The Matzo Ball Heiress by Laurie Gwen Shapiro Page A

respectability? How are you freaks?”
    Hasn’t she been listening for a year? “Everything about us is freaky. From little to big. Let’s have my mom talk about her new bathroom spigots from Germany. That’s what she spent her last two conversations with me talking about.”
    “She’s a smart woman, you’ve said that yourself. I’m sure she has more sense of what a live special needs than you’re giving her credit for.”
    “Or hey, how about I get my confused dad back in town so he can tell us who he’s dating. Michael or Michaela?”
    “I think this is a larger issue for you that we may need a series of sessions on. If it turns out your father smokes bloke from time to time, does that make him a freak ?”
    “What?” I snort. “Smokes bloke?”
    Bettina smirks. “That’s an Aussie expression.”
    “A colorful one,” I concede with the smallest of smiles.
    “Right, we’re talking lightheartedly now. Easier to work with. Give me an example of what hurt you when you were young. Keep it little, love. If you stay with little it will be easier to talk about big.”
    I have to think. “Try games,” I finally say. “Every family played games with their kids, right? Trouble. Operation. Mousetrap. Life. My parents never once played a board game with me.”
    “Heather, I find that hard to believe.”
    “Well, Mom did get a big kick out of her version of ‘This Little Piggy,’ but that wasn’t a board game—”
    “How did it go?”
    The corners of my mouth turn up a bit. “This little piggy went to Bloomie’s, this little piggy went to Lord & Taylor, this little piggy went to Bergdorf’s, this little piggy went to Saks. But this little piggy went wee wee wee all the way to Mays—Mays was a department store like Kmart that was down on Union Square when I was little.”
    Bettina smiles with newly bleached teeth. (From my last two fees?) “That’s quite funny.”
    “It is,” I accept.
    “My parents never played board games with me, we played make-believe games,” Bettina says.
    “But at least your parents played with you,” I say in that aggrieved voice you get when reliving the lesser moments of a life. So much for lighthearted. “My parents forgot I was a child. I never saw one Disney movie, not one! That’s kind of freakish, don’t you think?” At this point I completely lose it and sob.
    “Heather, we’ve done a lot of personal work, and I’ll say it again—I think it’s the right time to tackle your bigger family issues. If you never confront them you’ll never be free of this sadness you carry around. Why don’t you confront them once and for all instead of sticking your head in the sand?”
    “You mean in the matzo meal,” I joke wearily through my tears.
    “If it’s a lousy family reunion, so what? It’s a family reunion. Some progress will be made just by having everyone sit down at the same table.”
    I take a breath and pull myself together before I speak. “But assuming we could get everyone there, which is itself a laugh, what if everything blows up in our face on camera? And where do I even start?”
    Bettina slams her right hand down on her clipboard. “Call your mother. The natural start.”
    “I guess I could do that tomorrow morning.”
    “Where will you be, at your office or the factory?”
    “Tomorrow? Work. I need to catch up.”
    “Don’t be surprised if I call you to get you off your bum!”

SIX
    The Parent Trap
    W hen I open my office door Vondra is standing by the window and chatting up a French film-festival director on her red cell phone. I have never seen Vondra Adams without well-applied lipstick and sultry eye shadow. She’s wearing skintight black jeans and a low-cut black bodysuit that reveals significantly more cleavage than should be possible on a yoga body almost exclusively fed fruits, vegetables and tofu.
    “Bonsoir,” Vondra says as she clicks off her phone. She sees my eyebrows rise half an inch when I get the full frontal view.