The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus (11 page)

He says

it really is unfortunate

that my mother has such a low tolerance

for pain.

Because if she'd been able

to handle the pain,

he wouldn't have had to prescribe

such huge doses of steroids.

And if she hadn't had to take

such huge doses of steroids,

then she wouldn't have become

psychotic.

And if she hadn't become psychotic,

then she probably would have been able

to remember who I was

when I called her on the phone just now.

“Can't you start cutting back on the steroids?” I say.

“Oh, it's way too soon for that,” he says.

“Besides, it's complicated.”

“What do you mean?” I say.

“Well, the bad news is that Myra's memory loss

might have nothing to do with the steroids.

It could be the onset of dementia.

Or maybe even Alzheimer's.”

“And the good news?” I say.

“I wish there
was
some,” he says.

“But getting old is no picnic.

It's not even a buffet!”

And when he cracks up at his own horrid little joke,

and lets loose with one of those

migraine-triggering chuckles of his,

I grit my teeth, say good-bye, head to the kitchen,

and pop myself a massive bowl of popcorn.

My mother used to read me

a
Little Lulu
comic about how

Lulu's corn popper got so out of control

that it filled her entire house with popcorn.

I wanted to live in that house.

I've always loved popcorn—

loved the snow-flakey way

no two pieces of it are exactly alike,

loved the I-just-can't-get-
enough
-ness of it,

the oh-boy-we're-at-the-movies-
now
-ness of it.

I love it Jiffy Popped.

I love it air popped.

I love it microwaved.

If someone made popcorn perfume,

I'd dab it on the nape of my neck…

My mother and I

used to pop corn together.

She'd pour in the Wesson oil and the kernels,

then let me rock the lidded Farberware pan

back and forth, back and forth…

I loved the rainstick sound

those rolling kernels made while I stood

next to my mother in our toasty kitchen

waiting for that first muffled
ping!

and the cacophonous chorus that followed…

Maybe that's why

I still get such cravings for it—it's not just

the warm salty sparkle of it on my tongue,

or that perfect nutty squeaky buttery crunch.

It's the way it carries me back

to my mother.

I wish I could talk to her

about what's going on

between Michael and Brandy.

I wish I could talk to
Michael

about what's going on

between Michael and Brandy.

I wish I could talk to him about

the tiny scrap of balled-up torn paper

I came across this morning

when I was emptying

the wastebasket

up in his studio—

that teensy little scrap

that was hidden underneath

all the other trash

with only the last half

of the very last line of a note

scrawled on it in curly lavender letters:

…
so that Holly doesn't find out!

xoxo,

I wish

I could tell him

it's a little late for
that.

But that particular conversation

will have to wait till Samantha

goes to college.

Because I flat out refuse

to let my louse of a husband ruin

my last precious months with my daughter.

There'll be plenty of time

for me to fling that shit at the fan

after
Samantha leaves.

And until then,

I'm just going to have to try real hard

not to think about it.

I'm in Sam's room,

helping her study for her French final,

quizzing her on vocabulary words,

relishing,

as I always do,

the quiet intimacy of this act.

Monkey looks on from the toy box,

his goofy grin belying

the melancholy gleam in his eyes.

“Avec plaisir,”
I say.

“With pleasure,” she translates.

“Bravo!”
I say.

“Le premier fois,”
I say.

“The first time,” she translates.

“Excellente!”
I say.

“Le dernier fois.”

“The last time.”

“Trés bon, mademoiselle!”

And when she glances over at me and smiles,

a rogue wave of nostalgia

crashes down over my head.

“Wow…” I murmur. “This is

le dernier fois
I will ever have
le plaisir

of helping you study for a French test.”

Samantha takes a bathroom break.

“Merde!”
she screams, from behind the door.

“The toilet's gonna overflow!”

“Mon dieu!”
I cry,

as she scrambles to switch off the tank,

and I dash down the hall to grab the plunger.

But when I hand it to her,

she pushes out her lower lip

and hands it right back to me.

“Mais Maman
,” she says,

making puppy dog eyes

at me,

“this is
le dernier fois

you will ever have
le plaisir

of plunging my toilet for me!”

I laugh,

and shove the plunger right back

into my darling daughter's hands.

Alice and I have been buzzing

around Samantha since sunup—

a pair

of bustling fairy godmothers.

Now

our darling is ready:

lashes lush,

hair all curled and prommy,

corsage fluttering on her wrist

like a bouquet of butterflies…

Sam whispers and giggles in our front yard

with Wendy, Tess, and Laura—

four pretty little girls

playing dress up,

teetering on their glittery heels,

hiking up their strapless gowns,

casting quick glances, hungry and shy,

at their uneasy penguined dates.

In the yard next door,

Madison, perched on Jane's hip,

observes the proceedings

with starry eyes.

Michael and the other dads

shoot videos

while all of us prom moms,

and Alice,

snap hundreds of photos—

a mob of misty-eyed paparazzi.

“All the
prom moms…
?!”

you're probably thinking.

“Isn't
Brandy
one of them?”

Yes.

Brandy
is

one of them.

And yes.

It's totally awkward

having her here.

And yes.

She looks just as irritatingly stunning

as ever.

But no.

I am
not
shooting daggers at her with my eyes.

I am behaving like a mature adult.

A mature adult who, at the moment,

is calculating the best angle from which

to accidentally trip Brandy—

so that when she falls,

she'll land facedown in that mud puddle

she happens to be standing right next to.

Sort of.

But it's a moot point, anyhow.

Because before I have a chance

to set my evil plan into motion,

all the kids

start piling into the limo

and Samantha takes me aside,

somehow managing

to extract a promise from me:

that I will not call her on her cell phone.

I tuck some cash

and the phone number

for a taxi into her new silver clutch.

“In case you get tired

before the others,” I tell her,

“and want to come home before dawn.”

She rolls her eyes,

pecks me on the cheek,

and hops into the limo.

Then she yanks the door shut behind her,

and glides away

from me

into her night.

Then Michael invites everyone inside

for frozen margaritas,

and shows us a video he whipped up

to commemorate the occasion—

vintage clips from the lifelong friendship

of the fabulous foursome,

from their kindergarten sleepovers

to their sweet sixteens.

But my eyes keep straying from the screen

over to Brandy, who's sitting on the couch

right between her husband Colin

and
my
husband.

When an especially cute shot of Tess

chasing a kitten flashes onto the screen,

Brandy leans her head on Colin's shoulder,

who squeezes her knee and kisses her.

From across the room,

Alice catches me watching them

and shoots me an
I-told-you-

those-rumors-weren't-true look.

But a second later, when Colin

turns to say something to Wendy's mom,

Brandy seizes the opportunity

to whisper stealthily into Michael's ear!

He keeps his eyes

glued to the screen,

but gives Brandy an almost

imperceptible nudge with his elbow.

She keep her eyes on the screen, too,

but a secret smile flits across her face.

It comes and goes so fast

I think maybe I imagined it.

But then I see that same smile

dart across Michael's face.

I toss back the last of my margarita

and glance over at Alice.

She rolls her eyes at me

and mouths, “Don't be ridiculous.”

Though I can't help noticing

that she looks a little pale.

Even if Michael

leaves me for Brandy,

I'll always have Clive Owen…

I imagine his eyes,

the color of night

when the moon is full,

imagine them penetrating mine,

requesting permission

to ravish…

CliveOwenCliveOwenCliveOwen,

taking no breaths between

the whispered words of my mantra,

shivering as my two front teeth

brush against my lower lip

to form that “v”

and my mouth blooms out,

like petals wanting a kiss,

to form the “O”…

CliveOwenCliveOwen

Clive oh…oh…oh

when?

I once slept with a man

just because his name

was Tulio.

Alice invites me over for lunch.

But when I bring up the subject of

Michael and Brandy, she refuses to discuss it.

She says

she wants to talk about

her
problems for a change.

And then she begins regaling me

with tales of her latest

Match.com dates from hell.

Which are,

in equal parts,

enthralling and appalling.

But behind Alice's hilarious stories

I sense a deep sadness lurking,

a panicky desperation growing.

So I pull my camera out of my purse and say,

“I think it's time for a new profile photo—

one that captures your essential Alice-ness.”

“Brilliant idea!” she cries.

“Something that says,

‘I-am-
not
-a-jerk magnet.'”

And the smile that I capture,

when I click the shutter,

is so full of humor and heart and hope

it could win her a date with Johnny Depp.