Yesterday was a good day. The pieces cascaded into place. Cascaded—that’s a nice word. Nicer than fell—I don’t know why we say the pieces fell into place. Falling seems a bit hazardous. Just look at what happened to Humpty Dumpty. Even with the resources of all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, Humpty Dumpty was screwed.
Mom allowed Sue into her apartment. Sue did Mom’s laundry, tidied up, and had a lovely and peaceful day with Mom. “We had great conversations,” Sue said. “Your Mom has lived such an interesting life with so much heartbreak.”
How I wish I could meet this delightful woman whose life story is filled with interesting anecdotes about broken love and lovers she broke. Maybe I have met her. Maybe she’s been there all along. Maybe it’s me who has the issues, not her. I want to be a more compassionate and better daughter. I want to stop blaming Mom for things that happened decades ago. I want to get to a place where I can admire her. I’ve heard her stories, but they make me cringe. No. It’s more than that. They set off my fight-or-flight instinct. Is it that I don’t want to know about her sex life or that I have a cold and cruel heart?
I wonder if she told Sue about her lovers. Mom fell hard for an Israeli man when she was in her early 20s and moved to Israel to be with him. But when she arrived, she found out he was engaged to another woman. She came back to the States broken and vengeful. She had a torrid affair with a married sculptor until an art school tramp, as Mom still refers to her when she recounts this story, stole him from her. After the heist of her married artist lover, she got engaged to a man whom everyone loved so much that he was widely referred to as “the mensch,” until he broke off their engagement with a phone call and became widely referred to as “the schmuck with a shriveled schlong.”
Did she tell Sue about how she met Dad? Dad was dating her now-former best friend when they met. They were on a double date and Mom’s boyfriend at the time was arrogant and controlling. Dad saved her, and then tried to destroy her, she likes to say. Mom and Dad fell in whatever version of love the two of them are capable of. I suspect Mom and Dad started fighting immediately, but that didn’t stop them from getting married and having a child. One child. “Darling, you took up so much time and energy, we couldn’t possibly have another child,” Mom used to say when I asked why I didn’t have any brothers or sisters. When I was eight, Dad left Mom for younger, beautiful, and bubbly Lucy, who had a punk-rock haircut and piercing blue eyes. I met Lucy for the first time at the Russian Tea Room. Dad brought me there for a “special lunch.” I had never seen such red and golden opulence. When the maître d’ brought us to our table, I yanked on Dad’s sleeve and informed him that there was a lady already sitting there, and Dad said, “I know. Elise, I’d like you to meet my very special friend Lucy.” I recognized the name immediately and told her, “My mom calls you Douchie.” Lucy laughed her big expansive laugh that eats up everyone else in the room. Dad referred to Mom by using a swear word. I informed him that he said a naughty word. He apologized. I ate chicken Kiev for the first time in my life. It was like nothing I had ever had before. I cut into the breaded chicken to find a treasure. I can still remember watching as golden butter oozed out and my first taste of the pure deliciousness that was hiding inside. Chicken Kiev was my favorite food until I was 18 and discovered lobster mac ’n’ cheese.
I doubt she’s already told Sue the stories of the lovers that followed the bastard ex-husband. “Your father was a boring lover. One of the worst I’ve ever had. I needed to make up for lost time,” she’d told me. I never asked for or wanted details, yet I know that Ted had large balls, Bernie had a small cock, Edward was impotent, and Murry incompetent. I don’t want to know any of it. When I ask how things are going, please don’t tell me about Wally’s saggy scrotum. Please don’t!
But she did. It was like a compulsion. She was trying to shock me. But why?
She was in pain. She was being torn to shreds. She wasn’t rational. She isn’t rational. I want to feel empathy for her. I don’t, though. I can’t get there. Empathy is just another burden. Not only am I expected to look after Mom, I’m supposed to feel empathy for her. I can’t. I won’t.
I was feeling well rested and relaxed when I started writing this morning’s Morning Pages, but now I feel like hurling flaming spitballs at Wally’s saggy scrotum. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. I can use my fury and write. I am on a roll. I am hearing it, seeing it, staging it; it’s unfolding. My characters are telling me what they want to say, where they want to stand, what they are wearing, and whether they are having a bad hair day. Their hair is irrelevant, at least I think it is, but I appreciate their complaining and their confidences. I want them to talk to me. And all I have to do is transcribe the relevant things they say, and I will have it. I feel like I’m getting close.