“You sure I can’t help?”
“Back away, woman!” Dad shouts at Mom as he stands at the stove guarding the eggs in his pan. He’s being funny, but he’s also nervous, so it comes out super-loud and intense.
“Okay, okay,” Mom says, hands in the air. “Geez, somebody ate their Wheaties this morning.”
“Sorry,” he says, “but the birthday girl does no work on her birthday. That’s the rule.”
“Well, if you bite the birthday girl’s head off,” Mom says, “there won’t be a birthday girl. So.”
Dad chomps at the air like a dinosaur.
I’m watching all this while covering the kitchen table with a My Little Pony tablecloth that Dad and I found at Party City. Even though Mom and Dad are being a little snippy with each other, it’s mainly good-natured, which is about eight billion times better than the fight they had most of the day yesterday once we got home from Stop & Shop.
Dad was able to keep his fall a secret for exactly zero seconds, as a purplish goose egg had sprouted on his forehead by the time we walked in the door. As I’d expected, Mom could not wrap her head around the idea that Dad would get injured and not call her immediately. Especially since it turned out this wasn’t his first fall. Back in July, right before I left for camp, he’d gotten a huge bruise on his elbow that he’d told me was from “being whacked with a prop” by one of his students. Not the case, Mom informed me. How much else don’t I know?
“Win was there,” Dad said, justifying his most recent postfall behavior. “We had the situation under control.”
“I can’t even— Let’s talk about this later,” Mom said before proceeding to do the most passive-aggressive grocery unpacking of all time. You can’t actually slam a fridge, because it always closes with that gentle suction of air, but she came close.
“I didn’t want to worry you on your birthday weekend,” Dad said as she set the pickles in the fridge so hard I was sure the jar would shatter.
“I said we’ll talk about it later. And that’s bullshit, and you know it.”
I’ve gotten over the novelty of my parents cursing, but when they’re cursing at each other, something I’ve only witnessed a couple of times, it still shakes me to my core. It seemed like Mom was reacting a little too strongly, considering Dad was the one with ALS who’d fallen in the freezer aisle, but I stayed out of it.
I caught bits of their arguments the rest of the day, so I knew Mom wanted Dad to start using a cane, and he said he wasn’t ready for that. Not sure if I am either, to be honest. My father, sauntering through town with a cane. Kind of badass in a way, I guess.
But now Mom and Dad seem to have worked through whatever it is they had to work through, which is good because people will be arriving for the brunch soon, and the stress of watching Dad try to hide his ALS from them is anxiety enough for one day.
“Oh, you guys,” Mom says now, smiling as she notices the My Little Pony tablecloth.
“Only the best for you,” I say.
“Glad my sister’s not coming today.”
When Mom was five, she baked Aunt Michelle’s favorite My Little Ponies in the microwave during an ill-conceived game of Tanning Salon. They came out as melted, deformed pony monsters, and Aunt Michelle didn’t talk to Mom for a week. It’s obviously one of my favorite stories.
“She’s gonna FaceTime us later,” I say, “and this tablecloth is the first thing I’m going to show her.”
“Noooooooooo,” Mom says, as if in slow motion.
The doorbell rings, and Dad’s shoulders tense up as he spoons his egg-spinach scramble out of the pan and into a bowl. “It’s not eleven yet, is it?” he asks.
“Nope,” Mom says, already heading out of the kitchen to the front door. According to the oven, it’s 10:24. And if I had to bet, I’d say it’s Grandma Mitzie. She’s always early.
“Hi, Mitzie!” we hear Mom say after she opens the door.
Yup.
“Do you smell something?” Grandma Mitzie asks. “Something smells bad out here.”
And yup. No “Happy birthday” or “Nice to see you,” just an immediate commentary on how our home has assaulted her olfactory glands.
“Oh boy,” Dad says, cracking an egg for his next batch, then accidentally missing the bowl and sending yolk oozing onto the kitchen floor.
“I got it,” I say, rushing over with paper towels before he can attempt to do it himself, possibly creating another catastrophe before a single guest arrives.
Out of all the people coming over, I know Dad’s definitely most anxious about his mother. He even put a Band-Aid over the bruise on his forehead.
I get it. Grandma Mitzie is the very definition of a tough cookie. She’s got a huge heart and she loves me so much and she’s absolutely hilarious, often by accident, but she’s also, um, how should I put it?
Mean. She’s mean.
I guess the slightly nicer way to say that is she’s judgmental, but I’d rather be honest. She’s just mean. And most of the time, I don’t even think she realizes. She spends half the year a few towns away from us in Springfield and the other half down in Florida. Mom once pointed out that Dad is visibly less stressed from November through May, and I was like That’s ridiculous, but then I realized she was right. I don’t know how I’d never noticed it before.
When I was eavesdropping yesterday, one of the main points being argued was when Dad should let Grandma Mitzie know about his diagnosis. Mom was lobbying for telling her in person sometime during or after the brunch, but Dad was pushing hard to wait until November, when Grandma was back in Florida.
“Are you kidding me?” Mom said. “You’re going to wait three months to let your mother know you’re seriously ill?”
“I think it’s in everyone’s best interests,” Dad said.
“You mean your best interests.”
“Well, yeah.”
Mom let out a huff of air. She’s very good at that.
“Come on, Dane,” Dad said. “You know what will happen if I tell her. My mom will be over here every day, asking a billion questions I don’t have the answers to, generally stressing me out, which is the last thing my body needs right now. And what’s not good for me is not good for you and Win, either.”
“Fine,” Mom said (and this is where I had to scurry away down the hall because I heard her approaching the very bedroom door my ear was pressed against), “do whatever you want. As per usual.”
Mom is often making these comments about Dad doing whatever he wants, and it pisses me off. He’s the one who gave up his entire acting career to move to the suburbs and stay at home with me, so right there is a super example of him doing what he didn’t want.
Mom and Grandma enter the kitchen, still talking about the smell.
“It’s like a…like a fish smell,” Grandma says, wearing her usual scowl. “Or maybe it’s your fertilizer. What kind of fertilizer do you use?”
“I couldn’t tell you, Mitzie,” Mom says. She always goes into her interactions with Grandma with an upbeat attitude and a smile, and she’s always beaten down within fifteen minutes. Faster than usual today.
“Oh,” Grandma says, handing Mom the two boxes she’s remembered she’s holding, one a white bakery box and the other small and wrapped. “Here you go, dear. It’s a chocolate babka and then a little something for you. Happy birthday.”
“Thanks, Mitzie.” Mom’s smile is only half sincere, but Grandma doesn’t see that because she’s just spotted me.
“And oh! Here’s my little Winnala. How are you, my love?” She hugs me and mushes her lips into my cheek, and her perfume makes my eyes sting. But that’s always what happens, so it’s become kind of comforting. When I’m a grandma one day, I’m gonna wear so much goddamn perfume.
“Hi, Grandma. How are you?”
“Much better now,” she says, as she always does upon seeing me, finally unclenching from the hug. “You’re not wearing your hair down today?” She lightly swats at my ponytail. “For this special occasion?”
“It appears not.” Looks are incredibly important to Grandma Mitzie. If it’s not a comment about my hair, it’s a comment about an outfit she doesn’t like. When I call her out for being negative, she’ll say, “What? Better me telling you than someone out in the world, right?” To which I think: Um, how about no one tells me?
“Hey, Mom,” Dad says without turning from the stove, where he’s moving eggs around in the pan, an obvious bit of busywork so he can put off engaging with her a little longer.
“Hello over there,” Grandma says. “Am I getting a hug, or do I have to come over to you?”
“Just doing some cooking so that there will be food for our guests to eat,” Dad says.
“Well, I know that.” Grandma walks over to Dad, who leans his cheek in as she gives him a side hug. I think he’s nervous about making any sudden moves in case it reveals that he’s not so great at making sudden moves. And that he has a Band-Aid on his forehead. Grandma doesn’t see it. Instead, she peers at the stove, then the rest of the kitchen, like a sanitation inspector making a surprise drop-in. “What can I do to help? Anything?”
“We’re good, Mom,” Dad says. “Sit down, relax.”
“Yeah, do you want anything to drink?” Mom asks.
“Oh, come on, it’s your birthday,” Grandma says, already opening the fridge, “I can get myself something.” I’ve always been in awe of my grandmother’s ability to say something as if she’s doing you a favor when it’s actually the exact opposite. “Is this fridge cold enough?”
My mom opens her eyes wide at Dad and me, like Kill me now.
Twenty minutes and twenty underhanded Grandma comments later, I’m finishing arranging all the bagels and spreads when the doorbell rings. Mom practically sprints to get it, and I’m delighted when I hear Leili’s and Azadeh’s voices. Of course they’re here right on time; Leili wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Hiiiiiii,” I say, bounding into the front hallway to greet them.
“Hey,” Leili says.
Azadeh just flips her chin up at me, like she’s pretending to be tough.
“I’m so happy you girls are here,” Mom says.
“Happy birthday, Mrs. Friedman.” Leili hands Mom a tray of Koloocheh, these amazing Iranian cookies, covered with Saran wrap. “Our mom made these for you. They’re really good.”
“Yeah, really really good,” Azadeh says.
“That’s so sweet,” Mom says. “Please tell Pari thanks.”
“My grandma’s here,” I say quietly, mainly to give them a friendly warning, as I steer Leili and Azadeh away from the kitchen to the family room, where we plop down on the couch. No sooner have we plopped than Azadeh has her phone out, smiling hugely, thumbs blazing.
“She’s so ridiculous,” she says, holding the phone out so Leili can read.
“Ha, she definitely is,” Leili says. “But put that away. We just got here.”
“Roxanne?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Azadeh says, shaking her head. “She’s just— Yeah.” She looks to Leili, like Should I tell her? Leili looks back: I don’t know, geez, do whatever you want! Azadeh puts her phone in her lap, leans toward me, and whispers something in an incredibly quiet voice.
“I couldn’t hear a single word of what you just said,” I say.
“Me neither,” Leili says. “And I’m sitting right next to you.”
Azadeh crawls to the far end of the couch, where she can see into the kitchen to make sure no one’s listening, then back to where she was. “So, um, Roxanne and I are kind of…”
“Ohmigod!” I say, definitely too loudly. “I knew you were flirting!”
Azadeh grins and covers her face. “We were.”
“This is amazing, Oz!”
“Well, it’s still new. It might not even be a big deal. I’m only telling you and Lay right now.”
“I’m honored,” I say, looking to Leili, who nods and smiles. “This is so freaking great, I can’t even handle it. Tell me everything!”
And of course Grandma Mitzie chooses that moment to join us.
“Hello hello,” she says, rattling the ice cubes in her juice glass as she carefully lowers herself onto the couch between Leili and me. “Wait, let me see if I can get this…” She narrows her eyes and darts them back and forth between Leili and Azadeh. “You’re Leili,” she says, pointing at Azadeh. “And you’re…Wait, no.”
She does this literally every time she sees them. And seeing as they’ve been my best friends since third grade, that’s a lot of times.
“Grandma,” I say.
“Wait, wait, hold on,” she says, one hand on her chin. “I think I can do this.” Leili and Azadeh remain politely still, as if they’re having their portraits painted. I get the same mortified feeling in the pit of my stomach that I always do when Grandma does this. “It’s those darn scarves that make it so challenging.”
There it is. I was hoping it wouldn’t be a headscarf-mentioning day. Alas, not to be. “You really can’t say that, Grandma.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” Azadeh says.
“It’s not!” I say.
“What, mentioning their scarves?” Grandma asks. “They’re wearing scarves, what’s the big deal? Do you know how many little boys in yarmulkes I’ve confused in my lifetime?”
“What does that even mean?” I ask.
“It means that when multiple people wear the same piece of clothing, it can get confusing. But if you want me to not say it, I won’t—whatever you want.”
That’s Grandma’s sorcery at work: somehow I’m the bad guy for suggesting she shouldn’t imply that my twin best friends look extra-similar because they’re in hijabs.
“Okay, wait, you’re Leili,” she says, pointing at Leili, “and you’re Azadeh.”
“Ding ding ding!” Azadeh says.
“I also have this freckle right here,” Leili says, pointing to her chin. “Which is a good cheat.” They tell her that every time, and it’s far more generous than Grandma deserves.
“Oh yes, that’s right,” Grandma Mitzie says. “But I like to try and get it without cheating.” She winks at them, another one of her uncomfortable trademarks. “So how are you two doing?”
“We’re good,” Leili says.
The doorbell has rung a couple of times since the conversation with Grandma started, though I’ve been too focused on damage control to pay attention to who’s shown up. Now Ed and Cory, two of my parents’ best friends, walk into the room.
“Hey hey,” Cory says, making ironic jazz hands, Ed sauntering in behind him holding a bottle of water.
I actually gasp in excitement upon seeing them, and I’m pretty sure Leili and Azadeh do, too. Cory and Ed are the best. They went to college with my parents, where they were in shows and theater classes together, and Cory was in Laugh Riot with Dad (he’s hilarious). Unlike my parents, Cory and Ed stuck with acting, and now they both have successful careers. Cory’s guest-starred on a bunch of TV shows and been in so many commercials, and Ed (who I should mention is a stunningly beautiful human) has been in the ensemble of a bunch of Broadway shows. It’s incredibly cool, and it also means they’re usually busy or out of town, which is why it’s so awesome whenever we see them.
Leili, Azadeh, and I bound off the couch like frisky puppies. “What’s going on, Winnie?” Cory says as he hugs me. I inhale the masculine musk of his cologne as his beard hairs rub against my forehead.
“Not much,” I say. “Actually, I just joined the school improv troupe.”
Cory pulls back so he can look at my face. “Whaaaat? That’s awesome!” Cory and Ed have always been two of my biggest cheerleaders. I’ve often thought that my bat mitzvah set might have played out differently if only they hadn’t had to miss it because Ed was in Kinky Boots and Cory was shooting an indie film. “Leili, up high,” he says, throwing up a hand that she doesn’t see because she’s too busy enjoying her hug with Ed.
“Oh, what?” Leili says.
“You got Winnie to join Improv Troupe with you,” Cory says. “Up high.”
“Oh! Yeah.” She lets go of Ed and slaps Cory’s hand. “It wasn’t totally my doing, but I’ll take the credit.”
“Gurrrrrl,” Ed says, giving me a hug with his muscular dancer arms. “That’s huge. You’re finally fulfilling your destiny.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” I say, even though I immediately feel like he’s one hundred percent accurate.
“Hello, gentlemen,” Grandma Mitzie says, large smile on her face as she walks over. She loves Cory and Ed maybe even more than we do.
“Mitzie!” Cory says. He hugs her so hard he lifts her off the floor a little bit. I can never tell if he’s truly delighted to see her or just pretending. He’s a good actor.
“So glad you boys had a break in your busy schedules to come play with us.” Play with us? Ew. Grandma always says weird things like that when they’re around.
“Oh, you know we would play with you all the time if we could, Mitzie,” Ed says in a flirty way, which is highly distressing even though I know he’s gay.
“No flirting with my mom in front of me, please,” Dad says (and thank god for that) as he walks into the room, giving his all to make it seem like a casual saunter before planting himself near the wall.
“Hi, Mr. Friedman,” Leili says.
“Hey, Leili.”
“Hi, Mr. Friedman,” Azadeh says.
“What’s new, Azadeh?”
“Not much.” I know my best friends are trying to act as natural as possible, but I catch them sneaking little glances at him, trying to spot evidence of his disease.
“Ohmigod,” Grandma says. “Russ, what happened to your head?” Guess it was only a matter of time.
All eyes turn toward Dad, but he’s ready for it. “I cut it shaving.”
“You…what? You were shaving your forehead?”
“You’d be surprised,” Dad says. “It gets pretty hairy.”
Azadeh laughs loudly, then covers her mouth once she realizes she’s the only one.
“Don’t joke.” Grandma strides toward Dad. “You’ve got a Band-Aid on, what happened?”
“It’s nothing, Mom,” Dad says. “I bumped into a door when I wasn’t paying attention.” Mom and her longtime best friend, Paige, walk into the room, with Paige’s seven-year-old daughter, Ava, right behind them.
“Okay,” Grandma says, seeming entirely unconvinced.
“Mitzie, you remember my friend Paige,” Mom says, not so subtly trying to change the subject.
“Hi, Mitzie,” Paige says.
“Nice to see you,” Grandma says, flipping back into the same mode she was in with Cory and Ed, as if the last couple of minutes never happened.
Paige nods, and there’s an awkward silence of at least five seconds.
“Anyway,” Dad says, “food is ready, so head into the kitchen, everybody.”
It’s another five seconds before anybody moves.