The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus (3 page)

Then, when Michael heads off

to pick up Samantha from school,

we teeter, arm in arm,

down the hallway to my office.

“I was gonna dump that bastard…” Alice says.

“How dare he beat me to it!”

“There's plenty of other fish in cyberspace,” I say.

Then we log on to Match.com and sign Alice up.

We set right to work creating her profile—

importing a recent sexy photo I took of her

(okay, maybe
not
so recent)

that makes her look a little like Liz Taylor.

Next, we fill in the “about me” section.

After heated debate, we decide to describe Alice

as “a brilliant, optimistic, fifty-something goddess

who hates taking long walks on the beach.”

We describe her “ideal match”

as “a brilliant, optimistic, fifty-something god

who loves taking long walks on the beach by

himself while his girlfriend gets a pedicure.”

We share a giggle fit over this,

and then Alice tugs me upstairs to my bathroom,

insisting that we perform a ritual burning

of my no longer needed diaphragm.

“Can't we just perform a ritual tossing
out

of my no longer needed diaphragm?” I plead.

“No,” Alice says. “We cannot.”

So we torch that sucker.

This turns out to be weirdly liberating.

(But note to self: never
ever

burn rubber in the house

when the windows are closed.)

Alice and I are racing around

flinging open all the windows.

Michael says, “What's that awful smell?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “What died in here?”

“A diaphragm,” Alice says, matter-of-factly.

“A what?” Michael says.

“A dia
gram
…” I say, shooting Alice

a will-you-
please
-shut-up look.

“…A diagram…” I continue,

“of…an outline…for…my book!”

“It caught fire,” Alice says. “But don't worry—

we've got the situation under
birth
control.”

I glance over at Alice

and we fall into each other's arms,

bursting into hysterics at her terrible pun

like a couple of stoned teenagers.

Samantha wrinkles her nose with disgust

and begins backing out of the room.

“I don't know what's so funny,” she says.

“And I definitely don't
want
to know.”

Then, she turns and bolts down the hall.

Michael eyes the empty bottle on the coffee table

and says, “I suspect you're a wee bit too smashed

to drive, Alice. Can I offer you a lift home?”

“I'd
rub
ber ride!” she says.

“I mean, I'd
love
a ride!”

And Alice and I crack up again,

while Michael stands there, scratching his head.

I knock on Samantha's bedroom door.

“What?”
she barks,

as though what she
really
means is,

“Will you
please
leave me alone?”

I peek inside and find her sitting on her bed,

surrounded by an avalanche of college catalogs,

her graceful fingers clicking away on her laptop

at the speed of light.

“How was school today, Sam?”

“Fine,” she says, without looking up.

“Want me to fix you a snack?”

“Mom. I'm trying to finish this essay.”

“I made spaghetti for dinner. Your favorite…”

“I won't be home for dinner. I'm going

to Laura's, with Wendy and Tess, to study

for the bio quiz—we're ordering pizza.”

“Oh,” I say. “Okay…”

She shoots me a glance that dares me

to try to make her feel guilty about this.

But I refuse to take the bait.

“Sounds like an excellent plan!” I chirp.

Then I close the door and sag against it,

feeling as deflated

as a punctured soufflé.

But at six o'clock, right before she leaves,

she pops her head into my office and says,

“Sorry about dinner. Will you save me some?

Your spaghetti
rocks.”

“So do
you
,” I murmur, and she rolls her eyes

as if to say,
Now don't go getting all mushy on me.

But then she asks, “Wanna watch
Gossip Girl
later?”

“Does a bear poop in the woods?” I reply.

And she flashes me a heart-stopping grin.

I'm struck by how

grown up they look—

so much taller than they were

even just a couple of months ago.

And their faces have begun

to lose their baby fat…

I glance at Samantha and—omigod!—

hers
has, too!

Then, the three young women

trot off into the night,

leaving me to marvel

at time's sleight of hand…

I can still remember

when Sam was too little

to even understand the difference

between girls and boys.

When I tried to clarify this for her, by asking,

“What do girls have that boys
don't
have?”

she thought about it briefly

and replied, “Skirts!”

Then I blinked—

and somehow she'd learned

exactly
what made boys different:

cooties.

I glanced away—

and when I looked back again

my daughter was in the throes

of her first real crush on a guy

(he was an older man,

a seventh-grader,

who played

the saxophone).

I turned around—and she was floating

out the front door on her first date.

Though she wouldn't admit

that that's what it was.

And a split second later—

she was snuggling on the couch

next to her first boyfriend

“watching TV,”

his arm slung

over her shoulder

like it was the most normal thing

in the world,

the fresh-bloomed

plum-red hickey on her neck

not quite hidden

by the collar of her shirt…

I tell him

what Dr. Stone told me.

Then I tell him

that Samantha's gone out for a few hours.

He leads me straight upstairs

and undresses me,

as eagerly as if

for the very first time.

And when he enters me,

and I feel him, slick and hot,

touching that place that's been shielded

by that stern rubber dome for seventeen years,

it's as if he's opening a door

so deep inside of me

that I'd forgotten

it even existed…

Later, when we're catching our breath,

I find myself drifting back to another night

when we made love without the diaphragm—

the night we conceived Samantha…

After all those years of trying so hard

not to get pregnant, it had seemed

positively reckless to be leaving

my “little umbrella” in its plastic case,

wildly dangerous

to be slipping between those

skin-warmed sheets with my naked husband

while no sentry stood guard at my cervix gates…

That night, we swirled together

like the roots of an ancient tree,

and when Michael plunged into me,

I could feel our daughter pouring through him

into
being.

She's so tuckered out that she falls asleep

while we're watching
Gossip Girl.

I cover her with a quilt

and kiss her on the forehead.

Then I switch off the TV and watch her sleep.

How can Samantha be a senior already?

Seems like she was starting kindergarten only…

thirteen years ago.

Swiping at a tear, I reach for an old photo album,

and flipping through it,

I come across the picture I took of Sam

on the morning of her first day of kindergarten.

She'd only been willing to stand still

long enough to let me snap one shot,

while the sun haloed her hair

beneath the lacey arms of our pepper tree—

the one Michael and I planted

on the day we found out I was pregnant,

so that we'd have a place

to put the tree house.

Wearing a new dress

that was almost as blue as her eyes,

and a matching new blue bow,

perched atop her ponytail like a trained butterfly,

she clutched Monkey in one hand,

her yellow school bus lunchbox in the other,

and peered at me as though

there were no camera between us.

I'm not at all sure what this whole

going-to-school thing is about,

her eyes seemed to say.

But, whatever it is, I'm ready for it.

It wasn't until
after
I clicked the shutter

that she broke into a sunny smile

and twirled around in the new white sneakers

that gleamed like small stars on her feet—

those brave little feet

that were about to carry her

down our brick path

and out

into the world…

It happens for the first time

on the very day I turn fifty—

a scrim of sweat

cloaks my body,

beading on my upper lip,

misting on my forehead,

gathering in a steaming pool

between my shoulder blades

as if a tiny cup of liquid lightning

in each one of my cells

has just bubbled up, burst ablaze,

and cremated me,

flashes

to ashes,

bust

to dust.

I am

the sudden flame

on the cheeks of the liar,

the marshmallow

that catches fire

over the crimson coals.

I am the boiling oil

that roils like witch's brew

in the cast-iron kettle.

I am the roar from the oven door

that melts the glasses

right off your face.

I am the Szechuan flambé.

The one who swore

she'd never say,

“Is it

hot in here,

or is it just me?”

To take estrogen or not to take estrogen:

That is the questogen.

Whether 'tis nobler to abstain and suffer

The sweat and puddles of outrageous flashes

Or to take arms against a sea of mood swings,

And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;

No more; at first the studies say 'twill end

The heart attacks and thousand bouts of bloat

That flesh is heir to, 'tis a true confusion—

For then they say 'twill cause us all to die

Perchance from breast cancer; ay, there's the rub;

For who can dream or even sleep while worrying about

What doctors might be saying come next week?

My mother has flown in from Cleveland

to celebrate the holiday with us.

She's waved her magic spatula

and transformed my kitchen into
her
kitchen.

I snap a photo of her sitting at the counter,

tucked between Michael and Samantha,

the three of them peeling apples for a crisp,

laughing together over some little joke.

She looks sort of tired and pale,

but as joyful as if she's just won the lottery.

I close my eyes and inhale the scent

of my mother's cornbread-bacon stuffing,

her roast turkey

rubbed with garlic and paprika,

her cinnamon-pecan

sweet potato pie…

and a thankfulness

rises in my chest

like the batch of cloud-light popovers

rising in my oven,

doffing

their buttery top hats.