I Almost Forgot About You (10 page)

“Duller than a cheap steak knife. I was so sick of being around old people I didn't know what to do. That was my last cruise. Traveling with folks who don't want to do anything but pray can drive you crazy. God can hear your prayers on land and at sea. Plus, they acted like if they touched a slot machine, they were going straight to hell. They should've stayed home if they didn't want to have any fun. Anyway, I was calling to tell you I don't feel like rushing up there anytime soon, and it doesn't feel like I'm about to go blind, and when will they be finished with the remodel?”

“The what?”

“Isn't the house being remodeled, or did you just make that up because you didn't want Dolly and Sons staying there?”

“Yes and no.”

“We can wait until it's finished.”

“But I don't know how long it might take.”

“Do you have to move out of your house while they do it?”

“That's one way to look at it.”

“So is anything exciting going on in your life?”

“Well, yes. You'll never guess what I'm thinking of doing.”

“I'm too old to guess, Georgia, and it's too early to play guessing games.”

“Taking a train ride.”

“I like trains. Where to?”

“Anywhere.”

“That's the same as nowhere. Be more specific, please.”

“Vancouver,” I blurt out, surprising myself.

“So is this like some kind of an adventure?”

“Yes. That's exactly how I'd describe it.”

“Can I come with you? I could use an adventure.”

“Not this time, Ma.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Are you going with somebody?”

“No.”

“You shouldn't travel on a train by yourself. People get killed on trains.”

“Only in the movies, Ma.”

“This is why you need a husband.”

“As soon as I get off this phone, I'm going on Amazon and see if I can find one in the men's department.”

“Ha, ha, ha. What made you decide to do this all of a sudden?”

“I'm selling my house.”

“Well, why didn't you just say that instead of beating around the doggone bush? It took you long enough. I don't know how you've lived on three floors all by yourself since Frankie left for college, and you know once they leave, they don't come back. Get yourself a condo in San Francisco close to Fisherman's Wharf.”

“Ma?”

“Did it sound like I hung up? I'm still here.”

“I'm also planning to sell my share of the practice.”

“Me and your dad never understood why you chose that field. Not exactly a thrill a minute, but it was respectable. And do what?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Well, you're never too old for change. Did I tell you I'm going to be starting a cooking class?”

“No you didn't. What kind of food?”

“Who cares? It's free, and it's right here in my complex. You should go back to college and learn how to do something that's interesting. And this time make sure it's something fun. Love you, dear.”

“I love you more.”

“That's not true, or you'd invite me on your train ride.”

“Bye, Ma.”

Smooches this time.

Is that the doorbell? I look over at the clock. It's almost midnight. I'm a little scared, because whoever it is, they're pressing that bell over and over like it's some kind of an emergency. I put on my robe, tiptoe across the room, and crack one of the shutters just enough to see a yellow cab in the driveway. All I know is that whoever it is chose me to rescue them, so I run out to the front door and pull on the handle hard enough that I almost lose my balance, and standing there like she's just been evicted is my daughter, Frankie, in tears.

“Frankie? Baby, what's wrong? Has something terrible happened? Are you okay?” I grasp her by the shoulders to make sure she's not hurt and then lift her chin up so I can see her face and what's in her eyes. I can't tell what, but something has happened, or she wouldn't have just shown up like this.

“Mom, moving to New York and going to NYU were the two biggest mistakes of my life, and it's taken two whole years for me to realize I don't care about the theory and history of cinema, and I'm confused about what the real purpose of my life is, and I also broke up with Hunter because he cheated on me and the girl is pregnant, so I just needed to get as far away from them and him as possible, so I decided to come home to get my head together. And I need a hug.”

And then she collapses in my arms. I squeeze her hard and am relieved it's not a life-or-death situation even though it feels like one to her. She looks homeless in her fake brown velvet coat and scruffy purple boots. But she's my daughter and a casualty of love and confusion because she's changed her mind about her future. Like mother, like daughter.

“It's going to be okay, Frankie. I promise you.”

“I hear that a lot on television. Which is why I don't believe it.”

“Why's the taxi still sitting out there?”

Her tears suddenly evaporate. “Oh. Mom. Could you please let me borrow a credit card to pay for it? I'm over my limit, but I promise I'll pay you back as soon as I get a job.”

Did she just say “as soon as I get a job”?

I then feel her rocking my left shoulder back and forth. “Mom!” I look down and see one, two, three pink-and-black giraffe suitcases, a navy blue duffel, and one, two, three, four boxes. So she really means it. She has come back home without as much as a phone call.

She turns and holds up her index finger to the driver and shakes it like she's got a nervous tic. I reach inside my purse and hand her the American Express.

“Thanks,” she says, and runs out to the taxi.

I start pulling the luggage inside as she dashes right back. “He doesn't take American Express. Visa, MasterCard, or Discover.” Her big eyes are onyx, her hair a kinky black halo. Her lips are thick and heart-shaped, and her teeth—thanks to braces, and she better be wearing that damn retainer at night—are bright, white, and straight. I hand her the Visa. She forges my signature and seconds later darts back and wipes the sweat beads from her brow. She then starts kicking the boxes into the entry as I try and fail to pick up the duffel. When all her possessions are inside, I walk over to the stairwell, sit down, rest my elbow on my knee, put my chin in my palm, and just look at her.

“You're not pregnant, are you, Frankie?”

“I wouldn't ever. Children are so overrated.”

“So why didn't you call first to give me a heads-up that you were coming?”

“Because I didn't want you to talk me out of it, Mom. You're such a pragmatist.”

“You don't know me as well as you think you do, sweetie. If you want to drop out of college, why would I try to stop you?”

“Do I detect sarcasm? Anyway, I dropped out of NYU, not college in general. I just have to figure some stuff out.”

The house is dark. She doesn't bother turning on the lights but disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a Corona and proceeds to guzzle close to half the bottle.

“Mom, would you mind terribly if I just went up to my room and crashed? I'm wiped out. It's tomorrow for me. I'll bring all my stuff up in the morning if that's okay.”

“It's fine,” I say, and she walks over and hugs me and runs up the stairs. Moments later I hear the shower. She has not noticed anything out of the ordinary. And I'm glad, because it's tomorrow here, too.

In the morning I hear a tap-tap on my door.

“Whoever it is, come on in.”

Frankie walks in wearing an NYU T-shirt and looking baffled. “Good morning, Mom,” she says, then gives me a hug and collapses at the foot of my bed. “Are you painting?”

“Nope.”

“Did I miss something?”

“You passed right by the sign, honey. It's under the evergreen.”

“You mean you're selling our house?”

I nod.

“Why? And where are we going to move? And why didn't you tell me? What does Stelle think about this?”

“Hold your little ponies, daughter. I told you this summer I was thinking about putting the house on the market, and I did. It's too much space for one person.”

“But
I'm
here now. That makes two. Please don't sell it, Mom. I grew up in this house.”

“Look, Frankie. You just scared the hell out of me by coming home unannounced in the middle of the night, and I apologize if I'm not ready to start changing my plans because you're changing yours. And you're not the only one with memories. I'm just tired of living here. Alone.”

“Wow, this is major.”

“It is. So you're only going to be able to stay here for about two or three weeks, but I'll figure out where to put you up.”

“Are you serious? You're kicking me to the curb? Wow. This is too deep for me.”

“I'm leaving, too.”

“What? Why? Did someone already buy it?”

“No. The house is being remodeled, or what's called ‘staged,' and no one can be here while they're doing it. It could take up to three weeks, but even after they finish, the house has to look like a showroom at all times until it sells.”

“You are serious, then, huh? And BTW, I've gotten much neater.” She looks around like she remembers living here. “So where are you going?”

“On a train ride.”

“What?”

“A train ride.”

“For three whole weeks?”

“Probably not the entire time.”

“Then I'll just go with you.”

“No you won't.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want to go alone, and besides, I've already made a reservation and I can't change it.” I lie.

“You mean you want to sleep with strangers on a train or something? Come on, Mom. People get killed on trains. Haven't you read Agatha Christie? This sounds insane to me.”

“I don't think I really need to explain any of this to you, Frankie.”

“Well, that's true, but I'm your daughter, and I've come home lost and confused, distraught and brokenhearted, and all you can say is ‘
Hasta la vista
'?”

“I'm not abandoning you, Frankie. I'll do whatever I can to help you figure some of this out.”

“So where're you going on this train ride?”

“I'm not sure yet.”

“Then how can you buy a ticket if you don't know where you're going?”

She is already getting on my nerves.

“I'm considering a few options. From here to Vancouver. Toronto. Montreal. Niagara Falls. I don't know yet. But to answer your question, it's called a rail pass. College students all over the world do this. I can stop in a city, stay in a hotel for a day or so, then get back on the train.”

“Wow. This sounds so cool. Maybe I can change your mind, but if not, I can probably stay with Estelle and Justin. Help with those little munchkins.”

“I don't think that's going to be doable either.”

“Are they moving, too?”

“They're thinking of downsizing. Speaking of which, have you heard from your dad lately?”

“No. But I think he's mad at me. I haven't written him in a while.”

“Would it kill you to drop him a line every now and then? He's still your dad, Frankie, and he was a good one. Just because he did something stupid, that doesn't mean you have to punish him when he's already paying for it.”

She just looks at me as if all this is too much to handle and walks out, not closing the door behind her.

I hear her in the kitchen. Can smell coffee all the way down here. She's banging pots and pans to get my attention. I tiptoe across the hardwood floor into my bathroom and gently close the door. I turn the faucet on low so it doesn't make the small waterfall sound. I brush my teeth, leaning on the sink with my palms. What am I going to do about her? I can't just kick her to the curb, as she put it. I hear another tap-tap and: “Mom, I made a pot of strong coffee and soft-boiled eggs and toast if you're up to it.”

My baby girl. She knows what I like.

I walk into the kitchen, and there's my chocolate daughter, her thick hair piled on top of her head into a ponytail that looks like black cauliflower. She's twirling around slowly on a stool at the island.

“Did you sleep okay?” I ask.

“As a matter of fact, I didn't, Mom. I think I may have made a mistake just dropping in on you this way. I forget that parents have lives, too, that don't necessarily include us. So. I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize for anything,” I say as I pour myself a cup of coffee and pretend I don't see the cracks in the brown eggshells.

“What should I do?” she asks.

“I haven't had enough time to think about what you should do, Frankie. What do you
want
to do?”

She shakes her head from side to side. “I don't know. I don't know what I see in my future.”

“Well, let me say this. I'll do whatever I can to help you find temporary housing until we both know for sure you're not going to run back to Hudson after I've put my name on a lease.”

“It's Hunter. And I'm not running back to him or New York, and that's real. Thank you for offering to help. Again. I hope one day it's money well spent. And that you'll be proud of me.”

“I'm already proud of you, Frankie, but I just can't fix every problem you come up against.”

“I know. Let's go to Paris and get on the Eurostar and zigzag all over Europe and then come back to a new home!”

I just look at her. And then, “Are you not listening to me? And do I look like Wells Fargo?”

“You're just too frugal, Mom. At some point in your life, you should give yourself permission to splurge.”

“What do you think I'm trying to do?”

“Speaking of splurging,” she says, getting up and walking over to the door that leads to the garage and coming back with my still-unpainted stool. “What's this about, Mom? It certainly doesn't look like your taste, and it doesn't match anything.”

“I'm going to paint it.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to.”

“But why?”

“Because I want to, and it's called fun, Frankie.”

“Like the fun you had for about a month making all those pillows? Why'd you stop? Everybody loved them.”

“We were talking about your lack of direction, not me trying to find one.”

She looks at me as if I've said something wrong. “Last time I checked, you were like a legitimate and successful optometrist, Mom. Duh.”

“Maybe not for much longer. And don't ask.”

“OMG! I wouldn't dare. I'm already on information overload.”

Frankie's doing laps when I get home. She's also naked. She glides through the dark water like a baby dolphin. I wish she could do enough butterflies and backstrokes to propel her pain and confusion out into the cold air. I don't remember being heartbroken at twenty-two. I remember being disappointed.

When I see her climbing up the ladder and getting out of the pool, I'm struck by how beautiful and lean her body is. Her breasts point upward, of course, and are shaped like the round top on my grande nonfat no-whip iced mocha. Did I ever look that good naked?