This may be a mistake. How is it not a mistake? I should have taken Aunt Rosemary up on her offer. Why didn’t I say yes?
It was the finally.
She got me with the finally.
“I’m finally going to see my grandson.”
I wanted to say, “Actually, Mom, maybe you should stay in New York. Aunt Rosemary said she’d be delighted to stay over for a night with her big sister.”
But instead I said, “What do you mean by finally?”
“You’re always trying to keep me away from my grandson. You don’t want me in his life.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“You taught him the word ‘fuck’ when he was five.”
“Is that what you think? I wouldn’t teach a child to curse. He’s very bright and picked it up on his own.”
“And you taught him the C-word when he was in second grade. He said it at school. At least none of the other kids knew it was a bad word, but his teacher went ballistic.”
“What C-word?”
“Mom, you know what C-word.”
“For God sake’s Elise, say it. Say ‘cunt.’ It won’t kill you.”
“I don’t want to say it. And I don’t want you saying it in front of Marsden.
“I won’t say anything to him. I won’t say a word. I will remain silent.”
“You’re not going to talk to him?”
“You’ll be angry with me if I do.”
“That’s not true.”
“I’m just glad that I finally get to see my grandson.”
And that’s how the conversation went. I don’t know how I’m going to find time to write in the next few days. My deadline is beginning to feel like hot lava coming at me. These Morning Pages are a waste of time. I should be using this time to work on Deja New, not to be regurgitating yesterday’s news. Although yesterday’s news was pretty sweet. Aunt Rosemary—bless her—came over for dinner in what she described as a Cyclopean cyclone. She was indeed drenched when she arrived. We got her dried off and into some of Mom’s clothes. Mom doesn’t seem to get dressed too often anymore, so she told Aunt Rosemary to keep them. She even told her she looks ravishingly stunning. High praise coming from Mom.
I had picked up a rotisserie chicken from Citarella earlier in the day and Mom and Aunt Rosemary gnawed on chicken bones and reminisced about their childhoods.
Mom was a young rebel. She started running away when she was eight; at thirteen she painted her bedroom walls black. She shoplifted, smoked, adopted a stray cat that she named Dammit, wore tight sweaters, tried to emulate Lana Turner, and left home to go to Los Angeles for college.
Aunt Rosemary confessed that she wanted to be rebellious too, that she secretly coveted all the negative attention that Mom got. That’s why she dropped out of school and followed Mom to LA. She was breaking up with her good-girl self to reestablish herself in the mold of her deeply troubled older sister, but then she met Uncle Bill.
When Mom and Aunt Rosemary talk about their childhood, their faces lose the strain of age and their eyes glisten. Mom has command of insignificant details, which, had they happened yesterday, would already be lost. Aunt Rosemary giggles and snorts like a young girl. They cut each other off and cut each other down.
“Your mother was a real beauty, but I had the talent,” said Aunt Rosemary.
“Your aunt always believed in herself,” replied Mom.
“Trudy, the truth is I always wanted to be more like you.”
And then Mom said, “Rosie, the truth is, from the day you were born, I envied you.”
They cuddled up together like kids until the rain tapered off and Aunt Rosemary went home. It was a pretty remarkable evening.
I guess I better get Mom up and packed if we’re going to do this. She’ll need help. And I want to get back in time to shower. I have no idea what I should wear to Stu’s party. I wish I knew why Maya isn’t responding to me. I texted her to say I had to go to New York. I apologized for leaving her a note about a sex dream that mentioned her husband. I said I miss her. No reply. I can’t stand it.