Chapter 13
On day three, an old Mercedes sports car pulled up in front of the house. I stretched my neck to look and saw Di stepping out of the car. It was windy out, but her hair remained perfectly in place. How come I couldn’t pull that off? And why would Di stop by? It couldn’t be to visit Macallan—she’d left for school hours ago, and I cherished every moment of seeing her off. I could imagine doing it until she earned a PhD.
Di strode into the house in midpriced navy pumps, the conservative style women wore to the office with a boxy suit in the seventies. Napoleon had acted less like a conqueror. The house had been cozy and warm. Di’s presence brought the temperature down to frosty.
“I love tapestry,” I said, admiring her patterned handbag, hopefully initiating a positive yet meaningless conversation leading to why she had shown up.
“My grandmother’s,” she said, turning from side to side, modeling it next to her white shirt and navy pants. She opened then closed the top of the bag. “My grandmother bequeathed it to me years before she died. She said she wanted to see me enjoy it.”
“A generous gesture.”
“My grandmother brought me up, as her daughter,” she said candidly. “My sister is my birth mother, but she was too young to raise a child.” Did she tell this to everyone she met?
Keep going, I thought, wanting to hear the story. But her phone quacked, and she stopped in her tracks. That’s right. Her ringtone was an imitation duck. It was possible there could be a more annoying tone, but I had never heard it.
“Solicitors,” she said. “I can’t imagine why one would call me.”
“I think because you’re about the age of the people they scam.”
“No way. I’m way younger than that. Teatime,” she said, with the air of a servant ringing a bell.
I followed her to the kitchen. When she took charge of the copper kettle, it felt as though she were assuming command of the US Army. She waited for the water to boil while she inspected me, taking in my country clothes ... my durable rubber-soled duck shoes, moose socks, jeans, a tartan plaid flannel shirt—and suddenly I felt as though I was wearing the wrong thing.
“How long will you be here?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Not too long. I did leave my practice.”
“If you need to return to FLA, I’m here to stay,” she said, as good as digging her feet into wet cement. Did she say she was here to stay? Some women might make that offer to be helpful or accommodating, but Di didn’t strike me as one of those types.
“I was sorry to hear your husband lost his job,” she said.
I couldn’t cope with her snooty tone. “He retired,” I said.
“And Lisa mentioned he fell playing pickleball.”
Was she going to bring up every calamity that had befallen my family since the shtetl ?
She tsked. “And you left him home by himself?”
“My son is with him,” I said.
“Joe, right?”
“My husband is Jake. Not Joe. My sons are Alex and Michael.” How many times did I have to correct her? She ran a real estate business but couldn’t recall a first name? It occurred to me that she was taunting me with the name game. I was trying to like her, but she didn’t make it easy. I wanted her to leave. I wondered how Lisa tolerated her. Then I remembered Lisa was a nicer person than me, and she was terrific at compartmentalizing. When Lisa had to interact with Di, she probably stashed her in a back file in her brain and directed her thoughts to the Farmer’s Daughter.
The kettle whistled. Di poured hot water into a gold mug with the logo of a restaurant called Rockwell’s. She didn’t ask if I wanted tea, so when she moved over, out of the way, I prepared my own.
“Still ... your husband must miss you,” she said as her tea steeped, and I wondered about her grandmother who brought her up as a daughter. I was curious, but I wasn’t going to ask her about it. I didn’t know her well enough, didn’t want to know her better.
“So, you were saying about your grandmother?”
“My grandmother raised me. But my eldest sister is really my birth mom.”
The one with cancer and pneumonia and a big house in Rhode Island, I supposed.
She rubbed her hands together. Enough friendly chatter. I could see she was eager to get down to business. “I was wondering. Are you in the guest room?”
Why was she asking?
I nodded. Of course, I was in the guest room. I was the guest.
“Don’t you love the way it’s decorated?”
“Very nice.”
“I selected the wallpaper with Lisa,” she said with pride. “At New England Paint and Paper. I was an interior designer before I sold houses. Now I stage homes. Ups the sale price substantially.”
A tinge of sadness hit me. So, this was what I was missing by living far away—spending time with Lisa doing things like shopping for wallpaper. But why was I jealous? Because I wanted to be with Lisa.
“Macallan calls the guest room ‘Di’s room.’ How precious is that?” Di asked.
Precious? I was shocked the word “precious” was in Di’s vocabulary. Di’s room? Why did she have a room? Lisa had told me Di lived adjacent to a pond in a town more touristy than Woodfield. Vacationers flocked to summer theater there, and the nonprofit production company was famous for world premieres. Several plays had gone on to Broadway. Of course, Di practically stole her house at auction when the owner couldn’t pay his mortgage. Real estate had skyrocketed. Besides, she had family money.
“Lisa said you bought a house.”
“I did,” she said joyfully, probably thinking of the deal she landed.
“I’d love to see it.” No true desire on my part there. I was just being pleasant.
“Well, maybe during your next visit. Right now, I have guests from Brooklyn,” she said.
“Family?”
“No, no, no. My family? It would be easier to sweep rats off a ship. Clients. They had a few weeks’ gap between selling their home and moving into the new one. I’m very helpful that way. And, after all, I did land both sides of the deal.”
Of course she had.
She held up an index finger. The thinker. “Here’s an idea for you, Joan.”
“Jodi.”
“Oh, my mistake. Airbnb your condominium during high season in Florida.”
It was a ridiculous suggestion, but I went with it. “Where would I live in the meanwhile?”
“With your son?”
I imagined moving in with Alex and the Pilgrim. The Pilgrim warning Alex he had twenty-four hours to dispose of me or she would divorce him, and he would see their purebred dog, Bentley, named after their car, only every other week.
“Where do you stay while clients use your home?”
“Don’t be silly. Here I am.”
Was she staying in Lisa’s house? Tonight? Tomorrow night? The one after that?
I squeezed out an “Oh.”
“In fact, if you don’t mind, I have another suggestion.” The smile posted on the billboard before town was back on her face. “Could you possibly find it in your heart to allow me to stay in the room I decorated?”
Find it in my heart? Was she kidding? The nerve. The chutzpah . She had to be out of her mind. I was visiting briefly, and she wanted the guest room? I slammed myself onto pause. I couldn’t say what I was thinking in the vernacular. I didn’t want to argue with this selfish blowhard who could be hanging around my neck the whole time.
“Kind of you to offer,” I said. “But I prefer the guest room, and I’ve already unpacked.”
“No problem, Joanie. I can help you move.”
“My name is Jodi. Do not call me Joanie again.”
“Jodi, yes. You must realize the guest room is mine.”
Was that why it reeked of marijuana? I would not stand for this. She could go to hell. I’d give her a ride.
“Lisa’s library has a pullout couch. It’s magical,” she said.
Magical, my ass. Magical if your spine didn’t break. Magical if you didn’t mind feeling the steel rod below the limp mattress, just like on every sleeper in the world.
“That’s nice of you,” I said as my eyes burned through her. “But I’d rather stay where I am. Feel free to reclaim the guest room the moment I leave.”
“Perhaps you don’t understand. I can’t possibly sleep on a convertible sofa. I have back problems. I was injured as a child.”
I was confident she was full of it. I wasn’t going to let Di win. This win was mine.
“Car accident. Until this day, if I’m uncomfortable at night, I have nightmares. I shriek and disturb everyone. I don’t want to scare Macallan. I know! You could take Lisa’s room. Lisa and Brian have a flat-screen.”
“I’m not into television. I read.”
I reviewed her life story in my head. Her birth mother was her sister. She was in a terrible car accident as a kid. She’d been an interior decorator. She brought up two boys on her own. But why had she moved to the Berkshires from her last pit stop? No way she had transplanted herself to be near Brian. She wasn’t that kind of mother.
Di went on. “I never understood why the kids didn’t install a bathroom in the bedroom. This house will be a tough sell one day. Fortunately, there’s enough space to add a half bath.”
She sipped her tea. I sipped my tea. She sipped again. I sipped again. It was a sip off. A stalemate. I stayed rock solid, standing my ground. I would not switch to the uncomfortable, back-breaking pullout in the tiny library. As for the second choice, I thought it would feel odd to sleep in Lisa and Brian’s bed. The guest room was perfect, and I had settled in.
She set her cup aside. “I’m the one who is here, ready to help Lisa day in and out. May I receive an iota of appreciation for that?”
I gave birth to Lisa. May I receive an iota of appreciation for that?
My phone pinged. I fished it out of my pocket. I knew by the ringtone it was Lisa. I told Di the call was from my office manager, and I would take it outside. I marched to the road, pacing in anger as I spoke. “Hello, Lisa.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Some opportunity, Lisa. Why didn’t you tell me your mother-in-law was going to be in the house with me the entire time?”
“What are you talking about?”
I could tell she was confused. “Di didn’t go to Rhode Island. Her sister has pneumonia. There’s no operation. The battlewagon is in the house.”
“Oh, jeez.”
“Jeez? She’s insisting she take the guest room. Can you imagine? She claims she had a terrible auto accident when she was a kid and can’t sleep on a pullout couch.”
“What car accident?”
“The one she was in!”
“Oh, Mom. I’m sorry. I thought she was going to see her sister this week.”’
I didn’t respond.
“Mom, can you go with the flow, sleep in my room?”
Damn the flow. “Lisa, you know how I am. I really don’t want to sleep in your bed.”
“Mom, can’t you two work it out?”
I felt like a complaining child. I was too old for this. “Go back to whatever you were doing. Maybe I’ll take Callie to stay in a hotel with me. I can drive her to school from the Hilton Garden Inn. Dad will earn points. Callie can swim in the indoor pool after school.”
“Mom, please don’t do that. You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
“Do you want to hear a proportion? Di is with Callie three hundred sixty-five days a year. And I get how many? Let me count on my fingers.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing,” Lisa said.
“It sounded like something.”
“Mom, I’m sorry Di is there, but I have my own problems.”
What problems?
She continued, “I can’t spend my time in Boston anxious about you two having it out. Di doesn’t pay much attention to Macallan. She occasionally plays Monopoly with her—because it’s a real estate game—and that’s it. Soon as she gets a hotel, she says she won and calls it quits. You’ll be fine. Please stay in the house.”
“Will not do.”
“Oh, please. What will Callie think if you up and check out?”
That Di was intolerable.
“I will tell her Dad needs the points.”
“She’s smart. She’ll know the truth. That you don’t like Di.”
Was there someone who did like Di? I paused. I reconsidered. I didn’t want to teach Callie to run from an uncomfortable situation. I had an example to set.
I gritted my teeth. “Okay, Lisa. I will stay in the house.”
“Please let Di have the guest room.”
What? What did she say? “Are you joking? No way.”
“Mom, it’s not good for Callie to see her grandmothers arguing.”
“Why don’t you tell that to Di?”
“Because she’s Di. She doesn’t care, and she won’t listen.”
Thoroughly irritated, I took a big breath, closed my eyes for a moment, shook my head.
“Mom, for me?”
How much more did I have to do for her? I’d labored without an epidural. Wasn’t that enough?
“Please . . .”
“Okay, Lisa. Maybe you’re right. I’m being juvenile. I can deal with her. But I sure as hell wouldn’t buy a house from her.”
“Mom . . . I love you.”
Argh, I thought and then said, “I love you too.”
I pocketed my phone. Begrudgingly, I returned to the house.
“Everything okay in FLA?” Di snickered from an armchair.
What could be more grating than a person who referred to Florida as FLA? I wanted to slap her, but instead I said, “You win. Take the guest room.”
Score one point for the impossible Diandra Summer Lake. But she’d never get two points because I had had enough.
“Everyone calls it Di’s room,” she said, pushing my envelope.
Talk about not knowing when to shut up.
“I, for one,” she said, “would never sleep in my son’s bed.”
My brain was on fire. I watched with a death wish as Diabolical Di climbed up the stairs. I hoped she’d trip. Then I forced myself to leave the house before I did something to my daughter’s wretched mother-in-law that I could be arrested for.
I shouldn’t have been surprised at Di’s sense of entitlement. It was clearly on display when I’d first met her. We’d driven up for a Sunday brunch to celebrate the engagement of our children. Jake and I had stayed overnight at the Adams Inn, off Route 7. I was already on edge before we even got to brunch. I had dressed in navy flats, a navy turtleneck, and cuffed, pleated pants, which for me—living in Manhattan at that time—was the fashion equivalent of wearing the rainbow. Jake had decided on jeans—not daddy jeans but granddaddy jeans—and a red V-neck T-shirt I should have donated or tossed the moment he brought it home from the office. He was partial to that T-shirt, designed for a library 5K he didn’t run, because it featured the name of his company in enormous letters on the back. It also listed every bank within ten blocks of the library. I glanced at Jake in disdain. There was no way I would allow him to meet the new in-laws dressed as a vagrant. But if you want to set off fireworks anytime before or after July 4, tell your husband to change his shirt.
“Jake, can you possibly put on a golf shirt?” I had asked as I opened the tiny closet, reaching for the first one that I saw.
“I want to be comfortable. I’m more comfortable in a T-shirt,” he had responded, shaking his head.
Since age twelve, I had suffered bras with underwire. I wore Spanx underneath my dress when I went to the office, walked and worked in heels, but my husband was too prickly—and obstinate—to pull on an open-neck golf shirt.
“What’s going on with you?” I asked.
“You know. He’s not Jewish. Swear to me it doesn’t bother you he’s not Jewish.”
“We chose each other,” I said. “This is Lisa’s chance to choose. We go to synagogue. We sent Lisa to religious school, to Jewish camps, to Israel twice. We have seders , light Chanukah candles. Lisa will raise her children as Jews.”
“That’s right. We did all we could, and she’s marrying a non-Jew. Not even an ethnic non-Jew who we might have something in common with. No. She couldn’t even find an Italian boy so we could at least eat. These people will starve us to death.”
“Well, Jake, we can always go to a diner after a meal at their home.”
“I’ll bet they’re all big drinkers,” he said with disgust.
No stereotyping there. “Jake—you are a big drinker.”
“I have one, maybe two, drinks a night.”
In tumblers, I thought. I gave up improving his apparel and told him it was time to go.
We drove to the address Lisa had texted us. But it wasn’t a restaurant. It was a senior center with a banner out front emblazoned with A LL THE PANCAKES YOU CAN EAT .
“And you were worried about them starving us,” I joked to Jake.
“This can’t be it,” Jake said. “Who has an engagement brunch in a senior center? Check the address. Wait. No need. I see Lisa and Brian.”
We got out of the car, and I hugged Brian. Jake shook his hand. We each kissed Lisa hello. Her long hair streamed to her waist. She wore ballet flats. That’s all I remember about what she was wearing. She pretty much looked good in everything.
A blonde woman in pumps and a low-cut dress tugged Brian’s arm.
“I’m not brunching here, son,” she said.
Son, I thought. And talk about getting to the point.
“Dad chose it,” Brian said.
“Well, son. Un-choose it.”
Brian winced, but it was clear he would do what she commanded. From what I had seen thus far, I decided I’d question a Mafia kingpin at the edge of a New Jersey pier before I’d question Di.
“Dad won’t know where to find us,” Brian said.
“All the better,” Di said.
Di ignored us. We still hadn’t been introduced. She addressed her son, “Tell your father to join us at the Minuteman Inn.”
I had heard a commercial for the Minuteman promoting a romantic weekend package. I remembered thinking the Minuteman was an odd choice of a name for a place promoting a romantic weekend package.
Dutifully, Jake and I marched silently to our car. It wasn’t that we had nothing to say—there was plenty—but we didn’t want to be overheard. We followed Di to the Minuteman, not far away.
“Whew!” Jake said as he steered right at a corner. “That Di is a ball of fire. She rules the roost.”
“Poor Brian. If she was my mother, I’d move to Alaska.”
“You think that would be far enough away?”
As we gathered in front of the colonial inn, Di turned to me, at last, and said, “I’m Diandra. Brian’s mother.” Then a heated Milton showed up, stared angrily at Di, and said, “There’s no way I’m paying for this.”
The rest of us stood back to avoid getting caught in the cross fire. I could tell Jake was about to step in and say he’d cover it when Brian spoke up. “Dad, this brunch is a celebration of my love for Lisa. Relax. It’s on me.”
That’s when we understood what Lisa saw in her fiancé. Brian was a mensch , a good person. But Diandra? Wow.
After pacing the road until I cooled off, I returned to the house. Di sat at the desk, rat-a-tat on her laptop. Or maybe just rat. Rat on her laptop.
“Oh, you’re back,” she said, as though nothing had happened between us.
“Time to meet the bus,” I said coldly. “I need a jacket.”
“The stop is in front of the house. No point waiting outside. It’s not efficient.”
I ignored her, plucked Lisa’s old ski parka from the hall closet. It’s not efficient, I thought. Was she out of her mind? What did that have to do with the joy of greeting a person you treasured? If efficiency was all that mattered, no one would ever be picked up by family at the airport. Oops. Sore point—I was reminded that Lisa had not come to get me.
I slammed the door. Childish, I know. So what? At least I could greet my granddaughter in peace. Until ... I realized it was all a trap. Annie lurked out front. Grannie Annie in boots, a gray hoodie, and jeans. I felt like a punched-out volleyball. What fresh hell was this?
“Hi, Jodi. Isn’t this the best? They should charge adults to watch kids come home from school in the afternoon. When I was a kid, I wished my mom would meet me at the bus stop, but for that to happen, every bar in town would have to be closed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“I’m sorry it was true. I love waiting for the bus. Mac jumps right into my arms. She’ll be glad to see you too.”
Annie dangled a plastic sandwich bag with thin slices of apple. “We don’t allow Mac to have sweets after school. The sugar interferes with homework. Did Lisa mention Mac is at the top of her class?” She laughed. “She’s so smart. I bet she gets that from me.”
The girl was delusional.
The bus snorted to a halt, the driver waved a big hello to Annie—and Callie did leap off. Into Annie’s arms.
“Mac, what happened to your hair?” Annie said.
“I did it myself.”
“Come over here.” Annie pulled a hairbrush and elastic bands out of her knapsack. She brushed Callie’s hair. In minutes, my granddaughter had high, smooth pigtails.
“I wish I could do that,” I said to Annie, grateful for her handiwork.
“Oh, it’s easy,” she replied.
“If you have talent,” I said. “Which you do.”
“Grandma,” Callie said, turning to me as she enjoyed a slice of apple, “Can we go to the arcade?”
“Absolutely!”
“You have homework,” Annie reprimanded.
“She’ll do it later.”
“Is that a smart idea?”
Who are you, I wondered.
I gave Annie a look—as though to say I’m the head grandma here , but, to be honest, I was beginning to wonder if I was. Di had the guest room. Annie had the rules. Was I to blame for living far away? I’d had enough. We were going to the arcade. We’d play air hockey, Skee-Ball, pinball, and wind up with a stream of winning tickets good for something that was good for nothing.
“Thank you, Annie. Callie’s hair looks terrific. But we have plans.”
If I listened to Jake and agreed to move to Massachusetts, I wouldn’t have to tolerate any of this. I could be with Callie whenever I wanted, take her wherever she wanted to go. Maybe I should consider relocation, check out real estate while I’m here, as Jake suggested.
Yes, I had my practice in Florida, but I had Slivovitz poised to take over, and with Rizzo managing the office, the transition would be smooth. I’d miss my longtime patients, but I could be open minded, find a part-time position in the Berkshires, spend time with my granddaughter after school while Lisa worked at the restaurant. Not have to ask permission from a twenty-seven-year-old fake grandma. Or fight over a guest room with a woman who cared only for herself. My friends? Of course, I’d miss Suzy and Amy. But they could come visit, escape the Sunshine State in summer.
I reflected some more. Callie was my first grandchild, but she might end up being my only one as well. I wanted to know her. I wanted her to know me, not these interlopers. (Okay, so Di was bona fide. But she was also a nightmare.) No way I’d be close with Callie by visiting a few times a year, staying in a hotel, and coming over to the house, where I’d feel disruptive, interfering with the rhythm of daily life. Because basically I was. As far as Lisa bringing Callie to see us, the busier and more successful Lisa became, the less that would happen. If we lived in the Berkshires, I wouldn’t need to stay in the guest room. I’d have my own place. Callie could sleep over as much as she wanted. If I waited much longer, before I knew it, she’d be scheduled with activities up the wazoo. In no time, she’d be looking at colleges.
I also needed to seriously consider Jake’s new situation—such a shock to his system. I pondered his need to start a business with Lisa, his cry for a sense of purpose. Like any other couple, we had our moments. Yet he had been wonderful to me. The three kids worshipped him. He deserved happiness. It was selfish not to consider his needs. Jake was all in. So why not do it?