The next couple of days were hectic. E-mails flew back and forth between various family members. My agent had invited herself to the holiday as well. Lily was coming with a new boyfriend, and Phoebe finally shared her deep secret. To my great relief she had decided to go to culinary school to become a chef. To my even greater relief she announced that she wanted to do most of the cooking. Henry would be coming alone. My brother’s wife, Lucy, is pregnant again and throwing up 24/7.
Manuel helped me locate the fine china my mother had put away years ago and the leaves to expand the cherry wood dining table. After my parents made the decision not to entertain any longer, everything had been packed up and stored somewhere in the basement. The leaves had actually retained a rich, dark color, while the rest of the table was at least two shades lighter. A table cloth could take care of that. Mother seemed delighted that the house would be filled with people, but she still asked Manuel what Thanksgiving was.
I took myself into town in search of some festive decorations. As I was browsing the shelves of the local gift store, I heard a low voice call my name. It was Robert Beckett. “Mister Bec . . . I mean Robert .
I thought you would be with Marie and her family by now.” A flash in his eyes and a grimace indicated something wasn’t right.
“Is everything okay? Is Marie alright?”
“I s’pose she is,” he responded with sadness in his voice. “She is here with me. Just arrived. She left her husband!”
He was evidently upset by the news, and I worried that my relief would show through.
I did the only thing I thought appropriate. I invited Robert and Marie to join us for Thanksgiving. I counted in my head, myself, Mother, Manuel, Lily, Phoebe, Lily’s boyfriend, my crazy agent Sybil, Henry, Marie, and Robert. That put the count at ten people now. The more the merrier. I was excited at the prospect of everyone being together to celebrate a holiday, rather than a sad event. I bought a perfect table cloth in a warm pumpkin color and matching napkins. I found tapered candles with maple leaves pressed into the wax to put in Grandma’s silver candelabras. Martha Stewart would have been proud.
When I returned home, I saw that I had a couple of e-mails. One was from Phoebe with the menu she planned to prepare: A creamy butternut squash soup or pureed chestnut soup, a mixed green salad with a Meyer lemon vinaigrette, followed by a traditional roasted turkey, roasted root vegetables, and vanilla bean mashed potatoes. Dessert would consist of a mixed berry crumble, pumpkin pie, and pear tart.
I was impressed, especially since I wasn’t aware that she even knew how to crack an egg! In the P.S she asked if I could do all the shopping and promised another e-mail with the shopping list. I was pleased that Phoebe finally was trying to make a go out of being responsible instead of getting another tattoo or piercing. Our relationship has been better lately. I think she has forgiven me for leaving her father, even though he was the one who screwed everything up.
Hunger pangs drove me toward the kitchen. My cell phone rang. I was hoping it was Dwight. The phone episodes the previous nights, had left me feeling vulnerable and wanting more at the same time. As I looked at the caller ID, I saw Marie was calling.
“Hey, Sarah . . . it’s me,” she said in a small voice. I immediately heard the pain.
“Hi, Marie. Yeah, I saw it was you! How are you?”
“I’m hangin’, you know? Actually I’m pretty good . . .” She paused. “I heard you saw my dad and you invited us for Thanksgiving. That’s really sweet of you, Sarah.”
“I know,” I said, laughing.
“Well, I was hoping to see you before all of that so we can sit and talk. Tell you what’s going on.”
“Of course. I thought the same thing.”
“Great! How’s tonight at seven at Stone Manor? I made a reservation.”
What was it with her family and that restaurant? I wanted to see Marie. And even better, it was Monday. Dwight would probably be there working, too. I love the “two birds with one stone” thing. I accepted maybe a little too enthusiastically.
Manuel was cooking something wonderful when I stepped into the kitchen that evening. My mother was puttering around him trying to look efficient. Turning, she noticed me and asked where I was going. I was wearing a herringbone pencil skirt, a crisp white poplin shirt, bare legs, and a pair of high heels that I probably shouldn’t wear anymore, but my legs look pretty damn good in them. “I’m meeting Marie for dinner, Mom,” I replied.
“Who’s Marie?” she asked.
Instead of getting into it, I answered, “She’s just a friend, Ma.”
“There will be a lot of food later, Miss Sarah, if you are hungry,” Manuel said. “Chile con carne, tamales . . .”
“Smells amazing, Manuel. Next time?” I turned to leave. I was running a few minutes late. Since Marie was chronically late, I was hoping I’d have a moment alone with Dwight.
When I got to the restaurant, Marie predictably wasn’t there yet. My heart was skipping as I anticipated seeing Dwight. I couldn’t believe I had feelings for a waiter so much younger than I. As I rounded the corner and stepped into the restaurant, I spotted him at a table. He saw me and flashed his huge, toothy smile, and my face instantly registered a wonderful shade of plum. Why would having wild sex with this man, and a texting escapade, embarrass me?
The hostess recognized me and asked if I wanted a table. When I told her I was meeting Marie, she gushed, “Oh, Miss Beckett, yes. We have her favorite table ready.” She ushered me to a table in a cozy nook by the fireplace. I was thanking her just as Marie bounded in. She always walked with confidence. I hadn’t seen her in a few years and she looked stunning. Her hair had been highlighted and cut in a trendy shag. She had either been sitting in the sun on some tropical island or visiting a tanning booth somewhere, because her skin was a golden brown. I jumped to my feet, and the two of us hugged one another for a long time. I could tell that she was smelling my hair, breathing me in. We sat down across from one another. Grinning.
At that point, Dwight approached our table. “Well, Sarah . . . it’s been way too long.” He smiled.
Of course I blushed again. Marie’s expression made it clear she had immediately caught on that something was up between us. As a quick diversion, I ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir, a favorite of ours. Dwight winked at me before he walked away.
Marie eyed Dwight’s rear. “Probably gay, right?”
“Actually, no,” I defended my waiter.
Marie raised her eyebrows. “You seem awfully confident about that, Sarah. Anything you want to tell me?”
I brushed it off and told her that we were here to talk about her, not me. She looked at me for the longest time until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Marie? What the fuck?” I blurted. “Why didn’t you call me or something? Let me know what’s going on?”
She shook her head. “It happened very quickly.”
“Is David’s issue getting worse?” I asked.
“No. It has nothing to do with David really. It had to do with Lifetime.”
“Okay,” I said in disbelief. “Lifetime, as in movie channel?” I tried not to smile or giggle.
She sat back in her chair, obviously trying to frame her response.
“Look, I love those movies. Don’t get me wrong, Marie, but what are you talkin’ bout girl?”
Dwight returned with the wine. Marie didn’t take her eyes off him as he opened the bottle and poured a taster in my glass and waited for me to taste it. I swirled the wine around in the bottom of my glass, then smelled its bouquet. As I went in for the first sip, I somehow missed my mouth completely and splattered my white shirt with the red wine. Instantly, Dwight had my napkin in my water and was trying to blot my left breast dry. The two of us fumbled for the napkin and a lot of “Oh dear’s” “God, how clumsy” “I’ll get soda water” were exchanged between us while Marie sat looking on. I finally wrestled the napkin from Dwight and said it wasn’t a big deal and would take care of it later. He finished pouring our wine, and touched my hand, and walked away.
“Come on, Sarah, what’s up with you and waiter man?”
“Oh no you don’t. Don’t try to change the subject on me. If you tell me about your cable distraction, then maybe I’ll tell you about my waiter man.”
Marie drew in a deep breath and stretched like a feline. I could see that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts still had a youthful lift. She always had great breasts. I remembered that she never breast fed her babies.
“About a month ago,” she began, “I was watching this film, ‘The Secret Lives of Housewives.’ The kids were with our new nanny, Rebecca, whom we had hired six months prior, a pretty eighteen-year-old from Scotland. I hadn’t been feeling very sexual toward David for a long time. I knew it wasn’t uncommon for women to lose some of their sex drive after children, so I didn’t give it a second thought.”
“You don’t think it may have been something to do with his propensity toward your underwear?” I interrupted.
“No . . . it really didn’t. In fact, I began to find it a little endearing. It was more than that. I joined a book club a few months ago and became friends with a woman. I found I could talk to her about everything.” She stopped to sip her wine, and I took a big swig of mine.
“So that’s a good thing. You made a friend, but what does this have to do with some movie?”
“It was based on a true story about these married women in a small town, who were saying the same things that I had been feeling . . .” She stopped again and looked away.
“Marie? Why is this so hard?” I asked. “We have been friends our whole lives.”
“Sarah . . . I’m gay!” She blurted out.
Music swelled in my head and “At the Copa Cabana” began.
“Sarah?? Snap out of it!” Marie, all too familiar with my tendency to faint, tried to get my attention. Marie had her glass of water in hand, ready to toss it in my face if needed. She knew that sometimes prevented me from face planting. Just as I was focusing, my friend Dwight brought out an amuse bouche from the chef.
One look at my face, Dwight asked, “Is everything okay?”
“Oh yes, Dwight! Thank you for asking!” I said in a ladylike voice. “I just need a shot of tequila if you wouldn’t mind!” I popped the chef’s treat in my mouth without even asking what it was. The blood rushed back to my head.
“I thought you’d understand, Sarah . . . out of everyone!” Marie began to cry.
“Hey, hey, wait a minute, Marie. It’s not that I don’t understand what you just told me, I just don’t get why you didn’t open up to me about this before. Jesus, Marie, you and I delved into that for a while. Any time I brought it up with you, you acted as if it never happened. I’m a little hurt that you didn’t feel you could talk to me.” I reached into my purse and grabbed a tissue and handed it to her. She blew her nose long and hard.
“I’m talking to you now, Sarah!” Tears were still running down her face. “I didn’t totally understand what was happening. I’d been with several women over the years. I think I got married to avoid the issue.”
“Wait a minute!” I stopped her. “Several women? I never knew any of this!” I suddenly felt very territorial. “I thought I was the only . . .” I sounded like a five-year-old.
Marie just shook her head.
“You guys ready to order?” Dwight was back.
“No!” we said simultaneously, staring at him.
“I mean, not yet . . .” I tried to sound a little less hostile. He set my tequila down and gave me a puppy dog look before he left. I downed the shot immediately. It was like fire in my throat and burned all the way down to my belly. It was perfect.
“Marie, why don’t you order? And I’ll have the same. I’m going to the ladies room. Excuse me,” I said, and pushed back my chair. I had to take a breather. I needed to wrap my head around what Marie was telling me, maybe deal with the stain on my shirt, and apologize to sweet, sexy Dwight for snapping at him. As I entered the hallway, Dwight was on my heels. He caught my arm.
“Dwight, I’m so sorry for snapping at you . . .” I had barely gotten the words out of my mouth before he pushed open the door to the handicap restroom and shoved me inside. He locked the door behind us. His long fingers were all over me as we kissed and stumbled and banged into the walls. Before I knew it, my pencil skirt was pushed up around my waist and Dwight’s trousers were down around his ankles. He spun me around to face the wall and yanked down my panties. He thrust himself inside me from behind. I heard a squeal escape from my mouth. Dwight wrapped one arm around my waist and dropped his other hand between my legs. I felt my body explode and stifled a scream. I’d never experienced anything like it before. Fast and furious. As Dwight climaxed, we collapsed on the bathroom floor in a panting heap. We put ourselves back together not saying a word. When we rose from the floor, we stood nose to nose.
“Hello Sarah,” Dwight said with a smile.
“Hello, Dwight,” I said, kissing the tip of his nose. He opened the bathroom door and let me out first.
I found Marie hanging up her cell phone. “I was just trying to call you. Where did you go?”
“Long story!” I said, adjusting my skirt.
“Your lipstick is all over your face.”
Dwight came over to the table to take our order and my lipstick was all over his face, too.
Marie looked from one of us to another. All she said was “Nice!”
I reached into my purse again and brought out another tissue. This time I handed it to Dwight, indicating he should wipe his face off. He took the cue and excused himself for a moment.
When he returned, Marie ordered the salmon special for both of us. As we ate, she continued explaining her story. The woman in the local book club Marie had joined became her lover. She was also married and wasn’t willing to leave her husband. It started off innocently enough, but soon they were going out after the book club for coffee or ice cream. Then they began to meet before book club to discuss the current topic with each other, before hearing all the babbling women’s points of view. One night they took a long walk. Both had seen the same Lifetime movie. Before long, they were confessing their attraction to one another. They began skipping the weekly club and heading for a small motel nearby. It became more difficult. Marie was ready to tell the world she was gay, but her lover wasn’t willing to risk it. They decided not to see each other anymore.
Marie told David about her sexual preference, which didn’t seem to surprise him. He didn’t want Marie to leave him and came up with what he considered the perfect solution. He suggested that he would continue to dress in women’s underwear, and she could pretend he was a girl! Marie explained to him that he was missing the point. All that was left were the divorce papers and the custody agreement regarding Emily, her fifteen-year-old daughter. She wasn’t worried about Oliver and Mason. Oliver, a successful architect had his own apartment. Mason was in college. Marie wanted to move back to Marin to be closer to her parents.
As I listened to Marie’s story, I felt a disconnect. Maybe it was because my feelings were hurt that she hadn’t included me in her identity crisis and everything she was going through. At the same time, my mind was pre-occupied by what had just taken place in the bathroom. I was shocked by the passion that had risen in me. I felt as if Dwight’s cock was still inside me. For the first time in my life, I actually felt connected to the power of my sexuality. Odd to think a handicap bathroom had something to do with it.
Marie continued to speak, trying to explain to me the huge decisions she was making. “I feel completely emancipated, like I’m finally living in my truth.”
“Well, I think that’s wonderful, Marie. I really do.” I wanted to support her, “Are you seeing anyone at the moment?”
Marie shook her head. “I think I need time for myself right now, you know? It feels like I’m on some spiritual journey. In fact, after Thanksgiving, I’m taking a month and going to India!!”
“India?” I asked. “Why India?”
“This time it was Oprah. You see, there was this book . . .” she began.
“Eat, Pray, Love?” I interrupted, knowing the answer.
“Yes! Oh my God, have you read it?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her I couldn’t get through the book. I felt the whole going off to chant somewhere a little dated.
“I’m going to an Ashram then on to work in an orphanage.”
“Wow. Cool!!” I responded, trying to seem sincere.
We finished and another server came to the table, a young woman this time. “Do you ladies want coffee?”
“Where’s Dwight?” I asked.
“He’s on his break.”
Marie and I declined the caffeine and asked for the bill. Needless to say, the two of us fought over who would cover it. Marie won and paid.
As we walked out, she asked if she could bring anything with her on Thanksgiving. I suggested wine, and it occurred to me, I should invite her brother, Terry. “Is your brother going to be with your mother for Thanksgiving? He is more than welcome to join us.”
“Mother will be in Aspen with her girlfriends for the holiday. I’m sure Terry would love to come. I’ll ask him. You know he’s always had a huge crush on you!” Marie confessed.
“No, you just imagined it.”
“Are you kidding? I found little love notes he had written to you when he was ten years old.” She laughed.
I was surprised that she was aware of that information. At the top of the stairs that led to the parking lot I saw something that made my heart stop. Dwight was at the bottom of the stairs with his arms wrapped around a delicately pretty, young, woman. He spotted us and casually waved. “Hey ladies. Meet my fiancée, Violet.”
I don’t remember much other than my flesh marrying concrete. Dwight broke my fall as I toppled down the stairs.
God, I hate hospitals. This visit was particularly humiliating. The only thing broken was the heel of my sexy Dolce and Gabana shoe. I did need a couple of stitches in my forehead. Dwight’s teeth and my head had connected on the flight down the stone steps of Stone Manor. Fortunately, the wound was at my hairline, so my bangs could cover any unsightly scar. I sat behind curtain number one and he and his fiancée behind number two. I was barely aware of the pain in my head, but the wound in my heart was hemorrhaging. I was feeling vulnerable to say the least. I had just had sex with this guy in a bathroom, and minutes later he is introducing me to the girl he’s going to marry? I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Well, I suppose I have to chalk it up to maturity. After all, I am so much older. I should’ve known better.
I had to keep Marie from giving Dwight an ear full. She was determined to go behind his curtain and yell at him. To add insult to injury, we left the hospital before Dwight was discharged, and Violet was standing outside smoking a cigarette. As we passed, she asked me for an autograph. She had read all of my books. Oy!
Marie drove me home from the emergency room. I learned that not much had been done to Dwight’s split lip, but his two “perfect” front teeth were loose and he needed to see a dentist soon to avoid losing them. I intended to knock them out of his head first. We pulled up in front of my house, and I thanked Marie for hanging in with me all night.
“What are best friends for, dummy. Thank you for listening and understanding . . .”
“Geez, of course!”
She offered to pick me up in the morning to get my car, which was still at Stone Manor. I promised to call her when I woke up. At the hospital, they had prescribed a few nice, warm, and friendly pain pills I was intending to use. I was hoping to have a long, deep sleep. I could feel my middle-aged body aching as I climbed out of Marie’s car at two in the morning.
Manuel was sitting in the living room alone when I entered the house. He stood when he saw the bandage on my forehead, “Miss Sarah!! What happened?”
I explained that it was nothing and that I would be as right as rain in the morning. I was more concerned about why he was up so late by himself?
He looked at the ground and tried to hide the tears that collected in the creases of his eyes. “Your mother? She didn’t know me this night!”
Instinctively, I put my arms around him. “It’s the disease, Manuel,” I explained. “And it will get worse. Where is she now?”
He told me he had taken her to bed a couple of hours ago, but she fought him every step of the way. I suggested we both get some sleep and promised to look in on mother once upstairs.
I padded into my parent’s room. It was dark with the exception of a small Tiffany lamp on the bedside table.
“Sarah? Is that you?”
“Yes, Ma. It’s me.” I walked over to the side of the bed.
“Where’s Manuel?” She asked.
“He’s gone to bed,” I answered, happy that she remembered him.
“Lie down with me, Sarah.”
I kicked off my remaining shoe and climbed in next to her. Not since Phoebe’s birth had we lain side by side. Not once did I recall her ever holding me close to her. She had never been overly affectionate, even before Rachel’s death. She wasn’t the snuggly kind. As she turned to face the wall, my arms automatically wrapped around her, and we formed mother- daughter spoons. She smelled like baby powder and lemon soap. I was given a pain pill at the hospital and had intended to take another pill once home, but Mother fell fast asleep in no time and I drifted shortly after.
I awoke, in my mother’s bed, still clothed. I had slept so soundly that I didn’t hear her leave the room. As I stretched, I was caught off guard by how much my body ached. “Oh, my God,” I said aloud. I tested various body parts to see if one area of my body might be pain free. I felt as if I had collided with a train. Well, I had fallen down a flight of stone steps. I lifted myself slowly and cautiously from the bed. While I was painfully easing myself toward the study, I noticed a journal resting on the pillow next to mine with a small, handwritten note sitting on top.
Sarah,
Please read someday.
Love Mom.
I picked up the book and flipped through the pages. They were in Mother’s handwriting. A quick glance revealed dated entries from the sixties up until the eighties. It looked as if Mother had given me a key that might unlock some of the secrets of her world. I felt honored that she was sharing her private thoughts and feelings. I was a bit nervous about what she might have said about her feelings for me. The idea of learning who Olivia Mancuso O’Malley really was intrigued me. I clutched the journal to my breast as I left the room.
I heard the sound of a vacuum cleaner downstairs, indicating that Vilma, the housekeeper, was here as always on Tuesdays. Only two days remained ‘til Thanksgiving with so much to do.
The door to Henry’s old room was open at the end of the hallway. My dad had converted this room for Mother to work on her hobbies. Dad thought it would be nice for her to have her own space. She painted and glue gunned just about everything in sight. She was very into it for a while. She made Christmas wreaths for our neighbors. She would sit in her garden and paint the flowers then turn the little gems into greeting cards. A local store actually carried a few of her creations, and she was pleased with herself anytime something sold. She was happy, almost at peace with herself. After a few years that all changed. Her depression seemed to kick in again. She used the room less and less. Her paint brushes dried out into a crusty wasteland of unrealized potential.
When I poked my head in the door of Henry’s old room, I saw Manuel and my mother inflating an air bed on the floor. “Hey guys,” I said. They both looked up. I asked what they were doing.
“My grandchildren are coming to stay you know,” my mother stated proudly.
Manuel added, “We make up this room for one of the girls and Vilma is fixing the room near kitchen.”
“Wow. That’s great. Thank you!” I realized I hadn’t even thought of where my children would be sleeping. “Thank you, Manuel.”
“Me too!! Me too!!” my mother insisted.
“Of course, you too, Mom.”
I planned my day around getting everything from Phoebe’s list for Thanksgiving dinner and picking up my car from the restaurant. I was supposed to stop by the hospital to have the bandage changed, but I figured I could do it myself. How difficult could it be, after all? Lily was flying in with the boyfriend first thing in the morning. Phoebe was driving from San Francisco.
It occurred to me that maybe my mother would like to get out and go to the market with me. I was surprised she said she would love to go. “Well, you better get a sweater, Mom, it’s chilly out.”
My mother stood in front of me scanning my face. It appeared that she either didn’t hear me or didn’t quite know what I had said.
“A sweater?” I repeated. “It’s cold outside.”
“Oh, yes,” my mother replied as if surprised.
I grabbed a yogurt and thanked Vilma for helping make up the room next to the kitchen. Manuel entered from the backyard, and I asked him if he would take me to pick up my car so that I could go to the market. “Mom said she wants to come, too.”
“That is good Miss Sarah!” He still seemed depressed that mother had not remembered who he was. I texted Marie and told her that I was covered for picking up my car and thanked her again. I put the phone away and looked up just as mother walked back into the kitchen. She was dressed, from head to toe, in full gardening regalia. She had on her wide brimmed hat and her Wellington boots over her tucked in overalls. Her tool belt holding her gardening sheers and mini shovel was strapped around her waist.
“Oh, Manuel,” she said. “There you are. I missed you last night.”
I could see Manuel’s relief that her memory was back . . . for a while at least.
“Sarah and I are going shopping,” she said gleefully. I figured it wasn’t worth commenting about the outfit. We piled into Mom’s car, Manuel at the wheel, and headed down the road.
Once I picked up my car and we got to the market, Mother decided to leave the tool belt in the car. Twenty years ago, I probably would have been beside myself with embarrassment to be seen with my mother looking like Mr. Greenjeans. I found it rather endearing at this time in our lives.
I had been in the produce section, maybe ten minutes, before I realized my mother was MIA. I thought she was getting the Brussels sprouts, but as I scanned the produce section, she was nowhere in sight. “Oh no!” I said out loud. I began racing my cart and looking down all the aisles. On reaching the end of the market with no sight of her, I stopped and asked a stock clerk if he’d seen an elderly woman dressed like a gardener. The young man smiled and said that he saw her walk out of the market about ten minutes earlier.
“Oh shit!” I said. I ditched my cart and ran out of the market. My sense of panic turned into sheer terror. I ran to my car, thinking that maybe she was there, but she wasn’t. I headed out toward the street. I called for her. “Mother? . . . Olivia O’Malley? Where are you?” I stood, hoping to hear her answer. I turned and walked the other direction toward the rear of the market. Just as I was reaching for my phone to dial 911, I spotted her large hat bobbing up and down, near the dumpsters. I ran over to her on the verge of tears. She was kneeling down feeding the birds an old bag of bread she’d taken from the trash.
“Mother! For Christ’s sake, what are you doing? You can’t just leave the market like that! I didn’t know where you were!!” My voice cracked with emotion.
“Well, I’m right here, Sarah. Feeding the birds!!” she answered reasonably.
Manuel picked mother up from the market and took her home. I returned to the store hoping to find my shopping cart where I’d left it. Wishful thinking. My cart and the twenty-pound turkey I had staked my claim to were nowhere to be found. I started over. Luckily the butcher had a couple of smaller turkeys that weren’t frozen. I took those. We’d roast two birds not one big one . . . that way we have double the drumsticks. It would look as if I had planned it all along. The market was packed with frantic pre-holiday shoppers. No one looked at one another. Everyone seemed to be grabbing for the same items at the same time. Stuffing mixes, pumpkin puree, pie crusts, oh my.
Tears poured from my eyes. I was startled at how fast the emotion surfaced. Normally, I might begin with a slight chin quiver or a lump in my throat. Sometimes a golf ball size knot in my stomach would be a sign of impending tears. None of that happened. It was a spontaneous outburst. I just fell apart with no warning in the raw meat section. It was apparent that my mother was disappearing quickly. What if she had walked away and I hadn’t found her? Oh, Dear Lord. The last thing I wanted to be doing was marketing for nearly three hours. The panic was interrupted from the joyful beep from my phone indicating I had a text. It was from Dwight.
“Hope ur head’s better; Sry bout that. Lol. xxoo”
“What an ass!” I said out loud and cried a little more. Why did I even feel anything for this guy? I wondered if the fall was some sort of karma, because I was old enough to be his mother? My spirit guides pushed me down the stairs to save me from myself. I stood in the checkout line sniffling, mascara streaming down my face. I texted back “Fuck Off.” And just like that . . . it was finished. I was now free to concentrate on the matters at hand . . . my mother and Thanksgiving. Baby steps, baby steps.
I pulled into mother’s driveway to find a bright pink Jaguar sitting there. The license plate read “MFF DVR.” Sitting behind the wheel of my car, I spelled out what I thought it meant. “Ahhhh. Muff Diver! Must be my agent, Sybil!” No one else would be so bold.
Manuel came out and began to unload my car, so I went into the house where I found my mother and Sybil playing cards in the living room. I hadn’t seen Sybil in about a year. We mostly communicated via e-mail or on the phone. I was taken aback by her shock of pink hair and the small jewel pierced into her prominent nose.
“Sarah . . . darling,” she exclaimed as she stood to greet me. Sybil stood five feet nine. Her beak-like nose protruded between her large, green, Tammy Faye eyes. She resembled a large heron out of a Lewis Carroll novel or a Tim Burton dream. She stretched out her “wings” to embrace me. Sybil had been my biggest fan from the beginning. She loved my work and was the greatest support system when I believed I couldn’t write another word. She stuck with me. It obviously paid off for her, too. Fifteen best sellers later and a brand new Jaguar.
“I didn’t expect you ‘til tomorrow!” I said, as she squeezed the life from me.
“Thought I’d get a jump on things. See if I could help you out with anything,” she answered.
“I see you and Mother have bonded.”
“She doesn’t remember me,” Sybil whispered in my ear.
“I know,” I whispered back.
“Finish the game with me Sybil,” my mother called out.
“Sure thing, Mrs. O’Malley.” Sybil winked at me and sat back down on the couch. “Your deal.”
I went to help Manuel put the groceries away in the kitchen, but he had everything under control. I asked him if my mother had commented at all about the market incident, but he said she didn’t say a word on the way home.
“You know, Manuel,” I began, “we may need to think about finding a place for her.”
“Oh no, Miss Sarah, I can take care of her. She will be fine!” There was panic in his voice.
I chose not to continue the discussion, but I knew in my heart that after the holiday I would have to begin the task of finding an alternative place for my mother for her own safety.
When my mother and Sybil finished their card game, which Sybil let her win, my agent asked me to go with her to one of her favorite bars in town so we could talk. Having been gone all day, I was hesitant at first, but she promised it was only fifteen minutes away. It was late in the day and dinner time was approaching. Manuel insisted he had everything under control on the home front. I asked if we could bring anything back. He told me that Vilma had made tamales and that he would make an apple pie. I should go and have a good time. No wonder my mother loved him.
Sybil drove like a maniac. It was like being in a car with Mario Andretti during the Indy 500. She gunned each curve and took pride at how fast her car would go on the straight-away. “Wanna put the top down?” She asked as we banked another curve.
“No thanks,” I said, feeling more car sick with each hairpin turn. We pulled into a quiet street, lined mostly with homes and trees. At the end of the street were a pizza parlor, a liquor store, and a bar called “Pink Fruits.” As I wobbled out of her Indy car, I looked around and said, “I never knew this place was here.”
“Been around for years,” Sybil replied, hooking her arm through mine. When we walked in, everyone knew Sybil. The bartender called out her name, and the overly buff bouncer did the same. Pink leather booths lined the outer rim of the place. Each booth had its own tiny pink chandelier. The décor was very art deco. A dance floor beckoned in the middle of the room surrounded by cabaret style tables and chairs. A “cigarette girl” in short shorts, carried a tray laden with cigars, cigarettes, and chewing gum. As she passed, I noticed condoms, too. We were escorted, by a pretty young thing, to a booth where Sybil ordered two pink Margaritas. Looking around, I realized the bar was filled with same sex couples.
“This a gay bar?” I was caught off guard.
“Give the lady a cigar!” Sybil laughed. “I brought you here to tell you something. I’ve decided to leave the business. I am retiring early.”
My heart sank, and I couldn’t keep myself from groaning, “Oh no!”
“I just don’t want to be some old, drooling dyke who hasn’t seen the world!”
She assured me that she wouldn’t do anything until my new book was published and until I had met and accepted the agent she thought should take over representing me.
I knew I should say something, but I couldn’t. Sybil was turning my life upside down. I began to feel a little woozy. Was it still that car ride or maybe the drink was stronger than I thought?
“Look, Sarah,” she continued. “I’m not going anywhere immediately. But I need this . . . for me . . . you know?”
Ultimately, it is all about abandonment issues for me. There was my Mother, Marie’s new life, Dwight, and now this. I felt vulnerable and wanted to cry. Sybil and I had practically grown up in the publishing business together.
My first book was accepted after I put it in the mail and miraculously plucked out of the slush pile. The publisher set up a meeting with a literary agent known in the publishing world as The Bulldog. His name was Harry Goldstein. He smoked Cuban cigars and kept a Persian cat in his office. He had a constant cigar plume above his head like just after Wylie Coyote had blown himself up. Sometimes it was hard to take him seriously. Sybil was his receptionist. She was a timid, do-gooder, eager to please. She just wanted to make it in the publishing world and was willing to work around the clock and do almost anything to make a name for herself. Well, almost anything. It didn’t matter when I called the office, she was always there.
One day, I had a lunch date with Harry at a trendy sushi place that had just opened. After waiting more than forty-five minutes, I was getting ready to leave. Sybil arrived, breathless. She sat down and told me that Harry couldn’t make it. Harry had suffered a heart attack and was in the hospital. I asked her to sit with me and offered her lunch.
She began to cry. She was concerned that she may have had something to do with Harry’s heart attack. She cried even harder. I asked her why she would think something like that. She took a deep breath and explained that on many occasions, Harry would call her into his office, lock the door, and force himself on her. He never got very far. She always managed to fight him off, but he was relentless. After she told him she was a lesbian, he became more persistent. She reached a point where she couldn’t take it anymore. She did the only thing she could think of. She hired a lawyer, mostly to threaten him. She just wanted him to leave her alone. Instead, he had a heart attack.
I tried to reassure her that it wasn’t her fault at all. I reminded her that he smoked furiously and was obese. It was only a matter of time until something like this happened. Bottom line, though, he never should have tried anything inappropriate with her. I suggested she go out on her own, and I said I would be her first client.
Harry retired and sold the business to Sybil for a minimal sum mainly to keep her mouth shut. She inherited all of his clients and the Persian cat as well. It wasn’t long before she had made a name for herself as one of the finest literary agents around. So, here we sat, years and many bestsellers later, in our pretty, pink, leather booth, staring at one another.
“Sarah?”
I turn around, and there was Marie, standing behind me. She had her arm around a twenty-something Kate Moss look alike.
“Marie?!” I said, standing to give her a hug. “What are you doing here?” Then I realized. “Oh yeah, now that you’re ‘out’ you’re at a gay bar! Silly me.” That sounded awful and mean. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. She could have asked me the same thing!
Sensing tension, Sybil stood up and promptly stuck out her hand to the girls and introduced herself.
I believe Marie said the girl on her arm was named was Saffron. What kind of name is that, I wondered.
Sybil invited them to join us! I was tempted to yell “no!” They were quick to take up residence. Marie squeezed into my side of the booth with Saffron, so I scooted around to sit next to Sybil. She pinched me under the table, to warn me to be good.
Saffron appeared apoplectic as if she’d been technically knocked out, but hadn’t hit the floor yet. Marie was like a speed freak. She spoke a mile a minute about how the two of them had met in the cold and flu section of the pharmacy. It had been instant chemistry between them. Marie giggled.
I was fascinated by Marie’s remarkable, seemingly overnight, transformation from being a fairly demure housewife and mother to a gay woman with an adolescent crush. Marie put her arm around the girl and stroked the back of her neck. Saffron didn’t utter a word. She was frozen. She reminded me of a fairy or an elf. Something out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Her hair was dark brown with a white blonde streak at the front. Her ears were slightly vulcan-like, and a little pointy at the top. Her eyes resembled Bambi’s with huge lashes shading large brown orbs. Her nose had a ski slope flip and her mouth seemed to curl slightly downward, resembling an unhappy, happy-face. She was cute, I’ll give her that, but just not the type I would expect Marie to be attracted to. Maybe because she was probably not a day over twenty-two! But then, who am I to talk? I recently had sex with a guy who barely had his driver’s license.
Marie and Sybil dominated the conversation the entire hour we sat there. They laughed and drank heavily. When Saffron began to text someone intensely I decided I’d had enough and said I needed to get back to the house. It wasn’t really a lie. My family was arriving the next day.
“Oh, Sarah,” Marie began as we stood. “About Thanksgiving . . .”
Oh God! I thought. Here it comes. She’s going to ask to bring Saffron . . .
“What kind of wine do you want me to bring?”
“Oh, Marie, whatever you want will be fine,” I replied, relieved I didn’t have to watch the two of them canoodling all day. We all performed the obligatory air kisses as we left the bar. Sybil and I climbed back into the “pink hornet” and sped back down the street.
“Your friend is adorable,” Sybil began. “That ain’t gonna last by the way . . . Marie and Coriander.”
“Saffron!” I corrected her.
“Whatever! Ain’t gonna last!” she repeated.
I secretly wanted to agree, but I pretended I didn’t hear her instead. I was more focused on not throwing up due to Sybil’s driving technique.
When we got back to the house, Sybil was a huge help even though she was snockered. We set a beautiful holiday table, two days early. “You’ll want to spend time with the girls . . . not setting the table!” Sybil had suggested. She had noticed the interaction between Manuel and my mother. In her inimitable fashion, she asked, “What’s with your mother and Jose Cuervo?”
Trying to give her the edited version, I briefly described the relationship between them, that presumably had gone on for many years.
“Holy shit, Sarah . . . that’s an amazing book right there!”
I protested that it wasn’t the sort of book I wrote.
“Well,” she said, “now’s the time to start Sarah! Do something a little more substantial. Write what you know!”
Substantial! I knew that she was trying to be encouraging, but I immediately went to the place of ridicule, abandonment, unworthiness, no talent, uselessness. The sting of her words nearly brought me to my knees. I didn’t say anything about my feelings. I knew she meant to encourage and motivate me.
I watched her drive off and head for her hotel around 10 p.m. I knew how much I would miss her being my agent and wasn’t sure what I would do without her.
Manuel had tucked mother into bed, so I tiptoed past her room to avoid waking her. No sooner had I walked by her door that I heard her call out to me. I poked my head into her room. She was sitting upright in bed with the small lamp on.
“Read to me Sarah,” she said, holding up the journal she had given to me earlier. She must have gone into my room and taken it back sometime during the day.
“I thought you wanted me to read it alone,” I said.
“Changed my mind . . . let’s read it together.”
“Okay.” I wasn’t sure how to handle this one. God only knows what she had written in these pages. Maybe I would be embarrassed reading out loud. Maybe there would be things about me that would be hurtful to know. I was in a turmoil of emotions and questions. As I climbed up onto the bed next to my mother and she handed me the book, I realized the power of what was happening. Not only did Mother want to share with me, but this was a tangible link to the past for a mind that was quickly evaporating.
I assumed I should start on page one. So I opened the journal and looked over at Mother. She had fallen fast asleep. I set the book down, and switched off her little light. I walked back to my room, relieved that I didn’t have to unlock some of the past tonight.