What Doesn't Kill You (9 page)

I couldn't believe this was happening now. I mean, they weren't exactly out to pasture, but they were supposed to be contented. I dropped Mom off at the house, told Dad I needed him to ride with me to find a gas station. While we rounded the drives, past the neat new homes in this pensioner's paradise, I wondered where the hussy lived. Or was she tucked away in some other enclave—a Crown Victoria driving vixen looking for a playmate? I pulled into the empty parking lot of a closed dental office, still not sure how to put this. I was not in the habit of confronting my father about anything, much less his extramarital sex life. I gripped the wheel, looked straight ahead. “Mom says you're cheating on her.”

“Oh, for cryin' out loud! Is that what she thinks?”

Music to my ears. Now, I realize people lie about things like that—I had not exactly been a pillar of truth with my own
daughter when it came to my…situation. But my father can't lie worth dirt. Not to me—never could, not about the tooth fairy, or the Easter bunny, and when I asked if he was happy I had gotten married, he said, “If you're still happy in a few years, I will be too.” Guess he and Mom knew a little something about the long run. And truth is, I figured I'd be like them when I got married, but I think that brand of love has been in short supply since the '50s. Or maybe I hadn't figured out where to look for it.

When we got back to the house, Daddy barged in the guest room and started in. “I've been with you all these years, Bernice. Why in hell would I wait 'til I went bald and got arthritis in my knees to go tippin'?”

“'cause you got old and foolish—wearin' plaid pants and callin' yourself playin' golf.” Mom sucked her teeth, got up and walked past him, just as nice as you please, but he followed. They fussed about where he went and what he did when he got there. Then he said she had gotten boring and stuck in her ways. It was like watching two old opponents in the ring, and I didn't want either one to win or to lose. Eventually they retreated to their neutral corners, but at least they were fussing, which was better than the silent treatment. And that evening Mom thawed some of those homemade TV dinners she fixes and keeps in the freezer. The only conversation at the table was when Daddy asked the blessing and we both said, “Amen.” But we ate together, and slept separately, me on the old squeaky sofa bed, since the guest room was still occupied.

Next morning I started tackling boxes. I liked having something to do—sorting, folding, arranging, making lists of what they needed. I'm good at getting things organized. Soon Mom came in to supervise, still not saying she was planning to stay.

They got into it again right before lunch. Dad had taken to going to the clubhouse dining room in the afternoon and Mom went off—didn't know why he, all of a sudden, had to go out for lunch when she'd been fixing it for him all the years they'd been together. Then there was the real sore point: he played bridge after lunch. Seemed Dad had become a regular card sharp. When he said, “Why don't you come play with me?” she told him he already had a partner, and besides she played bid whist, then went back in her room and slammed the door. Bingo. So in my role as Dr. Tee, PhD of daughterly reason, I went to investigate.

Yes, he did indeed have a partner, a widow from Cincinnati named Marge, who was a decent bridge player, with very low hussy potential. Homewrecking hussies do not wear argyle sweater vests and black lace-ups with white anklets. I'm sure she was only interested in my father's cards, so I had to hip Daddy to the fact his wife was jealous. “Of Marge?” He looked surprised, but he got a little sparkle in his eye too, like he was proud Mom still got jealous over him. That evening he came walking in with his and hers track suits, with their names embroidered on the jacket. Not my idea of romantic, but Mom perked up some. Guess nothing says love like matching, monogrammed clothes.

There were enough activities at Shoreline to keep you busy from morning 'til night, and my mother had not participated in any of them, so next day I dragged her to an aerobics class. I was more winded than some of the retirees, which is pitiful, but during cool-down several people said they hoped to see Mom next time. Then, before she could object, I drove to the clubhouse for lunch. She was about to catch an attitude when Daddy pulled up next to us, looking so happy to see her. So she ate, and talked to people, even Marge. Mom admitted the
food wasn't half bad, which from her was a rave, and she stayed afterwards to watch Dad play bridge. I took the opportunity to slip away. Mr. Ferguson, a former plumber from Indianapolis, was a little too anxious to know about my plans for the evening, and I just wasn't ready to date a man with Geritol on his breath.

After a few days I knew things were better. They both started asking me when I had to get back to work. I said not to worry, I had some time. Oh yeah, I had
lots
of that. But as long as I was playing matchmaker and social director, my own clock wasn't ticking so loud. And it was kind of nice having Mom ask me, “What are we gonna do today?” while she poured me coffee. So we explored the malls—Mom needed new duds, and I was tired of washing out those same panties. I picked up a few other items too—on sale. Had to keep up my image for Mr. Ferguson. We even found a beauty shop where she got an acceptable relaxer, which she swore was impossible beyond New York City, and a haircut that was more flattering than anything she had worn in years. And while I was under the dryer it occurred to me that part of my mother's problem was that she didn't drive. In the city Mom had buses, subways, gypsy cabs and my father. Now she was down to the Leon Express, and I know she didn't want to be in his pocket all the time.

Ever try teaching your mother to drive? Don't. She challenged everything I said, like she knew reverse from park. Pretty soon I remembered that it didn't work for Amber and me either, which may say something about the patience level of the teacher. In any case, I found a little driving school that specialized in novice seniors and signed her up. Dad was delighted—started surfing the classifieds to get Mom a little putt-putt. Another problem solved.

I knew they'd be alright after the night they went out on a date. Mom got all dolled. She'd even gotten the hang of her new hairdo after I showed her how to set it. They put on their Barbie and Ken track suits and went for dinner and a movie. And when they got back they were holding hands, and Mom said I could take the guest room since my back must be killing me—like my aching bones had anything to do with their little reunion. But it meant my mission was accomplished, which should have meant I took my butt home. Which I planned to do the next day. And the day after that. I don't know—it was nice being in a place where there was no rush hour, and around people who were not stressing about why they didn't get a promotion or what the new boss wanted. And the place was so beautiful. We did some furniture shopping, picked out a closet system and arranged to have it installed. I even went to the driving range with my father and Mr. Ferguson—Andy—who was very sweet and mostly harmless. He just liked to flirt—guess it keeps you young, at least at heart.

Except while I was teeing off, Amber was blowing my cover. This time it was Mom who flung open the door before the car stopped rolling. Those arms laced across her chest meant somebody was in trouble and I thought,
What did Daddy do now?
except she was after me. “When were you going to tell us you got fired?” Oops. Amber told me later that she figured since I'd been with them so long I must have said something. At the time I was too PO'd to appreciate her logic and before my head caught up with my mouth I said some pretty hot things about minding her own business. But I'm ahead of myself. First, I had to deal with my parents. Testifying before Congress would be easier. At least they let you take the fifth.

Now you have to understand, my parents were not unem
ployed for ten minutes in their adult lives, so this was the equivalent of being struck by lightning—twice. I had to backpedal my way through the whole sorry saga, while talking them down from the edge of hysteria. Mom kept moaning about how they shouldn't have sold the house because then I could move in with them. I assured her I didn't need to move anywhere and frankly I'd sooner pitch a tent in the woods than move in with my parents, and you know how I feel about indoor plumbing. Dad kept asking if I needed money. That took me straight back to the kitchen table and him telling me I was too old for an allowance, which is how I came to work for Olivia in the first place. Some days life paints a funny picture when you connect all the dots. Anyway, I promised them I'd be just fine, better than ever, but it was clear this little bubble had burst, and it was time to rejoin my regularly scheduled life.

So eleven days into January I packed my very spiffy new purple velour slippers, my after-holiday markdown wardrobe acquisitions and a couple of Mom's frozen dinner specials, because you have to leave with a care package, and I headed due north. Before I left Terrapin I glanced in the rearview mirror at Bernice and Leon, still standing in the driveway. Daddy's arm draped over her shoulder, and Mom leaned, ever so slightly, into his side. Did they always fit together like they were made for each other, or did that happen over time, like erosion? I don't know, but it was a nice picture to drive home on—Humpty and Dumpty back together again, no king's men required, although I like to think I had a hand in it. Except you and I both know I should have played my hand faster and taken my behind home, but at the time you wouldn't have known that either. We're all geniuses when it comes to playing the cards other people are dealt.

Truth is, I was ready to go home. OK, I wasn't exactly looking forward to applying for unemployment and looking for a job—that's the understatement of the year. And I wasn't thrilled about the pile of mail that would be waiting on my front-hall floor, unless it included my first “separation” payment from Markson—sounded a little like alimony, and I deserved it. I was faithful in that relationship and they abandoned me. Anyway, I missed my house, my bed, and despite the fact that we talked on the phone half a dozen times and I probably would have only seen him twice anyway, I even missed Gerald. I don't mean
even
Gerald, but I missed him too.

At another time I would have said I missed going to work, missed Olivia. In the early years we were a little mismatched family in that loft. She would close the office between the holidays and on the first morning back we were like kids, catching each other up on our vacations. Olivia started the tradition of everybody bringing in a dessert they wanted to get out of the house before the I'm-gonna-get-skinny-this-year calorie counting started—cookies, cakes, rugelach, strudel. It was the last hurrah, and we would fly around the office on a nine-to-five sugar high, followed the next day by salad and the latest “lite” food. That office family mattered a lot to Olivia, just the way her real family did. Which is what made it so hard to watch Hillary treat her mother like she didn't matter. And the rest of us obviously weren't worth a tallyho either.

Anyway, thinking of Hillary reminded me that my last conversation with Amber was pretty shabby. It's hard to admit your child makes more sense than you do sometimes, but it happens, and she was right. I should have 'fessed up about the job. And now I really missed her most of all.

Talk about withdrawals—we were a team most of my life,
and I still couldn't get over how quiet my house was since she moved. I know it used to make me crazy when she put the empty milk carton back in the refrigerator or borrowed my favorite earrings and accidentally lost one. I mean, I was really happy for her. I truly believe she and J.J. love each other, for the long run, like my parents. Then, while I was concentrating on keeping the car between the lines, I could see my folks in my mind's eye, holding each other, waving, getting smaller as I drove away. It made me feel full—my heart, my head, my stomach—like I might explode. But I felt empty too, like there'd be nothing to spill out if I did burst wide open. That's when the musical selection cycled around to “I'm So Tired of Being Alone.” I stabbed the radio button so hard, I broke a fingernail.

And without intending to, I found myself pulling into Amber and J.J.'s parking lot. I wasn't planning to stay long. Just time enough to say I'm sorry, get a hug, maybe share some frozen dinners if they hadn't cooked yet. Yes, I should have called, but I was still getting the hang of manners for mothers-in-law. I did ring the buzzer instead of using my key—at least upstairs. A man carrying a bowling bag held the downstairs door. If I had been a puppy I would have been wagging my tail when I heard footsteps in their apartment—I'll admit, I was that excited to see Amber. Then the door opened—

—and there was Ron, wearing blue coveralls that looked custom tailored and holding a screwdriver—Phillips-head, not vodka and orange juice. I was thinking,
What the hell are you doing here?
, but I got this simple grin on my face and said, “What a surprise,” to quote my father. Clearly, I was tired and having some kind of brain-circuitry overload.

“Right on time. I got a shelf that needs holding. Come on in.” I swear, his smile was as big as mine, which meant what?
Neither one of us had good sense? Well, I wasn't expecting any from him, but I should have known enough to run the other way. Instead I let him usher me inside, but when his hand touched my back I all of a sudden felt warm and gooey, like grilled cheese. Then I was remembering how it felt dancing in his arms. Well, I could not be mooning over this man like a damn teenager. Especially since for the first time since we woke up in the same bed, we were all alone. So I sat in a straight-backed chair on the other side of the room and crossed my ankles—very proper.

It seemed Baby Son-in-Law was putting in some extra hours, Amber was at the dentist, and I had come for a hug from my daughter, not to hold anything of Ron's. Except it was really the newlywed's entertainment center he was assembling. J.J. was great with a hard drive, or a motherboard, whatever that is, but useless with old-school tools. The unit looked at least half built—too traditional for my taste, but it wasn't my house. Then I noticed there were knobs and wingnuts all over the coffee table, right next to the directions, still sealed in their plastic sleeve, so I said, “Are you planning to read the instructions?”