more than you’ve said.
The tissues, dear! You will give me the tissues!
I handed her the box, and she started wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. I could tell she wanted to hand me the dirty tissues, as if I’m the mother, taking away baby’s snot rags, but I’m sure she saw the look on my face and didn’t dare.
You have to tell me more, I said.
Oh, my darling, she answered. Why do you want to go into all that business? It was so long ago, I don’t even think about it.
You don’t think about it. But you dropped something on me, now
I
have to think about it. So you can’t just leave it there.
But why, dear? It means nothing, as I said.
Because it explains how Father feels about me—or doesn’t feel, to be more exact.
What are you talking about?
He … He’s uneasy with me. About me.
What are you saying? Father loves you!
I was still standing over her. The television was still playing, and all this is happening with the commercials blaring behind us. A really loud one came on, and I had to yell over it:
He hates Catholics! And every time he looks at me, he sees a Catholic baby. So he hates me! It explains everything!
Mother’s face dropped. Her head fell back on the recliner. She stared at me, for a second or two almost uncomprehending. Then she began shaking her head slowly, back and forth, her mouth open, but no voice was coming out, just her lips mouthing, Oh, no, Oh, no. Until finally she said:
Oh, my God, baby. You don’t really think that. Oh, no. God. Oh, God, no.
She picked up the Space Commander and clicked MUTE .
It was suddenly very quiet. I could hear the branches scratching at the windows, the wind rustling through the hedges. Mother began looking around her seat, and I realized she was looking for all her used tissues, which she balled up and put in the empty teacup.
You know, darling, she said, handing me the teacup with the balled-up tissues, you’ll put this in the dishwasher, and then you’ll make me a martini.
What—now?
You make the best ones, dear. Everyone says so. It’s so good to have you home. I always sleep better when the children are home. Make me a good martini—and one for yourself—and then I’ll tell you everything.
26.
The patient found the Smirnoff in the freezer, behind the Beefeater gin her father’s pals liked to swill. The bottle, then the ice: everything felt burning cold. What had she said to change her mother’s mind so quickly? She felt like a child who’d made the big mistake: step on a crack, break your mother’s back. It was all she could do to put the ice and vodka in the shaker, add a drop of vermouth, swirl around the ice cubes then toss them out, spear the olive with a toothpick. It had to be made just so: just as Mother had taught her that summer when she was thirteen, when she had carried the martini glasses so expertly on a tray, never spilling anything, serving Mother’s friends as they lounged on the patio, smoking cigarettes in long plastic holders.
Isn’t the first sip always the best? said her mother, taking the martini in two hands and holding up the glass for scrutiny. That first one you have to take carefully or else spill it? She bent her lips to the rim and siphoned off the top quarter inch. Ah, darling! No one makes these quite like you do. What—you didn’t make one for yourself?
By then the sky had become quite dark, and the branches were black against the windows. Her mother looked up to exclaim, My, how dreary it is to have the sun down at five o’clock!
The patient sat listening to the scratch of the leaves and watched her mother sip her drink. It seemed to her that many minutes passed in this way, in a suspense of scratching and sipping—little clawing sounds, she said to her doctor.
I felt that everything was very fragile, she said, that if I moved, everything would fall apart.
What everything? Dr. Schussler asked.
Everything, everything, the patient said. My life, my identity, all the things
The tissues, dear! You will give me the tissues!
I handed her the box, and she started wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. I could tell she wanted to hand me the dirty tissues, as if I’m the mother, taking away baby’s snot rags, but I’m sure she saw the look on my face and didn’t dare.
You have to tell me more, I said.
Oh, my darling, she answered. Why do you want to go into all that business? It was so long ago, I don’t even think about it.
You don’t think about it. But you dropped something on me, now
I
have to think about it. So you can’t just leave it there.
But why, dear? It means nothing, as I said.
Because it explains how Father feels about me—or doesn’t feel, to be more exact.
What are you talking about?
He … He’s uneasy with me. About me.
What are you saying? Father loves you!
I was still standing over her. The television was still playing, and all this is happening with the commercials blaring behind us. A really loud one came on, and I had to yell over it:
He hates Catholics! And every time he looks at me, he sees a Catholic baby. So he hates me! It explains everything!
Mother’s face dropped. Her head fell back on the recliner. She stared at me, for a second or two almost uncomprehending. Then she began shaking her head slowly, back and forth, her mouth open, but no voice was coming out, just her lips mouthing, Oh, no, Oh, no. Until finally she said:
Oh, my God, baby. You don’t really think that. Oh, no. God. Oh, God, no.
She picked up the Space Commander and clicked MUTE .
It was suddenly very quiet. I could hear the branches scratching at the windows, the wind rustling through the hedges. Mother began looking around her seat, and I realized she was looking for all her used tissues, which she balled up and put in the empty teacup.
You know, darling, she said, handing me the teacup with the balled-up tissues, you’ll put this in the dishwasher, and then you’ll make me a martini.
What—now?
You make the best ones, dear. Everyone says so. It’s so good to have you home. I always sleep better when the children are home. Make me a good martini—and one for yourself—and then I’ll tell you everything.
26.
The patient found the Smirnoff in the freezer, behind the Beefeater gin her father’s pals liked to swill. The bottle, then the ice: everything felt burning cold. What had she said to change her mother’s mind so quickly? She felt like a child who’d made the big mistake: step on a crack, break your mother’s back. It was all she could do to put the ice and vodka in the shaker, add a drop of vermouth, swirl around the ice cubes then toss them out, spear the olive with a toothpick. It had to be made just so: just as Mother had taught her that summer when she was thirteen, when she had carried the martini glasses so expertly on a tray, never spilling anything, serving Mother’s friends as they lounged on the patio, smoking cigarettes in long plastic holders.
Isn’t the first sip always the best? said her mother, taking the martini in two hands and holding up the glass for scrutiny. That first one you have to take carefully or else spill it? She bent her lips to the rim and siphoned off the top quarter inch. Ah, darling! No one makes these quite like you do. What—you didn’t make one for yourself?
By then the sky had become quite dark, and the branches were black against the windows. Her mother looked up to exclaim, My, how dreary it is to have the sun down at five o’clock!
The patient sat listening to the scratch of the leaves and watched her mother sip her drink. It seemed to her that many minutes passed in this way, in a suspense of scratching and sipping—little clawing sounds, she said to her doctor.
I felt that everything was very fragile, she said, that if I moved, everything would fall apart.
What everything? Dr. Schussler asked.
Everything, everything, the patient said. My life, my identity, all the things
Similar Books
