The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus (7 page)

Samantha and I run into Tess

and her mother, Brandy.

The girls squeal and hug each other,

then dash off to sample lipsticks,

leaving me to chat with Brandy

about the animal shelter she runs.

Brandy is a total sweetheart.

Really. She
is.

But she's one of those moms

who looks so young

that you think she must have given birth

when she was twelve…

one of those moms whose butt is so tight

and arms are so toned

and legs are so long

and hair is so sleek

and waist is so slim

and clothes are so chic

that when I'm around her

I feel like a freak—

like I should put on a burka

and never take it off.

Brandy is one of those moms,

who will never,
ever

look like two scoops

of half-melted Rocky Road.

She says she's worried about my mother.

She says that she just got off the phone with her

and she sounded nuttier than a jar of Skippy

(that's
Alice's
simile, not mine).

So I hang up

and call my mother,

who does, indeed, sound nuttier

than a jar of Skippy.

She also sounds really pissed off—

pissed off at the nurses for trying to poison her,

pissed off at me for not calling the police,

pissed off at the planet for spinning.

So I hang up

and call Dr. Hack.

The operator puts me on hold

while she pages him.

I put the phone on speaker,

to free up my hands

so I can try to get some writing done

while I wait.

But it's hard to write a poem—

no, it's
impossible
to write a poem

while listening to a voice that keeps asking you,

over and over again, to please stay on the line,

assuring you,

as the centuries tick by,

that your call

is
very
important to them.

He tells me the good news

is that the steroids are helping—

my mother's getting stronger

and seems to be in less pain.

Then he tells me

the bad news:

she's having

a severe roid rage reaction.

“I know,” I say. “It's awful.

Isn't there anything that can be done about it?”

“Hmmm…” he says. “Maybe we could try

putting up a NO BITING ALLOWED sign…”

And then he starts chuckling

at his own idiotic joke.

Only this

is no ordinary chuckle—

this is a piercing

Woody-Woodpecker-esque cackle

that practically ruptures

my eardrums.

Then I hang up

and stagger into the backyard,

trying to shake the echo of that awful chuckle

out of my head.

I suck in a breath.

I let it out.

Suck in another breath.

Let it out.

I stand here watching the sun stream

through our pepper tree's swaying arms,

savoring the silence emanating from

the vacant house next door.

Ever since the neighbors moved away last year,

there've been no barking dogs,

no screaming fights,

no Lady Gaga…

Maybe I'll dash into the house,

bring my computer out here,

climb right up into our pepper tree's lap,

and
finally
get some writing done.

The instant I step inside to grab my laptop,

the phone rings.

And wouldn't you just know it?

It's Roxie calling. For a progress report.

I consider coming clean

and admitting that I've ground to a halt—

because of my sick mom and my night sweats

and my soon-to-be empty nest.

I even consider telling her

how distracted I've been

by the forest of witchy white hairs

that's just started sprouting on my chin.

Though, honestly—

how can someone barely past puberty

even begin to understand

what I'm going through?

So I don't bother explaining.

I just tell her I'm making excellent progress.

Then I say a breezy good-bye,

hang up the phone,

and pray that God won't strike me dead.

Desperate for inspiration,

I grab one of my old journals

and, flipping through the pages,

find an entry written on Sam's third birthday:

Today she marched in,

dragging Monkey behind her.

“Mommy,” she said, “am I three?”

“Yes,” I told her. “You are three.”

The next entry was just two days later:

This morning she said,

“Mommy, am I still three?”

“Yes,” I told her. “You are still three.”

She blinked at me solemnly,

then said, “Is my whole body three?”

“Yes,” I told her.

“Your whole body is three.”

I close the journal

and glance at my neck in the mirror.

“Yes,” I tell myself. “You are still fifty.”

Then I take a step back and peer at the rest of me.

“Yes,” I say. “Your whole body is fifty.”

In case you are wondering

why I'm wearing this hat:

There's hair in my sink,

hair in my tub,

hair on my floor,

hair in my grub,

hair on my clothes,

hair in my bed.

Plenty of hair

everywhere—

except for

on my head.

This never used to happen.

My knees never used to issue a formal

complaint whenever I knelt down.

But they do now.

These days,

when I lower myself to the ground,

I've got more snap, crackle, and pop

than a bowl of Rice Krispies.

Yesterday, at the library,

when I squatted down

to peruse the titles on the bottom shelf,

everyone in the room turned to see

what was causing the commotion.

One day,

while you and your little girl

are feeding the ducks

in the pond,

you'll glance over

and think to yourself,

There are the old people,

lawn bowling.

The next day,

you'll find yourself

standing amongst them,

all of you clothed in white

from head to toe,

like clusters of calla lilies

blooming on the lush green pelt

of lawn.

You'll line up your shot,

aim the ball at the jack, and let it roll

in a sort of slow-motion

dream-sequence move.

Then you'll glance over

and think to yourself,

There is a young mother and her little girl,

feeding the ducks.

When you were

almost fourteen,

your body blooming faster

than a time-lapse film of a flower,

did you stroll down the street

hoping that all the boys who saw you

would be so blown away by your beauty

that'd they'd burst into applause?

Did you go from wishing more than anything

that someone would whistle at you,

to being whistled at

every now and then,

to being whistled at

so often that you took it for granted,

to being whistled at

less,

to rarely

being whistled at,

to never

being whistled at,

to wishing more than anything

that someone would whistle at you

just

one

more

time?

Well, you are old

if you had trouble understanding

the title of this poem.

You are old

if you have no idea who that person is

who's hosting
Saturday Night Live.

You are old

if before you head off

on your morning run

you find yourself

tucking your husband's

cell phone number into your pocket

so that the paramedics

will know

who to call.

I spent half the morning

talking to my mother's doctor

and her nurse and the physical therapist

and Blue Cross Blue Shield,

and the other half

talking to Samantha's guidance counselor

and her transcript clerk and the College Board

and the financial aid office.

Now, it's three o'clock in the afternoon.

I'm still wearing my tattered old nightgown.

I haven't had time to brush my teeth

or make the bed

or spritz on my Rogaine

or take my biotin

or my calcium or my vitamin D

or to write one single syllable.

I'm as hollow

as an empty cave,

as flattened as a suckled breast,

as useless as an uninspired muse.

But contrary to what you might have guessed,

I'm not just a little depressed—

I've got a mean case

of the sandwich generation blues.

I'm scarfing down a late lunch

when Michael wanders into the room,

pulls open the fridge,

and asks me if we have any eggs.

He asks me this question even though

the eggs are right there in plain sight—

right there on the door of the fridge

where they
always
are,

where they always
have
been

for the past five years

ever since we bought this fridge

that came with the built-in egg holder.

Even so, I don't tell Michael

that I think this is a dumb question.

I just tell him that the eggs are on the door.

But Michael gets mad at me anyway.

He says it was
not
a dumb question.

And I say I never said it
was.

And he says well, it was obvious from your tone

that you
thought
it was a dumb question.

And I say it isn't fair for him

to get angry at me for having a
thought.

And he says I'm wrong about that

and I say I'm right and he says I'm wrong

and I say I'm right and he says I'm wrong,

and finally I tell him that I've
really

got to stop now, and then he clears his throat

and says that same pissy thing he
always
says,

about my not wanting to concede the point,

and I say, “You know I can't stand it

when you say that!” and he says,

“That's because you know it's true!”

And I'm just about to strangle him,

really, I
am,

when Samantha arrives home

from her chorus rehearsal.

Thus, sparing Michael's life.