The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus (15 page)

Then I sit down at the kitchen table,

plop Secret into my lap,

and pick up the phone to call Alice.

Maybe listening

to all the gory details

of her latest Match.com misadventures

will keep me

from having to think

about my own problems…

When I'm halfway through dialing,

I realize that I'm calling my mother's

cell phone by mistake.

But I finish punching in the number,

hoping that I'll catch her

in a rare moment of lucidity.

I'm not even really sure

what I want to talk to her about.

I guess I just want to hear her voice.

Or ask her

how
she
handled it

when
I
left for college.

Or pour out all my troubles

to the one person who knows me

better than anyone.

That is—

when she knows me

at
all.

She says, “Holly dear, I'm so glad you called!”

She
does
know me! And she sounds so sane.

But then she says, “The sky's green here today…

Is it green there, too?”

My hope plummets like a bird pierced by an arrow.

“Uh…no, Mom…it's just the usual blue…”

I can hear Dr. Hack in the background.

I'd know that loathsome chuckle of his anywhere.

“Mom,” I say, “let me talk to the doctor.”

“Hey, Dr. Handsome,”

she calls over to him.

“My daughter wants to talk to you.”

“Myra darling,” I hear him coo,

“flattery will get you everywhere…”

Then he tells her he'll take my call in the hall.

And when he says hello, I cut right to the chase:

“When are you going to wean her off the steroids?”

“Actually,” he says, “we began last week.”

“But let me guess,” I say. “The bad news

is that she's still psychotic?”

“Yes,” he says,

“but the good news

is that she's
so
psychotic

she doesn't even
know
it!”

And when he starts chuckling

at his own foul little joke,

I tell him I've got another call

coming in.

Then I hang up

and let fly a stream of curses so scary

that Secret leaps off my lap

and streaks out of the room.

And discovered,

to my horror,

that I've gained five pounds.

The day of my daughter's departure

has been bearing down on me

like a bullet train

and I've been stuffing my face

to try to quell the emptiness

growing in my gut.

I take a look at my belly in the mirror—

it's so vast I could almost pass

for pregnant.

The irony of this

does not

escape me.

I run my hands over my mountainous midriff

and find myself drifting back

to the day before Samantha was born…

I remember how I savored the flutter

of her Ginger-Rogersy feet

waltzing away inside of me

and thought about

where they might carry her

one day;

how I gazed down

at the opalescent orb

that barely contained her,

picturing her fully grown,

heading off to college

without so much as a backward glance,

and whispered,

“How can you leave me,

after all I'm going to do for you?”

Watching Samantha

pack up her things for college,

the mournful call of Jane's trumpet

wafting in through the window,

I find myself

feeling as though

I was there when they came

to set up the tent and the dance floor,

there when they

brought in the heat lamps,

there when they

delivered the tables and chairs,

the linens and china,

the silverware and champagne flutes…

And now

I'm here,

watching them pick it all up again

and load it back onto the truck.

But, somehow—

I blinked

and missed

the party.

Pinkie's yapping wakes me at 2 a.m.

I don't remember my dream,

but it's left me feeling panicky.

I can't fall back to sleep.

So I throw on some clothes

and hop onto my Schwinn.

Ten minutes later,

I find myself wandering though the park

where Sam and I played when she was small.

There's an ugly hodgepodge of rope bridges

where the stately metal jungle gym

once stood.

And the seesaw Samantha loved to ride

has been replaced by some kind of weird

sproinging Plexiglas contraption.

There's still a swing set,

but it's in the wrong spot.

And the wooden seats are plastic now.

The tire swing's gone.

The silver slide's gone.

The monkey bars are gone.

Even my little girl's favorite—the creaky old

mother-powered merry-go-round—

has vanished.

And so has

my little

girl.

She gave Samantha

a fierce hug good-bye and promised us

she'd take brilliant care of Secret.

Now I'm on the plane,

tucked into the middle seat

between Michael, who's sketching,

and Samantha,

who's looking out the window

at the clouds.

I cover her hand with mine

and ask her

how she's doing.

She answers my question

with an eloquent smile,

then goes back to staring out the window.

But a few seconds later

her head drops down

onto my shoulder.

My hand flutters up

like a startled bird

to cradle her cheek.

We sit here together.

Wordless. Close.

Closer than we've ever been.

Her shoulders begin to quiver.

Her warm tears slip down my fingers,

anointing my wrist.

And when my own tears come,

it's as if they're gushing

directly from a crack in my heart's dam.

I stroke her cheek,

kiss the top of her head,

wrap both arms around her.

We explore the sterile, echoing rooms

of Samantha's suite,

scouring it for aspects to admire—

the view of the courtyard,

the size of the common room,

the picturesque slant of the walls.

Then, before we're quite ready, the other

three girls come swarming up the stairs,

their suitcases and parents in tow.

All of us greet each other, shy as deer.

But soon our daughters' breezy banter

banishes the hush.

Then, beneath the chatter, comes the tinkling

song of summer's last ice-cream truck,

floating in through the open window—

it's the same melody

that used to drift from the mobile

that spun above Samantha's crib…

Michael hears it, too.

He reaches for my hand.

And when he laces our fingers together

the lump in my throat

threatens to cut off

my breath.

Michael whistles while he works

with a couple of the other dads,

putting together the aluminum shelving

for the bathroom.

I carefully fold Samantha's

bouquet of new winter sweaters,

tucking them, one by one,

into the drawers beneath her bed.

She doesn't need me to do this for her,

but seems to understand

that if she doesn't keep me busy

I'll crumble.

She gives my shoulder

a gentle pat,

complimenting me

on my awesome sweater-arranging skills.

And I realize

that, for the first time,

she's mothering

me.

As Sam and I

smooth the new sheets,

shimmy the pillows

into their cases,

and fluff

the clouds of comforter,

I try

not to think about

what might happen

someday

amidst the silken folds

of these virgin linens.

The constant battle

I've been waging

against a full-on

weep-a-thon

is nearly

lost

when Samantha lifts Monkey

out of her suitcase

and, unaware

that I'm watching,

clasps him

to her chest.

The girls

have begun the ballet

of getting to know each other:

“You're kidding!
I
love the Beach Boys, too!”

“Omigod! Me, too!” “Me, three!”

Squeals all around.

Michael whispers in my ear,

then slips out

to buy some roses.

Now that there's nothing left for me to do,

I feel more in the way

than an in-law on a honeymoon.

I sink

into the frayed cushions

of the weary couch,

afraid

of saying something

that might mortify my child.

Maybe the other parents

are feeling the same way,

because all of them are as quiet as dust.

We sneak awkward glances at each other,

and when our eyes meet, we smile—

like celebrants at a wake.

Michael and I watch her

skip off down the sidewalk

with her new roommates,

the four of them already a unit,

their bursts of laughter floating back to us

as they disappear around a corner,

happier

than a litter

of leashless pups.

Then, the two of us

head out into the night,

hand in silent hand,

to find

the nearest

liquor store.

Is it a bad sign

if even when you

and your husband

choke down

every last searing drop

of a bottle of Jack Daniel's,

you still

can't quite manage

to get drunk

enough?

There's not

much time left

before Michael and I

have to head to the airport.

Just long enough

for me to snap a few pictures—

the “before” photos,

we call them.

I bring the Nikon up to my eye

and line up the shot.

Samantha snuggles into her father,

leaning her head on his shoulder.

He circles her

with his arms,

resting his cheek

against the top of her head.

Have there ever been

two more wistful smiles,

two people so happy…

and so sad?

Michael,

who never cries,

squeezes his eyes

closed.

A part of me

is almost hoping

she'll refuse to let go of me,

like she did

when she was five years old

on the first day of day camp…

On that sucker-punch morning in June,

Samantha locked herself onto me

like a human handcuff

and began to sob, chanting a single phrase:

“How can you leave me with these people?

How can you leave me with these people?”

She was so distraught

that her question began to make

an odd sort of sense to me.

How
could
I leave her with these people?

How could I trust these strangers

with my baby's safety…?

Now, as I clasp Samantha to my chest,

it takes all my strength

not to lock myself onto
her.

How

can I leave her

with these people?