Chapter 18
Truth was, there wasn’t much to do after I saw Callie off to school. I toured Lisa’s cabinets. The kitchen at the restaurant was immaculate, well ordered. Not so the one at the house. I considered organizing the cupboards, but held off, realizing that would turn me into my own mother. I was already close enough. When I peered in the mirror, I saw my mother’s face. I said plenty that could have come out of her mouth.
My mother was a clean freak. When she came to visit, she’d condense and combine. If she found several started boxes of cereal, let’s say a Special K and a Cheerios, I’d return to find one box of cereal, the types combined. If we had two cans of Maxwell House coffee—caffeinated and decaffeinated—she would merge those as well. She arranged the dishwasher detergent, glass cleaner, and furniture polishes in alphabetical sequence, Lysol in front of the Pledge. Her logic failed me with Mr. Clean, though. I assumed it would be under M , but she went with C and set it next to the Clorox.
Once, when she stayed with the kids so I could go to San Francisco—on a minivacation designated for tax purposes as a podiatric convention—she reorganized the dresser in my bedroom, folding and filing my lingerie. When I returned and opened the drawers, I gaped, aghast at her handiwork. Liquid gel was on top. My diary, which I’d hidden under silky slips (whatever happened to slips anyway?) was in full view. I wondered if she had read it. There were many entries about her. One thing was for sure: Mom skipped the ones where I criticized her for getting into my stuff.
No. I would not declutter. Lisa wouldn’t appreciate it, and she’d be annoyed I’d gone through her property.
My phone rang, and it was Lisa.
“How’s it going, Mom? Have you become besties with Diandra?”
“Don’t even go there. She’s like a bad tooth on a Friday night when you can’t see the dentist and are left to wonder whether he’ll squeeze you in on Monday.”
“And here I was sure you had bought her a friendship bracelet. Or given her half of a heart necklace.”
“Very funny, Lisa. Forget Di. Let’s talk about how terrific your daughter is.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying my favorite person.”
“I love the way she talks to her menagerie. She has a great imagination.”
“Yes, she does. Mom, you should spend more time with her.”
Seems to me you’re full up here. “Lisa, here’s a news flash, but you can’t mention it to Di. Annie caught Milton cheating.”
I expected Lisa to be surprised, but she said, “We all know how that soap opera ends.”
“I assume she moves out.”
Lisa emitted the sound of a buzzer on a game show. “Wrong. She stays. She’s in love with the codger. Thank you for watching Macallan. I’m getting a lot done here.”
I wondered whether she was with Brian. “Tell Brian hello.”
“Oh, I will. I will.” The second “I will” confirmed to me something was up. Jake might be right. And then there was Rizzo’s assessment of the situation. I went for it. “Lisa is something askew?”
“Mom, I’ve got the world on a string.”
Maybe she had the world on a string, but I had a sense the string was around her neck.
Bored, I decided to go to the aerobics session Annie led at the health club. I could use the exercise. What’s more, I wanted to see what and how Annie was doing. I hoped she was an ace instructor, that she had an interest beyond caring for Macallan. I wanted to see her real life.
At the gym, I asked the young woman chomping on gum at the circular front desk where to find Annie’s class. Not so fast, Jodi. She asked if I belonged to the gym. I said no. She said there was a fee for a day pass. I said I’d only be an hour. She said I had to pay the fee. I doled out the money. She said I also had to go on a tour of the health club. I said I didn’t live in town. She said it didn’t matter. She asked where I was from. I told her. She checked her computer. There was a club in Boca Raton. I said I didn’t need to join because my condominium had a gym. She said she could give me the tour before or after my class. I said, “After would be fine,” figuring I could sneak out. I was exhausted by the hoops I had to jump through to exercise.
In the locker room, a bunch of women—my age and older—chatted about the season finale of a show they had binged. The women were naked, conversing in the nude. I admired them for being that comfortable with themselves this late in the game. I wouldn’t have stood exposed in a gym in my prime. Crazy how fine I was back then—in retrospect. The truth is, you have no clue how gorgeous you were at twenty until you see yourself in a full-length mirror at sixty-seven.
I walked into the well-lit gym. The floor was new and shiny. One wall was mirrored. In front was a raised platform, a stage, for the instructor. I had no idea why chairs were arranged in rows of eight. There were lots of new ways to exercise, so I didn’t think much about it. My best friend in Florida, Suzy, mentioned she had gone to a workout at a spa where the participants sat on chairs throughout, drummed with two sticks on giant yellow balls. She was sapped afterward.
I hadn’t taken aerobics in a long time and wanted to hide, to be invisible. I proceeded to a seat in the back corner, where I couldn’t be seen in the mirror. As I waited for others to show up, I gazed out the window and saw a midsize van pull in—Greylock Assisted Living and Memory Care. A few women stepped carefully off the van, some needing help to exit. I assumed there was a class for the elderly in the pool.
Annie entered the gym in a turquoise midriff-baring sweat top, matching three-quarter-length stretchy pants accentuating her vagina. She had a sweatband around her forehead. She might as well have been a living pair of white Reebok high-tops circa 1989.
“You came!” she said, seeming sincerely elated by my presence. She had a good heart. And I liked that.
“You look like you’ve rallied,” I said.
She lowered her voice, “All’s well.”
Did she kiss Milton and make up? Was she that foolish?
“I wanted to see you in action,” I said. “I haven’t been in an exercise class in a long while. I hope I can survive the entire hour.”
She waved away my concerns. “It’s thirty minutes, and you’ll catch on. Remember to stop for water. Hydration is key.”
“Annie, what are the chairs for?”
“You’ll see. Enjoy the workout,” she said as she adjusted her microphone.
Participants filed in, stopping to choose weights. I went to do the same. I wasn’t sure which to select, but then I saw a woman with a cane lift two-pounders, so I presumed I could do better than that. I claimed yellow five-pounders. I stored the weights under my chair.
The white-haired pixie next to me, maybe in her late seventies, wore black running shoes, ankle socks, a sleeveless black leotard. She asked me if it was my first class at the club, said she worked out regularly. Then she added, to be of help, “Hmm. Five-pounders. You chose heavy weights. You might need a pain reliever after the session. You should ask for Tylenol when you return to the van.”
“I’m not on the van,” I said. Did I look like I was on the van?
“Good for us, still on our own,” she said to me with a fist bump.
Annie turned up the Motown, the Supremes for starters, asked the group to sit down. I liked an exercise class where you were instructed to sit. With enthusiasm, Annie said, “Are we ready?”
The women yelled back, “Yes!”
“Louder, people!” Annie shouted.
I was amazed at the enthusiasm.
“March in place!” March while sitting? I followed Annie, remained in my chair, moved my feet up and down. My workout neighbor said I was doing great.
After the infinitesimal march, we stood, and Annie led us in a stretch worthy of a porn star before the aerobics portion.
My new buddy (she said her name was Sally) whispered, “Her boyfriend must be ecstatic.”
We sat again, and I wondered whether the entire class would take place with me sitting on my tuchas . I checked around. I looked to be the youngest in the room, besides Annie, of course. I found the group inspiring. Would I be like these people in ten years?
“Hydration,” Annie shouted, and the women lifted water bottles from under their chairs. I hadn’t brought a bottle.
Annie picked up the beat. I mastered the jumping jack, rapidly moving my arms from my sides over my head. I noticed every sprightly woman who was more coordinated or moving faster than me. Some sang along with the music, while I found myself running out of breath.
“Keep going,” Sally said, beads forming on her forehead. “Don’t give up!”
Annie hopped off the platform and cheered people on individually. I wondered whether she’d come over to me.
“How many of you are first timers?” she asked.
I would’ve waved my hand, but I was on the downswing of a jumping jack.
She returned to the stage. “Let’s all welcome Jodi. We share a granddaughter.”
“What?” Sally said.
“She thinks she’s the grandmother of my granddaughter.”
“I guess there’s a lot more to her than I ever imagined,” Sally said.
Annie picked up the beat. I pushed harder—my ass wet with sweat. Then “The Twist” by Chubby Checker started. Annie shouted, “Let’s twist again.” Again? I hadn’t twisted since a bar mitzvah party at Leonard’s of Great Neck, a catering hall, in 1963. I swung from side to side, watching Sally keep up her pace.
Finally, Annie slowed to a final stretch. When the music concluded, I remained planted on my chair. Sally and a friend surrounded me, congratulating me, inviting me out for drinks before it turned dark.
“Before dark?” I said.
“Yes,” Sally said, “I don’t drive in the dark.”
“I don’t drive at all,” the other woman said. “Sally picks me up at the assisted living.”
“By the way, I’m Jodi.”
“Melody Massachusetts.”
I couldn’t believe it. “You’re the folk singer?”
“Yes,” she said.
I imagined Melody fifty years ago when I listened to her hit records. I recalled the cover for Melody on the Mountain . Back then, Melody was lissome with long straight hair the color of honey. Kissed by the sun, she strummed her guitar. “I can’t believe you’re Melody Massachusetts.”
“Some days, neither can I.”
That was the thing about old people. We passed them up. We rarely asked questions. Seldom wondered who they were when they were young, what they had accomplished, whom they had loved. Until Melody said her name, I would not have thought to ask her about herself. I was as guilty as anyone. I was no better. I’d see someone in their later years and never consider the life they’d lived, the stories they could tell, and then when the person turned out to be the equivalent of Melody Massachusetts, I was stunned.
I imagined myself in a wheelchair in a nursing home, where no one acknowledged that I had once led a rich life. That I had a long marriage and three children. That I had grown up on an egg farm, was the first in my family to go to college, had become a doctor. That I’d run the Parent-Teacher Organization, managed executive boards, brought pies to new neighbors, hosted legions of people at my house on special occasions and holiday celebrations. Because all they saw was an old woman.
I had tears in my eyes when Sally asked me for my phone number. Seemed to me like I had made new friends.
I returned to the locker room. Women from Annie’s group were changing into street clothes, again chatting, laughing in the nude. One woman was braiding her long gray hair. Melody asked for help unhooking her bra.
I recalled my shame in high school, where I’d slink off to a lavatory, switch into my gym suit, a romper that was hell to get on and off, in privacy. Once changed, I’d return to the locker room where all the other girls were changing out of their clothes. Looking around at these confident older women, I knew this was the ideal opportunity to cure a lifetime of feeling inadequate.
I undressed and stood in the locker room naked. Unlike the other older women in their birthday suits, I didn’t have the wherewithal to begin a conversation. But still. I did good.
When I stepped out of the shower, I was surprised—and dismayed—to see Di smiling at herself in the mirror over a sink. Obviously pleased with what she saw—the narcissist. Her red lipstick matched her signature headband. She meandered over in Nikes, leotard, leggings, inspecting me from top to bottom. You would’ve thought I was a model in a drawing seminar. She said she was at the gym for spin class, which she attended three times a week—except if she had a showing.
“Aren’t you a little old to be stripping?” Di said. “By the way, I spoke to Alison, Lisa’s buddy next door. She said you told her you were going on the nature walk with Macallan. Rest and relax, my friend. It’s unnecessary. I’ll have my walking shoes on.”
“I’m the one walking. Lisa asked me to go,” I said strongly.
Di pulled me to a corner in the locker room. I was still in the nude. I snatched a striped towel someone had left on a bench and covered up.
“No, Jodi. I’m going. And do you want to know why? Because being a chaperone is good for business.”
“I’m certain it is, and I do think you should take a walk—but maybe another time—when I’m not visiting.”
“No, perhaps you don’t understand. I must chaperone this time. Babette George will be there with her twins. She’s about to sell the historic mansion that has been in her family for generations. It would be a coup to list it. Great publicity. On the walk, I’ll have an entire afternoon, up a hill, down a hill, to charm her.”
What about charming your granddaughter, I thought. “Lisa told me to go. And I’m going. So please drop it.”
She ran her tongue around her gums. Was she preparing to eat me?
“I have the solution. We’ll both go.”
I imagined Di on the path, pinning down her target. She would sell hard—with chitchat so full of fat I could get high cholesterol from it. Not happening. “Di, you will have to obtain this listing on your own time, not mine, not Callie’s.”
“You underestimate how much Callie learns when she sees me at work. Watch when I’m on the phone. She breathes it in. You should take her to your office, show her a few toes, when she’s in Florida.” With that, she strutted off. Point for me. I put on my clothes and marched out of the gym, dodging the grim front desk attendant who had insisted I tour the facility. Exercising was so aggravating.
Later, I received a text from Sally. She said she’d pick up Melody, meet me at the Inn at Three Corners. Sounded good to me. I was eager to try a new place for lunch. I googled the inn, which received rave reviews for its corn chowder and chicken potpie.
The restaurant was twenty minutes east of Lisa’s house. I found this amusing: finally, a destination that was in reality only twenty minutes away. The Inn at Three Corners had once offered lodging but was now a restaurant with a rectangular dining room—brass fixtures, white walls, wide-plank wood floor, white and navy table covers and napkins, a wreath of pine cones around a thick candle at each table. I could use a cup of thick and creamy corn chowder, a mini chicken potpie, I thought.
I perched on a low-back swivel stool and waited at the vintage bar until my new friends arrived. While chatting with the bartender, who had started at the inn the day before, I ordered a strawberry margarita.
When Sally and Melody entered, I took hold of my frothy cocktail, expecting to move to the dining room.
“Where are you going?” Melody asked.
“To a table?”
“No, no,” Melody said. “We prefer the bar. Tables are for old people.”
Melody asked for nuts.
I suggested asking for menus.
Melody said she didn’t really eat.
Sally said if we ordered, she’d take it home and have it for dinner.
Melody said, “Two rum punches. Heavy on the rum.”
I asked what they planned to do after the bar.
“Nap before happy hour,” Sally said.
I finished my margarita. They requested a second round—and another ramekin of nuts.
Melanie Massachusetts had lots of grandchildren, two great-grands, but no family in the Berkshires anymore. Sally had custody of her grandson. He was fourteen and lived with her.
After an hour, I said I had to go.
If I retired, would I spend my days traveling from a chair in the gym to a stool in a bar? I tried to imagine surrendering my real life in Boca Raton. I couldn’t envision what I’d do in Woodfield, how I’d spend my time when I wasn’t helping Lisa with my granddaughter. After all, Callie was in school from 8:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. Lisa had mentioned signing her up for an after-school program starting in the spring. On those days, she’d be occupied with sports and whatnot until 5:30 p.m.
But conjuring a new life wasn’t the only problem. I missed my real life—my sense of purpose, my patients, my office. Rizzo on my back. My friends instructing each other what not to order. I missed Jake.
Back in my car, I called Jake. He sounded better, had hit the pool.
“A neighbor asked to borrow suntan lotion, then he complained that it was only SPF-4.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” I said.
“He told me I’d get skin cancer using four. I told him to apply it twice, and it would be eight.”
“That’s why I love you,” I said.
“Because I have a sense of humor?”
“No. Because you can multiply.”