Chapter Eight
It’s Sunday morning, and my dream is interrupted by pounding on my door. I groan and drag a hand down my face. I’m getting too old for this.
“Coming, I’m coming,” I croak, my voice still slightly hoarse. I unlock the door and open it to find my longtime neighbor on the stoop. “Shouldn’t you still be sleeping?” I say by way of greeting.
“Someone’s got a bad case of bedhead.” Bernice chuckles as she steps inside. “A little mousse and a comb can go a long way, you know.”
“Yes, well.” I rub the aching spot on my forehead that always coincides with my neighbor’s arrival. “I was sleeping until two seconds ago when someone started hammering on my door.”
“That’s why you should give me a key,” she replies. “Then I wouldn’t have to wake you up.”
Not in this lifetime.
I take in Bernice’s appearance —somewhat-brushed gray hair, face devoid of makeup, the flowered housecoat with food stains.
“You’re in flats?” I say, my hand flying to my mouth. On her feet are a very sensible pair of sneakers and frankly, I feel traumatized by the sight of them.
“What do you expect?” she says defensively. “I’m almost a hundred years old.”
“Don’t give me that.” I close the door behind her, and put my hands on my hips. “You’re the youngest, hippest seventy-eight-year-old I’ve ever met.”
“Not anymore, I’m not.”
“I’ve had it,” I say, reopening the door. “Go back home and change into something more appropriate. The next time I see you, you better be wearing sequins and red lipstick.”
“This is the new Bernice,” she says, lifting her chin. “She embraces her age and being natural. She doesn’t need to cover herself with makeup or dress like a Vegas showgirl.”
“But it’s who you are—in here,” I argue, pounding my chest. “It’s what makes you light up inside.”
“This is my new identity, so you better start embracing it.”
I sigh. I still can’t get used to her new appearance.
Up until her husband’s death eight months ago, she loved getting dolled up every day.
She’d even have a face full of makeup just to take out the garbage.
At four-foot-ten, she claimed her four-inch wedge heels were less about fashion and more about functionality, but I knew better.
She went regularly to the salon to dye her roots platinum blonde.
Every first of the month, she got a mani-pedi to swap her fake nails for a new dazzling color and print.
And though her black leather miniskirts and shiny go-go boots might’ve seemed at odds with the reading glasses around her neck or the brown age spots on her hands, she worked it.
She used to work out too. She did everything from Pilates, to yoga, to tai chi and whatever else people who enjoy pain do.
But then her husband died, and her zest for life went with him. She rarely leaves her house anymore—except to come to my place, which she’s been doing increasingly often. She only wears floral housecoats and her gray hair is showing. It’s like she scoured the internet for a senior citizen costume.
But seeing her now in a pair of flats—that’s a whole new level of despair.
“And stop obsessing about me,” she adds, walking into the kitchen. “You’ve got your own problems. You gotta get moving if you want kids. Your clock is already halfway broken.”
“Even a broken clock is right twice a day,” I quip.
She makes a face as she shuffles to the refrigerator. “Not in this instance, it isn’t.”
“I don’t want children,” I remind her. Not really.
Sure, once in a while, I think it would be nice, but I always manage to talk myself out of it.
When my mother was still alive, I went out with some men to make her happy.
I never told her that I’d long ago decided that I would never get married.
I didn’t want her dying thinking I’d be alone.
“Make yourself at home,” I say, watching Bernice raid my refrigerator.
“I had four children by the time I was your age,” she adds.
A fact she likes to remind me of often.
“Coffee?” I ask, pressing the power button of my Keurig, last year’s joint Chanukah present from Miri and Sissel.
“Now we’re talkin’.” She pulls out a half-eaten pizza bagel from yesterday’s lunch and takes a bite, crumbs falling out the corners of her mouth. I come over with the broom and start sweeping, then follow it up by taking my handheld vacuum and shoving it inside the toaster.
“Why are you always cleaning?”
Because I’m always anxious. Whenever I feel unsettled or irritated, I clean.
And I don’t just clean. I clean like the royal family is coming to stay and I have thirty minutes until their arrival.
I get on my hands and knees and scrub every inch of the floor, peek under every cranny, and polish the silver.
It started when my mother became too sick to take care of household chores. I discovered that cleaning was an escape, a way to tune out the stress and focus only on the job at hand. And although I couldn’t control the mess of losing my mother, I could control how clean the house was.
It wasn’t everything, but it was something.
“It’s calming,” I say.
“It isn’t normal,” Bernice remarks between bites of her pizza bagel. “Never in my seventy-eight years in this world have I seen someone vacuum inside a toaster.”
“Watch it, you’re next,” I say, waving the vacuum at her as crumbs fall from her mouth.
Bernice isn’t ready to date, but that hasn’t stopped me from searching anyway. It isn’t that I don’t respect her feelings or understand her need to mourn. It’s more that I don’t see the harm in looking.
Also, there’s a serious shortage of elderly Jewish men—especially good quality ones. I wonder if I could import a guy from another country, like those mail-order brides. I wonder if it’d be the worth the time and money. Are relationships with language barriers better or worse?
“What are you thinking about?” Bernice says, cutting into my thoughts.
“How to get you a new husband,” I reply.
“Worry about finding yourself a husband. What do you wanna watch tonight?” Bernice asks, slowly getting up.
“What are the choices?” I say, returning the handheld vacuum to its charger.
“Golden Girls reruns or Golden Girls reruns.”
I see the rest of my life so clearly it’s frightening: Bernice and me, night after night staying home and watching the same old TV shows while my friends get married and have families of their own.
It never bothered me before; in fact, I used to look forward to being Auntie Ashira to everyone’s kids.
I don’t know where this sudden hollow feeling is coming from, but I’m thinking it’s Bernice.
I could still change my mind, of course. It’s not too late to get married and have babies of my own. But whenever I think about it, my throat starts to close and I get sweaty with panic. There are too many loose variables that come with marriage and children. Too many things I can’t control.
Yet, I still envision it at times. I imagine growing a baby inside of me and holding it for the first time. I picture holding their tiny hand and kissing a soft cheek. I imagine rocking it in my arms and singing bedtime prayers.
“You got any toilet paper I could borrow?” Before I have a chance to respond, she’s disappeared around the corner.
I shake my head and pour some creamer into the mug. In the wake of her husband’s death, I’ve not only become her early-morning companion, but also her preferred place to shop. Which isn’t ideal, but I’m willing to tolerate it if it makes her life easier.
“I thought we talked about this.”
Her head suddenly peeks out from the sliding door of the hallway closet, causing me to jump.
“Sorry,” I say, putting a hand over my racing heart. “What did we already talk about?”
“How sensitive my tushie is. You know the kind of havoc this will wreak on my fissures?” She tosses the toilet paper carelessly back onto the shelf, but it hits at the wrong angle and falls to the floor, unrolling as it goes.
“My Saul had a lot of faults, but at least the man knew the difference between Charmin Ultra and Quilted Northern. He cared about the tears in my anu—”
“Yup, okay,” I interrupt, massaging my throbbing temples. “I’ll be more considerate next time.” I pick up the roll of toilet paper and re-ravel it as best as I can. “Saul was a good man.”
“Meh. He was all right,” she grumbles, heading back to the kitchen. “He had his faults like everyone else. Sometimes people turn their dead loved ones into angels, but I promised Saul on his deathbed that I’d never do that. That I’d remember everything that was wrong with him.”
“I’m sure that gave him comfort,” I say, turning around so she doesn’t catch me struggling not to laugh.
“When you love someone, really love someone, you gotta love their imperfections too. It’s the things that you overcome as a couple that cause your love to grow, you know? So I told Saul that I’d remember him exactly as he was, faults and all.”
I turn around. “That’s really beautiful, Bernice.”
She takes a deep breath and swipes at her eyes as she sits down at the table. I silently push a tissue box toward her, then add cream and sugar to her coffee.
I give her a sad smile. “You must miss him a lot.”
“Mostly I miss not having anyone to yell at,” she laughs and swipes at her cheeks.
“Oh, come on.” I grin and carefully put the mug in front of her. “You yell at me all the time.”
“I know.” She shrugs. “But it just isn’t the same.”
I laugh and prepare her usual breakfast: an Eggo waffle with lots of butter and maple syrup, then finish it off with a dollop of whipped cream. “Here you go, mademoiselle.”
“Mmm, look at that masterpiece,” she says, diving in. “You spoil me, you know that?”
“I know. So,” I say, joining her at the table and taking a sip of my coffee. Aaah. Chemical Heaven. “What are your plans for today?”
“I was debating whether or not to take a shower.”
“I vote yes.”
“I was thinking of scrolling through .”
“Fun. Looking for anything specific?”
“One of those toilets that come on wheels. Commodes, I think they’re called.”
“Bernice.”