Falling in Love (23 page)

Claire approached us. “I wondered if you wanted to have coffee.”

I looked away. I felt a hot and flushed, knowing where the coffee would lead. I wanted to go with her, to feel tenderness again, to feel Claire’s touch, to touch her, to cuddle with her afterward. But I knew,
absolutely knew,
that the ecstasy would turn into agony. She was too needy and I wasn’t about to be what she needed.

I shook my head. “No. No! NO!” I snatched the address from Elaine and rushed toward the door.

Behind me, I heard Claire telling Elaine, “It was just coffee.”

“Right,” Elaine answered.

The next night, I stared at my mother’s address and phone number, working up the nerve to call her. Why couldn’t Elaine call first and feel her out? She wasn’t Elaine’s mother! Elaine at least knew her. They had been friends. Our relationship had ended at the birth canal. Sure, I thought about her every day of my life but that was just fantasies. I had played this first conversation a million times in my head? From just chatting about the weather to agonizing over something real. Now, after a lifetime of waiting I couldn’t summon the courage to even call her.

I finally devised a plan. To phone the following Thursday at 5:45 p.m. California time. The upcoming weekend would hopefully have her in a good mood and I figured she’d be home from work but not yet having dinner.

But what if she didn’t have a job? And if her kids were small, the weekend might be more hectic than a weekday. I conjured up countless reasons why any minute I called her was the worst time ever. What a joke! When would be a good time to hear from a daughter you abandoned twenty-five years ago? 5:45 p.m. indeed! Pick up the phone and dial, Sherry!

I didn’t dial.

The following Thursday I came home from work and, despite having bathed that morning, I showered again. Somehow, it made sense to me that I should be freshly clean when I called her. I was toweling off when the buzzer sounded. Gregory was downstairs. I glanced at the clock. 8:36 p.m. Not good timing but, after all, it was his apartment. I pressed the buzzer, hoping for an eight minute visit.

Dressed in a tuxedo, Gregory looked elegant, and distraught. “I’m sorry but Elaine’s cell is off and John’s and—I can’t believe it!”

He threw up his arms as he paced across the room. I glanced at the newspapers, magazines and clothes strewn about and vowed to keep the place tidier should unexpected important guests like my landlord decide to visit. Gregory didn’t seem to notice. “I just had a fight with Skip,” he spat in disgust. “It was my fault, of course. Christ! Fourteen years sober, and I’m still craving to self-destruct.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Fourteen years?” That seemed like an eternity to me.

Gregory turned to me and snapped, “Deary, you can be a million miles down that fucking road to recovery. And you’re still just one foot from the gutter!”

I glanced at the clock. Seven minutes.

“God, I’m just spouting twelve-step bullshit. It’s a goddamn cult, you know? Only I don’t know where to get deprogrammed.”

Gregory circled the room, narrowly missing the small antique coffee table that Claire and I had found on Jane Street and had hauled it home together at the height of our love. One of the legs still needed a good shot of glue but she ditched me before we got around to doing it. For some reason, I cherished that rickety antique with only three good legs but now I feared one of Gregory’s errant whirling knees might snap the leg beyond repair. But I couldn’t bring myself to utter, “Mind the coffee table, please?” I didn’t even bother looking at the clock again. I knew tonight was a goner.

“I’m scared to have friends outside the program,” he rattled on, “because I might fuck them.” He swirled around, barely missing the crooked leg again. “And who do I fall for? Skip! You know what his problem is?”

I played along. “No.”

“He’s goddamn normal! He doesn’t understand this goddamn disease. How could I fall for a man who doesn’t have a clue who I am?”

I shook my head.

“And his parents! God! They live in some burg in Midwest where the only gays are on TV. I mean, I’m the first man he ever brought home, right? I was wondering whether to wear designer body armor and you know what his parents’ big concern was when they met their son’s faggot lover?”

I shook my head again.

“If we’re going to adopt them a grandchild? Who are these people?”

Gregory broke down in tears. I went over and hugged him. Finally, he stopped sniffling and wiped his eyes, trying to pull himself together. He said softly, “Love’s a bitch, ain’t it?” He tried to smile. “I’m really sorry.”

“You okay?” I asked.

“Do I look okay?”

I studied him. Except for the puffy eyes, he still looked pretty gorgeous to me. I nodded.

Gregory smiled. “Then I probably am.” He kissed my cheek. “I’ve got to run. If I don’t show for this thing, he’ll probably think I killed myself.”

Gregory rushed out with the leg on my coffee table still intact and my clock reading: 7:01. I had another week to avoid the call, another week of fantasies.

That Friday was Claire’s three-month anniversary. I wondered if maybe she had only wanted to have had coffee with me. I almost didn’t go, unwilling to admit that Claire had been sober longer than me but that seemed childish. Sobriety wasn’t a battle against anyone else, only against one’s own demons. Actually, I was really happy for her. Anyone who could last more than a few hours in recovery from this addiction deserved my applause. And maybe there was hope for me, too.

I even managed a smile when I saw Claire standing proudly before the group.

Tonight, as always, her sponsor, Katherine, looked stunning in a seemingly-tailored suit. “We all know how hard Claire has worked,” Katherine said, “and it is with great pride that I present her with her ninety-day chip.”

Claire gave Katherine that killer smile as she took the chip and I remembered how much I loved that smile. Then, Claire burst into tears.

“I slipped three nights ago,” she said softly. “I just didn’t have the courage to tell you.” Claire handed back the chip.

Katherine embraced her. “We’re tied,” she said softly. “Neither one of us has acted out today.”

Every night, I was taking longer and longer to get to sleep, as conversation after conversation with my mother raced through my mind. How many conversations could we possibly have? Endless, it seemed. By Thursday, I was exhausted and secretly hoped that Gregory, Elaine, anyone, would interrupt my vigil. But as the digital clock clicked 8:45, there would be no reprieve. I stared at the now-soiled slip of paper despite the number having long ago been burned into my memory. I dialed the area code and hung up. A minute passed. I dialed again, then again, each time adding another digit, as if building up my bravery. During each pause, a loud bleating would blast into my ear. Finally, I got to ten digits. I held my breath but not for long as the phone barely rang before being snatched up and a teenage voice cried out, “Phone my cell. Mom’s expecting a call.” I slammed down the phone.

Was that my half-sister? Jack hadn’t mentioned if the two children were girls or boys, or their ages. Maybe I misdialed myself into some other family’s drama. But I knew I hadn’t. My mother was expecting an important call and it sure as hell wasn’t me. But what could be more important than talking to her long-lost daughter? I didn’t want to find out.

I decided to give her an hour to rid her life of its daily rituals and then give her the surprise of her life. I lay down on the sofa clutching to my breast her copy of
A Child’s Garden of Verses
. I didn’t read any of the poems. I knew them all by heart anyway. Softly, I recited, “You too, my mother, read my rhymes, for love of unforgotten times, and you may chance to hear once more, the little feet along the floor.” Within minutes, I was asleep.

When I called the following Thursday, the phone rang several times before the lovely voice of an adult woman answered, “Hello.” My mouth moved but in stone silence!
Talk, Fool!
I clutched the handset to my ear. She repeated, “Hello,” now irritated. “Mother?” I tried to groan but it was only a gargle. She hung up and the line went dead. Then the bleating shook me out of my paralyzed state. I hung up. I wanted to call right back and explain who I was and what had happened. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

As the weeks went by, my calls became sick rituals. Sometimes I’d hang up before it rang, sometimes after someone answered. But I never managed to utter a word. I finally stopped, afraid that she would change her number.

The longest conversation we had was on a rare Friday call. My mother sounded so lovely that I decided I would say something, anything just to talk to her. Although I wanted to say, “Hello, Mother, this is your daughter, Sherry,” I instead heard myself ask, “Is Debbie there?”

“No,” she said. “I think you have the wrong number.”

“This isn’t the Jordan residence?” I asked, trying to keep her on the line.

“Afraid not,” she replied cheerfully. “What number are you calling?”

Despite her number being burned onto the back of my eyelids, I couldn’t even remember her area code. In a panic, I blurted out an old number of mine in Indiana. Then I panicked, afraid that she might realize that the area code was near Rosebud.

But she had been gone so long that the number didn’t seem to register with her. “Wow,” she replied. “Some wires must have really gotten crossed. That number isn’t even close.”

“You didn’t sound like Debbie’s mother,” I said merrily.

“That’s because I’m not. Goodbye,” she said and hung up.

You’re not Sherry’s mother either!

She had sounded so friendly that I was angry with myself for not saying my name and I tried dialing her again but it was hopeless.

I finally decided that a phone call was too big for both of us and that a letter might help soften the shock of hearing from me. I spent three hours sailing through stationary stores, before returning home armed with a box of pale pink letter stationary with a small rose on a top corner. Like it mattered? Three hours later the entire box adorned my wastebasket with drafts of Dear Mom letters, or rather Dear Mom, Dear Mother, Dear Barb, Dear Mrs. Paulson letters. And that was only the salutation.

What was I going to say? Tell her my whole sordid life or limit it to my hopeful recovery. A lifetime is a lot to cover in one letter.

Ask her questions? Should I keep it simple and unreal—’How’s the weather in California?’—or get serious and real—’Why did you leave me?’

Still, I made myself a deadline to write her by December 10th. I didn’t want to wait any longer and risk this colossal missive getting lost in some Christmas rush.

My favorite fantasy was that no matter what I wrote she would be so thrilled to hear from me that she would immediately board a plane to come to me. Leaving her family alone so close to Christmas probably wouldn’t make sense to most people but I rationalized that she would want to get to know me first before springing her secret past on her new family. Of course, we would both fly back to San Diego in time to all have a wonderful family Christmas.

My apartment would have to be presentable for her arrival and it didn’t exactly ring of Yuletide cheer. I decided that I needed a tree before I could write a letter because then I could invite her to come and see it.

A man on Hudson Avenue sold me the biggest evergreen he had, and the most expensive. “You’ve got the best Christmas tree in New York,” he said, pocketing way more than I could afford.

“The best tree is in Rockefeller Center,” I reminded him.

“The second best tree then,” he said.

I tried dragging the monstrosity across the West Village before two gay studs offered to flex their muscles and hoisted it on their shoulders. “You going to be able to walk around in here,” asked one, as the tree stretched from one wall of my living room floor to the other. I had high ceilings but this was New York where most living rooms were closets in other cities. But they politely set it up for me anyway.

Undeterred, an hour later, I was stocked up with vibrant baubles, sweet little angels, sparkling stars, winking lights, stunning ice sickles, lovely holly and streams of shiny tinsel. Everything but mistletoe. To the jovial rhythm of Holiday music, I exhausted the next several hours meticulously decorating my green giant while breathing in its lovely fragrance that filled the room. I named it Eve and knew that even if reality set in and my mother didn’t fly off to the Big Apple, I could still share it with someone, Elaine or Dede who was back in New York for five weeks between cruises. Maybe even Gregory might drop by to freak out again.

After midnight, I was admiring my creation when I heard footsteps in the hall. I could share it with someone right away. I swung open the door to see Paully, the superintendent, lugging his heavy tool case. He glared at me. “You got a leak, too?”

“I’d like you to see something,” I said, stepping aside. Paully stared at my masterpiece. “Wow! You’ve got the best tree in New York.”

“Second best.”

The next night, as I sipped hot chocolate while admiring my towering bedecked evergreen, I decided on a new plan. I would send my mother a Christmas card. No tortured language detailing my boring useless life, no annoying raising of unanswerable questions. Just a simple missive wishing her Holiday cheer. The critical aspect, of course, would involve no real words at all, just my address and phone number. Let her struggle with formulating a way to tell me why she had abandoned me forever. If she just sent back a card with “Happy Holidays” or even ignored me, how much worse off would I be? It was perfect. I was a genius.