The Interruption of Everything (4 page)

“And sex? Don’t even get me started. We’ve done it the same two, three, or four exciting ways in the same two exciting places—his side or my side of the bed for almost a quarter of a century and even though I’ve sort of gotten used to it, I’m really tired of being used to it. Of having empty orgasms—when I’m lucky enough to have one. I’ve told Leon that the clitoris has eight thousand nerve cells…”

“It does?” Bunny asks.

I just roll my eyes at her.

“Roscoe knows where they all are, baby. Sorry.”

“Anyway, all I want is for him to find one. And remember where it was. He used to ask me what would make me feel good. He used to tell me I was pretty even though it wasn’t true.”

“But you are pretty,” Paulette says.

“I agree,” Bunny says.

“I am not. But hell, lie to me!”

“He might be trying to lower your self-esteem.”

“Shut up, Bunny,” I say.

“Please do,” Paulette says. “And finish the whole textbook before you speak on a topic and embarrass yourself in public, would you?”

Bunny’s eyes are scouring the room—she’s looking for her notes.

“I’m almost finished. Anyway, it’s insulting to me that he’s assumed I’d always respond to the same stimuli when even mice don’t. I’m a woman, not a damn mouse! But Leon doesn’t seem to know it. They say ask for what you want. Well, what happens when you ask and you still don’t get it? I don’t mean to attack him.” I take a sip of my drink and sink a little.

“Finished already?” Paulette says.

“Just one last thing,” I say.

“May I interject?” Bunny asks, like she’s in a courtroom.

“No,” Paulette says. “Carry on, Marilyn.”

“Try to make it snappy because I’ve gotta be up by six,” Bunny says in what must be her personal-training voice.

“I just want a little passion.”

“You already talked about that, Marilyn.”

“Will you relax, Bunny,” Paulette says, and pops her on the head. “You know how we do this and you know it takes as long as it takes. When we’re listening to every detail of your health club dramedy and the emotional difficulties your damn cats are having or whatever…do we rush you?”

“No. Sorry, Marilyn. Go on.”

“Thank you. But I need to say this. I’m not talking about the kind of passion missing in the Department of Love. There are so many other areas in my life where passion should exist. Like I wish I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. But I don’t. I don’t count the twenty-four hours a week I spend at Heavenly Creations. I work there because it helps to support my hobbies, which I do for fun. Hell, I live for my employee discount and getting first dibs on all the merchandise. But it’s just a job. I want to do something that I get a real charge out of. How do you find what really lifts your skirt or know if you have any talent or marketable skills?”

“I need to think about that one,” Bunny says.

“I’ll put it this way. I’ll be fifty before I know it and then sixty and hopefully seventy. I watch elderly people and some of them are weary and some of them seem to have a look on their faces that says: ‘I’ve lived. I’ve been through a lot. But I not only made it, I’ve come out ahead. It took some doing, but I did it. I paid attention to my heart and my brain once I stopped confusing the two. I finally got it right and here I am sitting on this park bench reading a good book, which I occasionally put down simply to watch all these young fools live as if life is some endless roller coaster when in fact it’s a waltz.’”

“I think you’re just lonely,” Paulette says.

“How in the world could she be lonely with a husband and Arthurine and that dog in the house?” Bunny asks.

“Maybe you’ll read about how that works in future chapters, ya think?” Paulette says to Bunny.

“I think that you and Leon have grown apart because you’ve been too busy being Mom and Dad when you both just need to get your freak on.”

“All I was trying to say was I think I need to make some changes, and I’m scared and it’s not all Leon’s fault and I don’t blame him but I just don’t want to end up old and be full of regrets. I don’t want the list of all the things I meant to do or wanted to do to be longer than the things I did do. That’s all.”

“You need some courage,” Paulette says. “And faith in yourself.”

“And don’t forget about God,” Bunny says.

“I couldn’t forget God if I wanted to.”

“You miss those twins, don’t you?” Bunny says.

“Of course I do. But this isn’t about them.”

“You should consider going back to school,” Paulette says.

“I am.”

“Where? And when? And in what?” Bunny says.

“I hope it’s not online, is it?” Paulette asks.

“No. I applied to the California College of Arts and Crafts and the Academy of Arts in San Francisco for their MFA programs. Just for the hell of it.”

“Right the fuck on!” Paulette says. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Yeah, so what are you whining about?” Bunny says.

“I don’t know what my chances are of getting in. And it may not have been the smartest thing to do.”

“Well it’s definitely not a
dumb
thing to do. What exactly is an MFA? I get my acronyms confused sometimes.”

“We know you do,” Paulette says. “Master of fine arts. Write it down. How does Leon feel about it?”

“I haven’t told him. I want to wait and see what happens.”

“What are you going to do with this degree if you get it?”

“I don’t know. Color, Bunny.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”

“You’ve seen some of the stuff the girl makes, Bunny. She’ll be able to expand her repertoire and perhaps refine it even more.”

“Thank you, Paulette. I could not have put it better.”

“Okay, I want to hop back to the other topic before I forget what I wanted to say. I myself think you put too much emphasis on love and marriage,” Bunny says.

“How would you know?”

“First of all, I don’t buy the ‘till death do us part’ business. How can you guarantee that you’ll love someone until you die? And how long is forever? How in the hell are you supposed to know how you’re going to feel five, ten, or twenty years from now unless you’re clairvoyant?”

“Good point,” I say.

“I mean, should you feel bad because your feelings change? Hell, maybe we weren’t meant to stay with one person forever. Maybe we weren’t meant to get off on different exits at different times in our lives, I don’t know.”

“You certainly don’t,” Paulette says. “Marriage requires cooperation and compromise and patience. As soon as you’re not willing to do that, you both lose.”

“I’m getting sleepy,” Bunny says.

“It still takes two to cooperate,” I say.

“This we can all agree on. Now,” Bunny says, standing up and finally kicking those high heels off. “I’m letting the cats out in two minutes. Oh shoot, there’s my backpack!”

But it’s not hers, it’s mine. I bought her one just like it last year for Christmas. Before I can stop her, Bunny’s already unzipped it and is pulling out the necklace.

“What in the world is this? It’s gorgeous. I know you’re not making this, are you, Marilyn?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Don’t be no fool, girl, you stay in school. Who’s it for? And when did you start making jewelry, hussie?”

“It was supposed to be a surprise for your birthday but I don’t know how to finish it…”

“Don’t you worry about that. I can’t believe you made this. Can you, Paulette?”

“As a matter of fact I can. Marilyn has completely underestimated her talent but overestimated her friend’s taste. I think your neck is too short for that necklace, but mine is perfect. You can use my Nordstrom’s card and get the girl a gift certificate. No. I’ll give you twenty dollars and just go to Walgreen’s.”

“You go straight to you know where,” Bunny says and walks over and gives me a kiss while handing it back to me.

“Don’t kill yourself trying to finish it, Marilyn. But the people at your job should know how to do this, shouldn’t they?”

“I guess so.”

“It’s the thought that counts. But anyway, this year, ladies, I’m afraid I’m off to Vegas with a friend for the celebration of my birth.”

“And you’ll be how old again?” I ask, not really wanting an answer.

“I’ll be forty. You broads know that. Stop playing dumb. Now out!”

And we are gone. And somehow the inside of my chest feels lighter.

Chapter 3

I
arrive at my doctor’s office a few minutes late because the new but old receptionist neglected to tell me they had moved to a larger office two floors down. I didn’t say a word, just smiled when I signed in. She looked up when she saw me and said, “Still alive, huh?”

I didn’t think this was so funny but I winked at her and cracked a fake smile as I dropped my five-ton backpack on the floor and sat in one of eight uncomfortable lavender and gray curved chairs. “Is Dr. Hilton running pretty much on schedule, today?”

“As a matter of fact, she is, but there are two patients ahead of you. She should be able to see you in the next fifteen minutes. Give or take a few.”

I didn’t see anyone else in the waiting room, so maybe she was already playing musical doors. I looked down at the pile of women’s magazines, searching for a headline that might speak directly to me: “Flip Your Fat-Burning Switch Instantly”
Like right now? There. It’s flipped. Onto the “no” pile.
“Lose 10 Pounds in 48 Hours on the 7-Day Miracle Diet.”
Worth a peek.
It goes on the “yes or maybe” pile to my right. “Buff Up Just by Thinking about Exercise.”
Bunny, Miss Fitness Director herself, would have a stroke if I read this because I’ve been
thinking
about exercising for years.
“Go Dancing Now!”
Okay. But who would I go with? Leon the Dancing Machine?
“Surprising Medical Alert: Housework Can Make You Sick!”
I already know this.

I continue my quest: “Your 10 Biggest Beauty Problems Vanish on Page 150.” I say aloud: “But what if they don’t and what if you have more than ten?” as I toss it on top of the “no” pile and slide all the rest of them over to form one big stack. Then I just stop.

Over the years, at the grocery store checkout, I’ve flipped through and read thousands of these articles, and by the time I reached the cash register, I’d already feel thinner, making it seem ludicrous to spend good money on the magazine. Last year I stopped buying them altogether when it finally hit me that in the years I’d been buying them, I’d never actually followed any of their diet or workout programs. I don’t even want to add up the number of exercise videos I have that I’ve never even broken the cellophane wrappers on.

If I had done half the things these magazines and videos had suggested, I would have been or would still be an emotionally balanced, picture-perfect mother of three in excellent shape who was also a great cook and who not only fulfilled her husband’s every sexual desire and fantasy but whose own would somehow have magically gotten met since she would have learned to ask for what she wanted, but this of course was assuming that I did in fact get it, which has turned out not to be the case.

I look at my watch. It’s two forty-three. I clear my throat, get up, and get some water from the dispenser.

“Mrs. Grimes, did you bring the questionnaire Dr. Hilton asked that you bring with you?”

I knew it was something I was supposed to remember to bring! “I forgot it.”

“Many do. Here’s another one. Fill out as much as you can, as quickly as you can and I’ll put it in your chart.”

The form required that I check “yes” or “no” if I had been experiencing any of the symptoms noted below, and there was room for explanation, if I thought it necessary.

Memory Lapses? Yes. Mostly words.
My once fertile vocabulary has shrunk to that of an eighth grader and I find myself using profanity to compensate. Sometimes it feels just like it did when I smoked an occasional joint in college: I can walk into a room and completely forget what the hell I went in there for; open the fridge and stand there for long minutes wondering what it was I wanted. Sometimes I actually feel like I’m going nuts, but I know I’m not because if I was, I wouldn’t be thinking I was going nuts. Plus, I don’t have enough good reasons to go nuts. At least none I can remember.

Hot Flashes? Yep.
It’s only been the past six or seven months, but it seems like they’ve evolved: it started out feeling like the inside of my body was being dabbed here and there with mild salsa and then a thick layer of very hot salsa. Now, I’ve had to switch from cappuccinos to decaf iced lattes because the combination of caffeine and hot liquid lingered inside me long after it passed through my body.

Mood Swings? Yes.
For years I was just your average PMSer, but according to my mother-in-law: once a bitch, always a bitch.

Trouble Concentrating? Who doesn’t?
But I always have: on things I didn’t want to spend too much time thinking about anyway.

Vaginal Dryness? Yes.
Hah! Only when Leon didn’t give me any advance notice that he had something in mind and before realizing he was already “inside the doorway to my love” so to speak. Dry was putting it mildly. It’s probably closer to a big clam, like the ones you see in an aquarium: they’re cracked wide open until you walk up and tap on the glass and then they snap shut. Except of course when I allow myself the freedom to fantasize and pretend that it’s Rick Fox or the bowlegged guy from
CSI: Las Vegas
or the brother with the gray eyes from
CSI: Las Vegas
or the Latin brother on
CSI: Miami
or David Beckham or Sting or Seal or Ian Thorpe’s father or Delroy Lindo or Omar Epps or the African brother from the movie
Amistad
who said “We want free,” but then he also did a guest run on
ER.
On any given night any one of them might participate in the festivities by slowly sliding and slithering themselves all over me so that I get moist all right, damn near liquid, and afterward, Leon once again thinks he’s been magnificent when in fact he’s had quite a bit of help.

Temper Changes?
While driving I tend to scream at people, especially on the 680 South and it’s probably a good thing I don’t own a gun because if I did, over the past year, I probably would’ve used it. I am not a violent person and I’m afraid of guns so I know something’s going on. Things that used to not even faze me now get on what’s left of my nerves: waiting in any line for anything longer than thirty seconds; the blond woman on
Entertainment Tonight
who smiles incessantly; boring people who think they’re interesting; sidewalks that end for no reason; cell phones ringing in public places and everybody reaching in their purse thinking it’s theirs; children in cars with a parent smoking and those with no seat belts on but Mom is strapped in. And just because I know there are still more questions ahead, Arthurine’s dingy-white toy poodle—Snuffy—(who should probably be dipping it), who’s deaf, has arthritis, low thyroid and is too fat to walk up the stairs. Sometimes I have to carry him for her and he stinks because he has a hard time going not to mention giving him an arsenal of pills twice a day. Okay,
STOP IT
, Marilyn,
RIGHT NOW
! Move on!

Do you know at what age your mother went through menopause? No.
And what difference does it make? As soon as I hear myself think this, I realize how stupid it sounds even in my head.

“Excuse me,” I say to the receptionist. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Nancy. All finished?”

“Almost. Nancy, I was wondering if I have five more minutes of waiting, and if so, I can call my mother to get the answer to this one question…”

“Dr. Hilton has had an unexpected emergency, but she’ll be back in the office in about twenty minutes, Mrs. Grimes. So take your time.”

I look at my watch. It’s now 3:05. It’s my day off. But I left clothes in the dryer that I could’ve folded and another load of whites soaking. I could’ve set the rhinestones on the lampshade I was making. I take my cell phone out into the hallway and then down the stairwell until I’m outside where I bump into a lemon tree but am able to get service. I dial Lovey’s number—which is what she’s always preferred to be called rather than Mama. When she answers, her voice is barely audible. “Lovey?”

“Yes, this is me. Who is this?”

At first I think she’s kidding.

“Who does it sound like?”

“I ain’t got time for games, so spit it out before I hang up this phone.”

“It’s me, Marilyn, Lovey.”

“Then why didn’t you say so? What can I do for you?”

“I’m at my doctor’s office and she wants to know how old you were when you went through the Change.”

“That’s a very personal subject, Marilyn, and a very private matter and like I said, it’s personal and private.”

“Lovey, why are you whispering? Who’s there?”

“Nobody but me and your daddy.”

“What did you say?”

“I’m just feeling Herman deep in my heart today, that’s all. What time is it there?”

“It’s three o’clock in Oakland, Lovey. The same time it is right there in Fresno—two hundred whole miles from here. Lovey, is something wrong? Are you feeling depressed?”

“No no no. I just can’t see the clock from where I’m sitting.” Herman was my daddy. He’s supposedly dead. I don’t remember what he looks like. Lovey tore up all his pictures. Don’t remember the sound of his voice. Just that I supposedly look like a female version of him. Word on the street was that he left Fresno city limits driving south on Highway 99 heading for Vegas on the Fourth of July, 1960, to find some woman named Petralee whom he’d met at—and apparently fell head over heels in love with while stumbling in and out of—an orchard bar. No one has ever seen or heard from him since.

My foster sister, Joy, whom I dearly love and hate as if we were born to the same parents, does not want to remember the people who abandoned her when she was six and turned her over to the state of California, county of Fresno, for love and caregiving. That person turned out to be my mother, whose real name is Louvelle Dupree and whose only other child would be me, Marilyn, who had two years earlier already left to attend college in the Bay Area causing “Lovey” to suffer a serious case of the empty nest. She said she felt useless and needed somebody other than needy parishioners and neighbors to talk to without having to pray with them or do their hair in her hot kitchen. So she fostered Joy and then adopted her. Lovey was so proud when Joy got stars on her report card for being thoughtful and helpful because she was the same at home. But as Joy became more high-spirited, her mannerisms were not as amusing to Lovey. Joy turned a corner and things went bad.

On several occasions, Joy did stints in juvenile hall for various youthful infractions. Lovey tried to give her back to the state, but waited too long. Joy had already turned eighteen and had one baby and then another and now she’s done a grand job of convincing Lovey, who is all of sixty-seven, that she is needed around the house. It’s most likely Joy and her undisciplined little brats who are probably Lovey’s major source of stress.

“Is Joy there now?”

“I doubt it. She ain’t never here. But those little Flintstones should be running around here somewhere.”

“I’ll call back later, Lovey. You sure you’re okay?”

“I ain’t answering no more questions. Good-bye.” Click.

Something is wrong in Bedrock, since she brought it up. If I smoked, this would be a good time for a cigarette, but I just do what Trudy suggested Maureen do, and take a series of slow breaths as I walk back up the stairs and sit down inside the waiting room where two other women are now sitting. One, dressed in a conventional navy blue suit, is on her cell phone, which rings every fifteen seconds because she keeps saying her name and title and “hold” like this is her office without walls. The other woman is so thin she looks like a hard pretzel. She’s in running clothes and looks to be in her early thirties. Her tiny muscles pop out like golf balls on arms. When she crosses her legs, I can hear them crack. I want her to eat something right now. I bet she doesn’t get her period either.

Have You Noticed Any Unaccounted for Weight Gain? Yes.
It’s gotten to the point that I can’t even stand to look at myself naked in the mirror anymore because it is not my body I see, it’s the body of some middle-aged woman who’s letting herself go.

I try to move my backpack with my right foot, which seems to have fallen asleep. It weighs a ton. Last night I took all the stuff out of both glove compartments and stuffed it in here so I could sort through it over a decaf latte, but
not
at Starbucks. I have started boycotting them since they’ve started appearing like dandelions on corners within urban, rural—and from what I’ve seen on MTV—even within international hotels and blocks of third-world countries, thus giving me a sense that they’ve come to Earth pretending to be philanthropic when in fact they are really an alien empire sent here to take over the world by sprinkling a little something extra into the drinks. We, their addicted slaves, don’t even realize that we have learned a new language—their language. Many of us cannot even afford their stock since they went public, but have shown a different kind of loyalty by spending astronomical amounts of money once known mainly to drug addicts for coffee and tea, but somehow we don’t seem to mind. Well, I mind.

Where was I? Oh, yeah: sorting through my backpack. I’ve damn near forgotten I was even in a doctor’s office when the nurse or whatever she’s called pokes her head through the door and says, “Marilyn, would you like to come with me?” I want to say: “No, I just came here to read magazines for an hour since I have nothing else to do,” but I just follow her.

“Let’s get your weight,” she says.

“Let’s not,” I say.

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” she says.

I don’t know what that perfume is she’s wearing but it smells like gasoline. Why is it that people who wear cheap perfume always have to slather it on?

“So what brings you here today, Marilyn?”

Can’t she read? I’m not repeating it. Not without screaming. So I say as calmly as I can, “Well, Dr. Hilton asked if I could come in today so she could explain the results of my blood test.”

She opens a brown folder and flips it open. “That’s indeed what I see here.”

“Does it show my hormone levels?”