Yesterday I baked a batch of lemon squares and dropped them off on Maya’s front porch with a note:
Haven’t spoken to you in a while. Can’t wait to tell you about the weirdest sex dream I had last night. Stu was in it. Let’s walk. I miss you!
Elise
I kept my phone close to me, waiting for Maya to call. I checked my email incessantly looking for her name to pop up in my inbox. I drove back to her house to grab my note before she saw it. Or Stu saw it. I can’t imagine what led me to tell her about my sex dream in a note. I was panicking. Thinking about how I can’t even write a note to a friend without humiliating myself. I was too late. The lemon squares and the note weren’t on the deck. I drove home crying.
At least my angst was productive. Yesterday I did some of the best writing I’ve done in weeks. I was digging into the tensions between Laurie and her parents—so much of what people think about gets left unsaid and the things that are said probably shouldn’t be said.
I was writing with a kind of distracted fury. The phone didn’t stop ringing and each time it rang, I jumped up to see if it was Maya calling. It never was. Mom called three times. Elliot called once. Sue called twice. Aunt Rosemary called once. And Sammy Ronstein called.
“Checking in, Elise. When will you be sending the play over?”
I felt like a spurned lover. I kept telling myself, She’s got a busy life. She’ll get a kick out of the sex dream. Maya gets it. But what if she doesn’t. Why hasn’t she called?
For a while, I distracted myself by looking up quotes about maternal love. The best one was credited to a serial killer.
“I miss my dog more than I miss my mother. Dogs offer unconditional and nonjudgmental love. Mothers don’t.”
I hope I’m sad enough when Mom dies. I hope I am sadder than I was when Sinatra died. She did the best she could. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say? I have never lacked for clothes or fresh food. I grew up in a beautiful apartment. Sure, she tried. But was that the best she could do? In spite of her constant screaming and blistering temper, I know Mom loves me unconditionally. Well, unconditionally with conditions. And about her rages, even when they were directed at me, they were never really about me. They were about her unhappiness. She has never physically hurt me. She spent 48 hours in labor with me. I should be grateful. She was sliced open for me, and yet I was embarrassed when she wore a bikini with all her scars on display. The scars that were there because of me. I begged her to cover up, to wear a one-piece, to pretend she didn’t know me. I hated those scars. Selfish child. I wouldn’t be alive were it not for those scars.
Dad once said to me, “I don’t know what I was thinking marrying your mother. Worst mistake of my life.” I felt sympathy for him and blamed Mom for his bad behavior. Maybe Mom isn’t the monster I’ve made her out to be. She is frail and forgetful. I think I need to recalibrate and think of her temper as a tic, or a disease. I shouldn’t judge her for having a disease. Rage flu. Cantankerous cancer. Hemorrhoids of hate. Scream seizures. She is sick. I will be there to take care of her.
I’ll call Maya this morning. Or maybe I should give her space. I don’t want to be that hovering friend who has sex dreams about her husband. Maybe we both need space.