Cures for Heartbreak by Margo Rabb Page B

can’t remember. Anyhow, I gave her the record, and she loved it—it wasn’t an easy one to find. She was almost in tears, she was so happy to have it—she said it was the nicest gift she’d ever gotten. Later, when we moved to Queens, I see she has two Golden Apples. She didn’t want me to feel bad that she already had it. That’s the kind of woman your mother was.”
    A part of me wanted to roll my eyes as usual and snap: Thanks. That’s really illuminating. But it was. How had I not heard this story before? My mother was nice enough to lie effusively when given a double gift—that’s who she was, a tiny piece to attach to the sprawling, incomprehensible puzzle of her. I envied my father for these secret nuggets ofknowledge, for knowing so much more of her than I did. Sometimes I imagined that if I could stick a key into his chest it would open up like an armoire and reveal all the secrets of her life, all the stories and memories, and I could page through them and know her, really know her. My memories weren’t enough. I wanted his. I once asked him, “Tell me stories about Mommy,” but his face was as blank as mine when Ms. Poletti asked me to recite Sonnet 38 from memory. I had to wait for these things to come out on their own.
    We drove on and I did my ankle exercises when I remembered. The city evolved into trees and towns and farmland. After we’d exhausted three Judy Collins tapes we decided to stop for lunch—we wanted to find something healthy to eat, to start our week off on a good footing. When we saw a Wendy’s sign I yelled, “Pull over!” He headed into the exit lane. “They have a new grilled chicken sandwich I read about in Health Now, ” I said.
    We parked, waited on line, and ordered two grilled chickens with dry baked potatoes on the side. “No fries,” I instructed.
    â€œShe’s the boss,” he told the cashier.
    We settled into a shiny lacquered table by the window—my father wanted to keep an eye on our car in the parking lot. He took a bite of his sandwich. “Not bad,” he said.
    â€œKind of yummy,” I said.
    â€œCould use some butter,” he mumbled over his potato.
    â€œI should’ve brought the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.”
    â€œThe I Can Believe It’s Not Butter? That stuff is bleh ,” he said.
    I’d bought it after reading a Health Now feature on it. “It’s not bleh. It tastes just like butter.”
    â€œBleh.”
    â€œYou need to change your attitude,” I said.
    A man at the table beside us eavesdropped and laughed.
    I glanced around the Wendy’s and wondered what these people thought of us. Who did they see, looking at us? This isn’t us, really, the two of us alone, I wanted to tell them. We don’t know how the hell we ended up here by ourselves.
    We took our iced teas to the car, but as soon as my father started driving again I fell asleep. An hour after I woke up, we approached the Green Springs driveway.
    â€œI guess this is it,” he said.
    The driveway was lined with stone walls; a guard poked his head out of a wooden booth in the middle of the road. “Healthy Heart check-ins?”
    â€œThat’s us.” My father told him our names, and he compared them to a list.
    â€œStraight ahead.”
    The resort looked like a mansion that had hired the cast of the Golden Girls to decorate. Inside was all big pastel flowers and gilt moldings and overgrown ficuses.
    We registered at the front desk and received two greenfolders and Hello My Name Is stickers to put on our shirts. The receptionist pointed us toward a banquet room, where an entire Golden Girls convention seemed to be taking place.
    My father and I hovered by the food table, wallflowers at a school dance. I filled a plate with grapes and what looked like a hunk of cheese but tasted like an eraser.
    â€œThis is a lot of old