Thirty-Five
Fumbling under the covers for my phone, I see that Jerome is calling. Again. I divert the call, and turn off the vibrate button
so I don’t have to be disturbed every time he calls. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t
want to leave my bed ever again.
Lucy brought me a coffee this morning, and an almond croissant from Manresa, my favorite. I couldn’t eat it. I can’t eat anything.
I couldn’t even pull the covers off. She sat on my bed and rubbed my back as I lay there numb, barely able to look at her,
let alone respond to her questions.
“Please let me do something,” she said. “Shall we watch a movie together? You don’t even have to get out of bed. We can watch
it on my computer and I’ll snuggle up with you.” I shook my head. Even this small task felt impossible. My only consolation
has been Lucy’s stash of Ambien. I’m taking them all the time, knocking myself out, deadening myself to what’s left of my
life.
Lucy sighed and took the bowl of cold soup with her when she left, the soup she had brought in the night before.
The house is quiet now. I have heard Noah and Lucy talking, but I haven’t seen Noah.
He knocked a couple of times, but I pretended to be asleep.
The last thing my father said to me was that he wished he’d been a better father, but he didn’t say why he didn’t trust me with the company; he didn’t say that although he loved me, he didn’t respect me, that whatever I did with ipryy only served to prove how inadequate I was.
He may have said differently in Switzerland, but he came home and signed papers firing me.
I will never know what happened now. I will never see my father again.
I lie on the pillow, feeling the tears drip noiselessly until the pillow is soaking wet and I move my head to a dry part of the pillow, even though I can’t stop leaking tears.
Jerome sends me a text. Please let me see you. I have been trying to talk to you since you’ve been back, but you won’t pick up the phone. Missy, I’m
here for you and I’m devastated by everything that has happened. Please call me.
He doesn’t know what devastation is. How could he, when he still has his job, still has his parents. Oh God. I feel my cheeks
flush with shame. All I have felt since I got home from the hospital is this unique mix of grief and shame. Grief at the loss
of my father, and shame that I was never good enough for him after all.
I don’t want Jerome. He must have known about my being fired. I feel betrayed by him, and don’t know that I ever want to talk
to him again.
I push the duvet back and shuffle to the bathroom, brushing my teeth and spitting. I barely recognize myself in the mirror.
I open the medicine cabinet, helping myself to another Ambien. I lean down and put my mouth to the faucet for water to wash
it down with, then climb back into bed, willing myself to fall back to sleep.
When I wake up, groggy and still out of it, I think there’s someone sitting in the chair in my bedroom. I sit up and blink,
and there is my mother, immersed in The New York Times, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, her short bob, slightly frizzy with the heat, so achingly familiar a sob escapes my throat.
“Missy.” She comes over and takes me in her arms, and I feel my body relax into her. This isn’t something my mother does,
I think, and yet, as I fold myself into her, I have a memory of breaking up with a boyfriend when I was seventeen, of being
sick with longing and so sad, and my mother did just this, took me in her arms and made me feel loved.
I have spent so much of my life focusing on what my mother did wrong, I had managed to push away all the memories of what
she did right. In the story I told myself, she was always sick, or depressed, always in bed, but that isn’t true. There was
so much good. I am overcome with relief at her being here, and gratitude, and love.
“Are you sleepy?” She pulls back and looks at me, and I nod. “Go back to sleep,” she says, before reading the panic in my
eyes. “I’ll still be here. I won’t move an inch.”
I sink into the pillows and my mother tucks me in and kisses my forehead. In spite of all that has happened, I find myself
smiling as I drift back into an Ambien-fueled sleep.
She is there when I wake up. She makes me creamy scrambled eggs, just as I used to do for her when she was in bed, unable
to escape her own personal darkness.
“I thought this might be what you wanted,” she says with a smile, placing the eggs on my nightstand. I take a bite, and realize
it has been days since I ate anything. I’m starving. I have no idea how much time has passed since I have been in an Ambien
haze, but this is the first time I have wanted to eat; the first time I have wanted to open my eyes and be in the world.
“Tell me what’s going on for you,” she says.
And I do. I tell her about seeing my father in Switzerland, about how I discovered child labor in India, how I determined to come home and change it.
I tell her about showing up at the hospital, seeing Scarlett, my last moments with Marty.
I tell her I must have been wrong, that he couldn’t have believed in me if he got rid of me in such a callous way, and that I feel sick with guilt, and shame.
I was never good enough, I say, tears filling my eyes.
And now I’ll never have a chance to prove myself.
I can’t believe I’m never going to see my father again.
“He did believe in you,” she says when I have finished speaking. “I have no idea what happened with this whole signing of
papers thing, but I know how proud he was of you. You know your father and I didn’t see eye to eye, but the only thing we
did see eye to eye on was you. Every time I saw him he’d gaze at you, almost in disbelief, and say, ‘Look what we made. Can
you believe it? Look how good we did.’ ”
I stare at my mother with a large dose of skepticism. “That really happened?”
“My God, Missy. I wouldn’t lie to you. I had a very, very tough time with your father, and I’ve always been the first to point
out his flaws, but I would not lie to you. Look at me. No, Missy. Properly. You know how honest I am.”
It’s true. My mother is a horrible liar. I have always told her that she must never go near a poker game because she has no
poker face whatsoever. I look into her eyes now and see that she’s telling the truth. “He loved you,” she says. “And he was
so proud of you. There is absolutely no way he would have put you in as interim CEO if he thought differently.”
“Maybe, but then he clearly thought I fucked up.”
She shakes her head vehemently. “I don’t believe that.
It’s not how he worked. He would have screamed and shouted at you if he thought you fucked up, and then, when he was over the rage, he would have told you how you could have done things differently.
He would have taught you how to do it differently next time.
” I listen to her and think about my father, about all the times he ranted and raved, all the times he walked out, slamming the door, showing up the next day as if nothing had happened, telling you how he would have done it.
She’s right. It wouldn’t have been like him to fire anyone, let alone his own daughter, because he thought they had fucked up.
“There’s more to this story,” she says. “You will find out what it is.”
My mother is a writer with a tendency to create stories around everything, which is not to say she is right; most of the stories
she decides must be true exist solely in her imagination. I shrug.
“Missy,” she says sternly. “People will treat you as badly as you allow them to.”
“What does that mean?”
Her voice softens. “It means that you don’t have to take this. You can stand up for yourself, find out what happened, make
things right.”
I look at her, knowing she’s correct, but I’m so tired.
She reaches out and strokes my cheek. “We don’t have to worry about any of it now. Let’s deal with the funeral first.”
Oh Jesus. The funeral. I don’t even know what day it is, let alone what’s going on with the funeral arrangements. “When is
it?”
She gives me a strange look. “Tomorrow. Hasn’t Scarlett been in touch?”
“Tomorrow!” I let out a shriek. I have been out of it for days. Scarlett has left countless messages as well as Jerome, but I haven’t listened to them.
“Do you want me to come?” my mother asks.
I stare at her, knowing that she probably won’t have been invited.
Scarlett has never forgiven my mother for being my father’s first wife, for being the mother of his first child, for having—however extraneous—a continuing role in his life by virtue of being my mother.
Scarlett won’t talk to my mother, won’t even look at her.
My mother, at her worst, had exploded at Scarlett a couple of times, accused her of stealing her husband, so Scarlett stays away.
I used to joke that Scarlett had put a curse on me, ensuring I would never get married or have children, so she wouldn’t have to be at weddings or christenings with my mother.
There is no way Scarlett will want my mother at the funeral, but how do I tell my mother it’s best if she doesn’t come?
“I’m not coming for me,” she says quietly. “I understand that I won’t be welcome there, but if you need me, if you want me
to come with you for support, I will come.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”
The doorbell rings.
“Should I get it?” my mother asks.
“No. It’s fine,” I say, expecting them to go away, but minutes later, there is a knock on the door. I stiffen and listen for
voices, hearing Jerome’s in the hallway.
My mother walks over to the bed, leaning down to kiss me. “I’d better go. Unless you want me to stay?”
“I’m much better now, Mom. Thank you.” I am overcome with a wave of love for her, not just because she is my only surviving
parent, but because she made me feel loved when I needed it most.