I got you.”

There's a silence

on the other end of the line.

Then

I hear a deep sigh.

“Darling,” my mother says, “are you sure

you wouldn't rather have a Mercedes?”

I crack up.

“I'm sure, Mom.”

“Then I'll wear your damn necklace.

But
not
when my beau comes over.”

“Your beau…?!” I say.

“You've got a
beau?”

“Why yes, dear…Eric—from next door.

He's a
lovely
man.”

My heart dances a little jig in my chest.

“That's incredible, Mom. I'm so happy for you!”

“I'm sort of robbing the cradle…” she confides.

“He's only seventy-five.”

And both of us burst out laughing,

as a river of relief flows through me.