Missing Pieces (17 page)

I cleared my throat to keep from screaming. I stared hard at the floor.

“He wanted to know all about me, the kinds of things I like, what I like to do. Oh, and he asked about you.”

My head snapped up sharply, as if I were a puppet whose strings had been yanked. “What?”

“He remembers you from court,” she said, her voice growing instantly defensive.

“And what did you tell him?”

“That you were my sister, that you were a therapist. He laughed about that, said he’d have to meet you one of these days.”

I shuddered, felt my body grow cold.

“And he thought Sara was absolutely beautiful.”

“Good God.”

“He said that …”

“I’m not interested in anything else that monster had to say.” I moved briskly to the front door and yelled toward the shadowy figure in the car. “Sara, get in here this minute.”

“Don’t get angry when you see what she’s done,” Jo Lynn began. “I think it looks spectacular.”

“What looks spectacular? What are you talking about now?”

“It wasn’t my idea.”

If I hadn’t already known that it was Sara in the front seat of the car, I probably wouldn’t have recognized her. The creature who emerged from the red Toyota was familiar to me only by height and the size of her bosom. Her long brown tresses had been trimmed to shoulder length and bleached ash blond. The flowered-print Indian blouse and blue jeans had been replaced by a tight white T-shirt and red-and-white-checkered miniskirt.

“The clothes are mine,” Jo Lynn offered unnecessarily. “That hippie stuff didn’t exactly go with the new hair.”

She looks like a hooker, I thought, too stunned to say anything out loud. Actually, I realized as Sara walked past me and straight into her bedroom, she looked just like Jo Lynn.

W
e tried not to make too big a deal about Sara’s hair, reasoning that anything negative we might say would only encourage her further, and anything positive would only be misinterpreted. I went so far as a meek “So, how does it feel to be blond?” Larry mumbled something about everybody needing a change now and then. It was left to Michelle, as usual, to state what was obvious: “My God, what did you do to your hair?” she screamed as soon as she saw her sister. “It looks awful!”

Actually, it didn’t look awful. It just took some getting used to, and over the course of the next few weeks, we all sincerely tried. But Sara never makes things easy, and she was, by turns, remote, nasty, defensive, and hostile. Everything but contrite. Anything but sorry. We never got an apology for our night of anguish; we received no assurances she wouldn’t put us through it again. For a while I tried pretending that she was a character in a play, dropped temporarily into our world to provide some much-needed comic relief. But in the long run, it was hard to find her funny. Interestingly, she did write an essay for her English class about her day in court, as Jo Lynn had suggested. Naturally, she received an A. So much for consequences.

It was around this time that Larry started his gradual
retreat from the rest of the family. At first, it was just Sara he avoided, reasoning that the less contact he had with her, the less chance of conflict, the less chance of heartache. So whenever possible, when Sara was at home, Larry wasn’t. His workdays got longer, his golf games more frequent. The result of this, of course, was that Michelle and I saw that much less of him too, but in those weeks before Thanksgiving, this subtle shifting away from us went largely unnoticed. I was pretty busy myself. The holiday season, contrary to popular myth, is not a time of unrestrained joy and merriment. It does not bring out the best in people. In fact, just the opposite is true. My office calendar was booked solid through Christmas and into the new year.

And then there was the little matter of my mother and sister, both of whom I decided were, in their own unique ways, completely looney tunes. My sister continued her public vigil at the courthouse and her private visits to the jail. My mother expanded her list of complaints: if strange men weren’t following her, they were banging on her door at all hours of the night, and whispering obscene messages over the phone; certain women on her floor were plotting to have her thrown out of the building; she was receiving smaller portions at mealtimes than any of the other residents; Mrs. Winchell was trying to starve her out.

She began calling me, both at the office and at home, at least fifteen times a day. Hers was the first call I received in the morning and the last one I took at night. One minute, she’d be hollering; two minutes later, she’d be as pleasant as could be. Often, she’d be crying.

I didn’t blame my husband for not wanting any part of either my mother or my sister at this point. They weren’t his family, after all. His family was quiet and sweet and had never given us any trouble. His mother, widowed a decade earlier, lived in South Carolina, two blocks from
Larry’s older brother, and next door to a lovely widower she’d been seeing for the last five years. We made occasional forays into each other’s territory, and such visits were always unfailingly pleasant. No, it was only my family that was ever, and increasingly, problematic. Had I been able to escape them, I would have. Hadn’t I already tried?

So, I honestly didn’t mind that in those weeks surrounding Thanksgiving, Larry was rarely at home. In a perverse way, I was probably even grateful. It was one less person to worry about.

Thanksgiving itself was strangely calm. The proverbial lull before the storm. We celebrated at our house, and everyone was on their best behavior. Larry was a genial host, expertly carving the turkey and making small talk with my mother, who was pleasant and talkative and minus her recent paranoia. Jo Lynn came conservatively dressed in a white silk shirt and black crepe pants, and refrained from mentioning either Colin Friendly or his trial, which was on a week’s hiatus. Sara, whose dark brown roots were beginning to intrude rudely on her otherwise ashen mane, was helpful with the dishes and attentive to her grandmother. “Who is that sweet thing?” my mother whispered at one point during the evening, and I laughed, thinking she was making a joke, realizing only later that she really didn’t know. At its conclusion, Michelle pronounced the evening a resounding success. “Almost like a normal family,” she said, proffering her cheek for me to kiss good night.

As for Robert, we’d been communicating through our voice mail, never quite connecting. He’d call; I’d be tied up with clients. I’d return his call; he’d be in a meeting. He was thinking about me, he left word on my machine; I was thinking about his offer, I responded on his.

The Monday after Thanksgiving, there was a message
waiting when I arrived at the office. “Enough of this nonsense,” Robert’s voice announced. “I’ll see you at my office this Wednesday at noon. I’ll take you around, introduce you to the gang, show you how we operate, then take you out for lunch. Have those ideas ready.” He then left the station’s address and directions on how to get there. There was no mention of my calling back to confirm. Since he already knew I didn’t go into the office on Wednesdays, it was simply assumed I’d be available. That I might have made other plans was obviously not part of the equation.

As it happened, I’d already promised to take my mother shopping on Wednesday. We’ll make a day of it, I’d offered after Thanksgiving dinner, almost giddy with relief at how well the evening had gone. First we’d go Christmas shopping, then have lunch, I’d suggested. No way was I going to call her now and cancel just because I’d had a better offer. This wasn’t high school, after all. Although it
was
business, I reminded myself, my hand already on the phone. “We can still go shopping in the morning,” I told my mother.

“What a nice idea,” she said, as if it was the first time she was hearing it.

I picked her up at ten o’clock Wednesday morning. She was already downstairs in the lobby, standing by herself just inside the front doors, casting furtive glances over each shoulder, anxiously clutching her purse. I waved. She looked startled, as if surprised to see me, then hurried outside. “Are you all right?” I asked, helping her into the front seat of my white Lexus, watching as her upper torso curved around her purse, as if protecting it from would-be thieves. “Mother?” I asked again, positioning myself behind the wheel. “Is something wrong? Are you okay?”

“I have something to show you,” she whispered. Then: “Drive.”

Slowly, reluctantly, I pulled out of the driveway onto Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard. “What is it?” I asked. “What do you want me to see?”

“I’ll show you when we get there.”

I was about to protest when I realized she was no longer listening, all her attention devoted to watching the road ahead. Quickly, my eyes absorbed her profile for any outward signs of disturbance, but her gray hair was freshly washed and neatly styled, her deep brown eyes were clear and focused, her small mouth was curled upward into a smile. Everything seemed normal. Only her posture, the way her body folded protectively over her purse, seemed out of place. Then I noticed her hands.

“What happened to your nails?” I asked, noting the dark purple smudges across her fingernails.

She glanced toward her long, slightly arthritic fingers, then displayed them proudly, as if surprised by what she saw. “Do you like them? The salesgirl at Saks assured me this polish is all-the rage.”

I reached over and rubbed the top of one thin nail. The so-called polish came off on my fingers. “This isn’t polish, Mom,” I told her, wondering what the salesclerk had been trying to pull.

“It isn’t?”

“It’s lipstick.” I rubbed at her other fingers. “You’ve put lipstick on your nails.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said adamantly. “You’re quite mistaken. And now you’ve ruined it,” she said, her eyes threatening tears.

“But, Mom,” I began, then stopped, driving on in confused silence. Clearly, something was very wrong with my mother. Although she’d been just fine over the weekend, I quickly assured myself. Maybe the weekend had been too much for her. Older people didn’t adjust as quickly to a
break in their routine. Was seventy-five really all that old? What was happening to her?

We didn’t speak again until I pulled the car into the Marshalls plaza on Military Trail. As soon as I turned the engine off, my mother spun around in her seat, her eyes flashing excitement, her fingers fluttering nervously in the air, like a child’s. “Wait till you see this.” She reached inside her purse, cradling something gingerly in the palm of her hand.

“What is it?” I could hear the nervousness in my voice.

My mother smiled proudly, then slowly opened her fist, revealing a small white egg. “Have you ever seen anything like it?” she marveled, as my breath constricted in my chest. She looked nervously around, as if afraid someone might be, standing just outside the window, spying in on her. “They had some of these on the table at breakfast,” she continued, “and I couldn’t get over them. So, when no one was looking, I slipped one into my purse to show you. Just look at how perfectly it’s shaped. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

“It’s an egg, Mom,” I said gently, staring at the small ovate object in disbelief. “Don’t you know that?”

“An egg?”

“You eat them every day.”

My mother stared at me for several long seconds. “Well, of course I do,” she said, without changing her expression. She tucked the egg back inside her purse.

“Mom,” I began, not sure what I was going to say, but terrified of the silence.

“Don’t you look lovely,” she exclaimed, as if seeing me for the first time. “Is that a new dress? Very fancy just to go shopping.”

My hand automatically smoothed the folds of my newly purchased red-and-white-flowered print dress. “I have a
luncheon meeting,” I reminded her. “About doing a possible radio show. Remember, I told you about it.”

“Of course I remember,” she said. “Have you got Michelle’s Christmas list?”

I suppose I should have realized at this point that there was something terribly wrong with my mother. Looking back, it seems incredible that I failed to recognize the obvious signs of Alzheimer’s disease. Had she been the mother of one of my clients, no doubt I would have seen this much earlier, or at least considered the possibility, but this was
my
mother, and she was only seventy-five. And besides, usually she was fine. Usually she didn’t go around stealing eggs from the breakfast table and applying lipstick to her fingernails. Usually she didn’t accuse her neighbors of harassment or bake with dishwashing detergent. Usually she was fine, a little forgetful maybe, but then weren’t we all? And it wasn’t as if she didn’t remember most things. Hadn’t she been fine all weekend? Hadn’t she just mentioned Michelle’s famous Christmas list?

“I have it right here,” I said, extricating the list from my black leather bag.

“She’s such a funny girl,” my mother said, and I laughed, although I wasn’t sure why.

Normally, I received tremendous pleasure from Michelle’s yearly list, which came complete with drawings of each requested item, their correct sizes, prices, and the stores where they could be purchased, along with an accompanying chart indicating preference. Items highlighted in yellow were deemed
nice;
those with an asterisk beside them were
nicer,
an arrow indicated
very nice,
and those marked with both an asterisk
and
an arrow were
the nicest.

You always knew exactly where you stood with Michelle, I thought gratefully, clutching the list as if it were a lifeline.

Sara, it goes without saying, refused to make any list at all.

The morning progressed reasonably well. My mother snapped back into seeming normalcy; we managed to locate several of the items on Michelle’s list with a minimum of difficulty; I was feeling more comfortable about my upcoming meeting with Robert. I even had a few ideas for what I’d now started to think of as “my radio show.” So today’s lunch was legitimate after all, I rationalized, leading my mother across the parking lot toward a small shop that specialized in golfing equipment.