Julie drove down to the city from Syracuse yesterday because Aunt Rosemary was having muscle spasms, or as she described it, “Poseidon’s furious waves of pain.” Julie is a great daughter. I wonder if I’d travel that far if Mom was having a tidal event. I’d probably sit at home and hope that one of the waves would wash her away.
I cannot believe I just wrote that.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I should be a better daughter.
No. It’s okay. I can be a bad daughter here.
Mom kept calling and calling yesterday. She seemed a little out of it and even forgot who she was calling a few times.
MOM: Who’s this?
ME: It’s me, Elise.
MOM: Who?
ME: Elise, your daughter. You called me.
MOM: Oh darling, it’s so nice to hear your voice. I know you’re busy writing, so I’m trying not to call too often, but I wanted to tell you that I miss you.
ME: I miss you too.
Twenty minutes later she called again.
MOM: Elise, this is your mother.
ME: Hi Mom.
MOM: I’ve been up all night. I couldn’t sleep at all.
ME: You should try to take a nap.
MOM: I’m too exhausted to nap.
ME: I can’t talk right now. I’m writing.
MOM: I’m out of Ambien. I can’t sleep without Ambien. Can you send me some?
ME: Why don’t you call your doctor and ask him to refill your prescription?
MOM: I already called and spoke to his cunt receptionist. She said he won’t give me a refill until I come in for an appointment.
ME: Can you not call her that? She’s just doing her job.
MOM: I won’t call her that again.
ME: Why don’t you go in for an appointment?
MOM: Why would I do that?
ME: To get your prescription refilled.
Something happens to my upper body when I talk to Mom on the phone. It involuntarily pitches forward, then swings back like I’m one of those glass toys—the drinking bird with the long neck and the bright colored liquid inside. I walk around holding the phone to my ear, tipping, swinging, and bobbing while she’s bitching and cursing.
Then the third call.
MOM: I’m changing doctors.
ME: Why would you do that?
MOM: My doctor should have his license revoked.
ME: For not refilling your prescription?
MOM: For being a prick.
ME: Your doctor is a good doctor if he wants to see you before refilling your prescription. That’s pretty much the definition of being a good doctor.
MOM: All he has to do is pick up the phone and call in a refill, but instead he wants me to schlep across town. It’s criminal.
ME: I’ve got to get back to work. I’m on a deadline.
MOM: Please talk to me. Elise, you never talk to me. You still haven’t told me what your new play is about.
ME: I’ve told you.
MOM: I must not remember then. But I’m sure I’d remember if you told me.
Is it possible I never told her what my play is about? I withhold so much from her I think I may not have told her. I think all I’ve said to her about the play is, “I’m working now. I’ll tell you later.” God, that’s awful of me. I don’t think I’ve told her. And I did it again yesterday.
ME: I’m working now. I’ll tell you later.
Fourth call—an hour or so later.
ME: Hi Mom.
MOM: Who’s this?
ME: It’s me, Elise, your daughter. You called me.
MOM: Elise, I need to talk to you about something. I couldn’t sleep at all last night and my doctor refuses to refill my prescription for Ambien. Can you help me?
ME: We’ve already talked about this. There’s nothing I can do.
MOM: My doctor wants me to schlep across town to see him, but I don’t have time to do that. It will take all day.
ME: We discussed this before. What else are you doing today? Go to the doctor.
MOM: I’ve made a decision. I’m going to find a new doctor.
ME: I’m on a deadline.
MOM: Just talk to me for a minute more. Elise, tell me what’s new with you. Have you talked to your father recently?
ME: I talked to him a few weeks ago. He’s fine.
MOM: Is he still married to that slut?
ME: Lucy’s not a slut.
MOM: She’s a social climber.
ME: Well, she’s not a very good one if she’s using Dad for her ladder. I’ve got to go, Mom.
MOM: You never want to talk to me.
After that I tried turning off the ringer, but I couldn’t focus because I was wondering if she was calling, so I turned it back on and spent the day fighting with her about her doctor. My work life is being conducted in short intervals between calls from my mother.
I’m going to write down all the times she called. I want to keep a record of this. If I never finish Deja New, I’ll at least know why.
8:46
9:02
9:56
10:25
11:02
11:30
1:15
1:50
2:00
2:11
2:17
2:48
3:47
4:01
4:03
4:51
5:33
5:38
6:06
6:36
6:46
7:04
8:21