Ask Again Later Read online

  “What if I wasn’t wearing a ring when you first met me? How would you feel? Would you feel safer if I weren’t wearing a ring, or if I were wearing a ring,” Paul says.

  “Are you telling me you’ve been tricking me into thinking you’re married for the past two years?” I say. “There’s something wrong with you.”

  “I’m not telling you anything,” Paul says.

  “Well, at least you’re being honest now!” I say.

  Recuperating

  WE WATCH MOVIES. Play Scrabble. Then Bogle. The list of games we can play without getting into a standoff continues to dwindle. We seek other forms of tame amusement.

  We shop for the world’s most beautiful note cards at Kate’s Paperie. We buy an assortment of colored pens and carefully match the ink to the envelopes. Then we write over-the-top thank-yous as both chore and entertainment. “Your amazingly fragrant and generous gift of flowers arrived at the perfect juncture…not only was the bouquet splendid and cheerful, the vase was beyond stunning! An heirloom in the making!”

  Mom waits on her davenport, watching a movie, while I wait in line at the post office for forty-five minutes to buy an assortment of unique and limited stamps.

  My mother counts her towels. She likes perfect sets of six or eight. If she has only seven towels, she donates them to charity and starts all over again with a new set.

  “Why not buy one to match the others?” I ask.

  “They won’t match. All of that washing fades them,” Mom says.

  “They’re white,” I say.

  “They discolor with time, and the manufacturer changes their decorative weave on purpose so new towels don’t match old towels,” Mom says. Another conspiracy revealed.

  “What are you going to do when Dr. Kealy tells you that the tissue analysis has come back and everything is great, and that the cancer is really gone?” I ask.

  “I can’t think about that yet,” Mom says.

  That’s what I thought.

  Relaxing with Phil

  I OPEN THE front door to my mother’s apartment.

  “I’m home,” I say.

  My mother is not in the living room. I walk into the kitchen. There’s music coming from the kitchen. A man is wearing an apron and opening a bottle of wine. Mom’s favorite macrobiotic cookbook is open, next to the stove. Candles are lit in the dining room.

  “Hi, I’m Phil,” Phil says.

  “Hi, Phil. I’m Emily,” I say. “Where’s Joanie?”

  “In the shower,” Phil says.

  “Oh. So how do you know Mom?” I ask.

  “The relaxation workshop at the hospital,” Phil says.

  “She really enjoys that,” I say.

  My mom walks into the kitchen. “I thought you were having dinner with your father tonight,” Mom says.

  “I am,” I say. “I thought I’d stop by to see if you needed anything. Sorry about dropping in. I’ll see you later.”

  “How about tomorrow?” Mom says. “You might enjoy staying in your own place tonight.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  Unconscious Dating

  I’M ABSORBED IN pushing back my cuticles. It’s like they are the front line of an army that needs to be bullied into retreat on a regular basis. Did I push back my cuticles when I was a lawyer? No time! Now, well, they run when they see me coming.

  My father is out of the office today. I’m left with no one to spy on. I look in my top drawer for materials to amuse myself while I wait for the phone to ring. An article in the Observer grabs my attention. The headline is “Freudian Matchmaker.”

  The story is about a new dating service. The unattached see a shrink, and the shrink sets them up with other pre-screened “patients.” The theory being that the mental health professional has a better chance of setting up a suitable couple than two individuals using their own dim-witted judgment. This sounds perfectly logical to me. I want some of this psycho-romantique.

  Mankind has veered off course in terms of lifelong mating. Historically speaking, marriages were more successful when partners were chosen for us, when freedom of choice was not yet part of the equation. And if it fails, it’s not a personal failure—it’s a trained professional’s failure. Much easier on the ego.

  I call and try to set up an appointment. They ask what my occupation is. I say, “Receptionist, but not really. I’m a lawyer…not really that either. I mean, I graduated from law school, but I’m a receptionist, for now.”

  Will is waiting to be buzzed back into the office. I push the button. Door opens.

  “Well, which one is it? Are you a lawyer? Or a receptionist?” the woman says. “We don’t have time to monkey around.” It wasn’t clear if “we” meant she and I were in cahoots and we needed to crack this code and quick; or if the “we” meant she had people with real jobs to assist, and if I wanted to be one of them, great. If not, hang up. Now! Also, I sense her use of “monkey around” is her going off script when she’s supposed to remain professional. I don’t appreciate that, but I get a rush when I realize this faceless person is not unflappable. And all this careful attention to a thirty-second phone call means I need to get a handle on the obsessive compulsive habits I’ve been perfecting.

  Will, the cutest, youngest thing in this office, is listening to my conversation. He looks at the newspaper article I was reading. He stands behind my desk and starts massaging my shoulders.

  I turn and look at him and mouth the words “What are you doing?” Will smiles.

  “Do you want me to stop?” Will asks.

  “I’m on the phone,” I say to him. Then, back to Operation Sigmund.

  “It’s really important? What I do?” I say. I pretend to find it superficial, but in fact it may be the most important question: How do you choose to spend the bulk of your time on earth?

  “Our clients are serious about finding love. We work for commitment-minded individuals. Call us back when you’re ready to commit to a profession—you’ll be more equipped to commit to a love relationship.”

  I recognize that bitter tone. She’s single and took this job not in hopes of matching soul mates, but in hopes of getting first dibs on all the men who call to get hooked up. I’m the competition. She wants to make sure I don’t sign on the dotted line and steal her soul mate.

  “Love relationship?” I say. Love relationship sounds too much like TV doctor lingo, and yet I start to think I could use one. Then I remember the details of the last serious relationship I had before meeting Sam. His name was Drew. Our relationship ended in a showdown with Drew shouting at me outside of a restaurant.

  He was yelling about his unhappiness over how our relationship was ending. “I thought we’d be married,” Drew yelled. He was so angry when he was saying it, even today it seems like a scary prospect that I narrowly escaped.

  Then I snap out of it and remember I’m being turned down by a dating service…I haven’t even been given the opportunity to be turned down by an actual individual. A small business is turning me down.

  The rejection doesn’t quell my urge to take a giant proactive step toward my future children. Unfortunately, the only semirelated event that doesn’t require a long-term commitment that I stumble upon is a class at the Learning Annex. They are offering something called Flirting 101. It costs sixty-five dollars. It’s too cheap to give me any confidence that it might actually work. The reality is, if it costs sixty-five dollars, I probably already know it. If it cost a thousand dollars and I can’t afford it, then I would really need it.

  But when I reflect back on the day, which I have ample time to do, it’s not the phone call I’ll be thinking about. Will’s good at massaging. That was unexpected.

  Credit for Participating

  PERRY PULLS SOME GLASSES out of his cabinet. He inspects two of them. Then gets out a white cloth napkin and starts shining up the glasses. Not good enough. He pulls out two more. They meet his standards. He uncorks a bottle of wine. Pours. He’s not talking.

  “What’s w
rong?” I ask.

  Perry shakes his head.

  “Is tonight a bad night? I can leave you alone,” I say.

  “No, it’s okay,” Perry says. “In a funk.”

  “Oh. This might cheer you up. I’m kind of attracted to one of my coworkers,” I say. “He can’t be more than twenty-five. He looks like he’s sixteen. I thought he might be an intern…. It’s bad enough that I sleep at my mother’s; now I’m attracted to a young man I’m sure spends the better part of his weekend skateboarding.”

  “Next you’ll be wearing braces. Don’t do it; they just aren’t right on adults,” Perry says. “But as far as the lad goes, screw around while you can, because who knows what will happen tomorrow?”

  “That’s just it—for the past few months I’ve been acting like there’s no tomorrow. Quitting jobs. Not having the courage to try to work through things with Sam. So why am I thinking about this guy whose office is thirty feet from my desk? If he goes to the bathroom, he can’t get back to his office without my unlocking the door for him,” I say. “It gives new meaning to codependency.”

  “Yep, one day Danny fabulous is buying you a nightshirt that says ‘He’s My Bitch,’ and the next day three blank checks are missing from the back of your checkbook,” Perry says.

  “You’re dating again?” I ask.

  “I thought it was a date; turns out I was just being robbed,” Perry says. “I get it that we all lie in the beginning of relationships. We don’t feel safe. We want to put our best foot forward. But he stole checks from my checkbook while I was asleep! Who does that?”

  I drink my wine.

  “Say something,” Perry says.

  “I know you’re going to be mad if I say what I’m thinking,” I say.

  “No, I’m not,” Perry says.

  Yes he is!

  “Okay, are you taking a different medication?” I ask.

  Perry tends to blame any poor behavior on his antidepressants or antianxiety medications.

  He watches me for a while.

  “I had a really shitty night, and I can’t believe you’d ask me if it was because of new medication,” Perry says.

  “You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry. It does sound like a bad night. But I really don’t agree that we all lie when we’re getting to know someone. That’s your cynical point of view. It’s not fact.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Perry says. “At least I’m talking about it. Your mother gets the big wake-up call. Your father reappears. The only thing in your life you seem certain about is that guy Sam. You never talk about any of it? That’s lying. It’s omitting the shit that matters to you.”

  Long pause. We both sip wine.

  “Who said I was normal?” I ask. “By the way, you’re an ass.”

  Perry gets up from the table and hugs me. “Unfortunately, you’re right,” I say. “Of course I am,” Perry says. “I need to know. Did you wear the nightshirt?” I ask. “Yes, you know I love gifts.”

  T-Shirt Fiesta

  I FOLLOW PERRY into his store on St. Mark’s Place. It was the first store he opened. He didn’t plan to become the king of iron-on decals. It evolved. He opened his first store when he was at NYU film school. Then he dropped out after he opened his second store during his junior year. He didn’t have time to file corporate taxes and attend classes. He has five stores in New York City.

  “Are you allowed to drink wine and operate the heat press?” I ask.

  “Drunk customers don’t generally notice tipsy clerks,” Perry says.

  We enter the T-shirt Fiesta. A party indeed! There are piñatas hanging from the ceiling and confetti on the floor. He made prop half-emptied drinks and crumbled cocktail napkins placed strategically here and there. In the early days, he also sold frozen margaritas in Coca-Cola cups, to go, without a liquor license.

  On the walls are colorful examples of things you might want to put on your very own T-shirt should you ever be drunk enough to buy a fifty-dollar T-shirt.

  A pink T-shirt boasts the phrase: “Eat Shit. It’s Free.” For the expectant mom there is a cotton onesie in which to bundle her new baby: “When I cry, Mommy drinks!” And for the proud grandparents, a cute mini-T with a dual message: “Granny’s a whore” (front of shirt), “Grandpa’s a skank” (back of shirt).

  “People actually spend money on these things?” I say.

  “Yeah, isn’t it depressing?” Perry says. “These letters are a buck a piece, and you wouldn’t believe some of the long-ass messages people are willing to write.”

  “Like?” I say.

  He motions toward another sample shirt on the wall: “I apologize in advance for anything I might do tonight!”

  “Forty-five bucks just for letters and punctuation. That doesn’t even include the shirt. And those are the jackasses who want a discount. If I have to unpeel and line up forty-five letters, you’re paying full price,” Perry says.

  “The way you’ve grown this business is amazing. You have to be proud of what you’ve accomplished,” I say.

  “Thanks, Grandma. It means a lot to me to make you proud,” Perry says.

  “You’ve always been so good about accepting compliments,” I say. “You know, one of the biggest surprises about seeing my father after so many years was how much we look alike, and how comforting that is,” I say.

  “That’s nice,” Perry says.

  It’s more important than I would have guessed. I think that comes from feeling so disconnected. Any connection becomes more significant than it should be. I don’t look anything like my mother. People were always eyeing us as if we were the odd couple. I hated it.

  “Loss is never one-sided,” I say. “Maybe most of the pain that comes from loss is that people imagine it is one-sided.”

  As a child, I created a snapshot in my head. My father is carrying a medium-size suitcase and walking down the street. He is packed lightly. He is ready to start fresh in the world. He has no need to bring too much of his old life into his new life. There is no looking back for him. That mental image is a lifetime admission to anxietyville.

  When my father left, it was a surprise. That ruined surprises for me. I needed things organized from that time on, like my mom does. I need a schedule, need to know what happens next. Spending time with him again doesn’t erase any of that. But I do love the unexpected details I’m gleaning. I can’t collect enough of them. They are tiny clues to knowing him. Precious tiny clues. He irons his own shirts “to make them last longer.” He reads only the front page of a newspaper. No jump page for him. No sports section. No time? No desire? Who knows. Even he doesn’t know. It’s just what he’s always done, so he continues to do it that way.

  Honesty

  IT’S NOT UNTIL LATER, after leaving Perry, when I’m walking uptown, that I rerun Perry’s comments in my head.

  “Don’t we all lie in the beginning of a relationship?” Perry had said. What shocked me was how much I’d lied, as he said, by omission. Because of how much I haven’t told anyone.

  I’ve never had a mammogram, and I stopped doing self-exams after my mother was diagnosed, because I was afraid I’d find something I didn’t want to find.

  I’m pretty sure I’m in love with Sam, and I haven’t told him. Okay, I’m doing it again. I’m soft-pedaling it. I’m not pretty sure. I’m sure. I’m in love with Sam.

  Every day that I avoid the abovementioned, I become more and more like my mother.

  I’m not sure which is scariest, 1, 2, or 3….

  Clean Bill of Health

  SHE DOESN’T WANT to go anywhere special, Mom says. She just wants to enjoy lunch somewhere, knowing that the radiation treatments are completed. We choose an Austrian place off of Fifth Avenue. There are a lot of German-speaking tourists eating spaetzle.

  We make a toast with our glasses of ice water.

  “Congratulations,” I say.

  “Thanks. It doesn’t seem real,” Mom says. “Does it?”

  “To me it does,” I say. “But I
know what you mean; it may need to sink in.”

  I look up and see a familiar face. Mom’s friend Phil comes toward us with his big happy face.

  He takes a seat next to my mother. They hold hands. They exchange a stream of nonstop kisses on their cheeks.

  “It’s just so wonderful,” Phil says.

  “It really is,” Mom says. “All those relaxation exercises paid off.”

  I look at the menu so I don’t have to think about what that could be a euphemism for.

  To Be Continued

  IT’S FRIDAY. I get into the elevator with my father. He presses the button. He turns to me.

  “Bowling ball, number two pencil, anemone, hot shoe, tension column, carboniferous reptile, and hydraulic brake hose,” Jim says. “Your turn.”

  “Bowling ball, number two pencil, anemone, hot shoe, tension column, carboniferous reptile, hydraulic brake hose, and frangipani tree,” I say, not looking at him.

  “Bowling ball, number two pencil, anemone, hot shoe, tension column, carboniferous reptile, hydraulic brake hose, frangipani tree, and antibiotics,” Dad says.

  Where are those senior moments he’s supposed to be experiencing?

  Too Empathetic

  I’M IN MOM’S KITCHEN trying to slice a pineapple. I feel like I’m shucking oysters.

  “This is impossible,” I say. “I don’t think it’s ripe.”

  “Marjorie had no problem cutting up my tropical fruits last week,” Mom says. “If you don’t know how, it’s okay. I can call Marjorie.”

  “Okay, call her,” I say.

  “Well, I’m not going to bother her now; she’s on bed rest,” Mom says.

  “They sell these things fully filleted now,” I say.

  “Still enjoying work?” Mom asks, changing the subject.

  “Yes. The people are nice,” I say. “The time goes quickly. I can’t believe I’ve been there four weeks. I’m surprised by how much I like him.”