Five Things I Can't Live Without (10 page)

He nudged me out of my reverie. “We got sidetracked for a while there. Tell me more about your night.”

I was suddenly gripped by a sense of foreboding, as if this moment were a mirage, and there was something darker behind it, or beyond it. It was the sensation of being buried up to my neck in sludge. I feared that everything would bog down sooner or later: my relationship with Dan, my freelancing. Either I hadn’t really been good with Candace, or if I had, it would turn out to be just shy of what was really needed. I would never get enough clients, I would never make enough money, I would never move forward. That was what it always came back to, the idea that I would never move forward. It was my version of a panic attack, only I could breathe just fine and my heart didn’t speed up much—and it could last all night. I would have preferred the kind that Larissa had, the kind that peaked in ten minutes and then you got on with things.

“I’m suddenly really scared,” I said. “Could you talk me down?”

He clutched me more tightly and spoke softly into my ear. “You’re going to be okay. Better than okay.”

“Do you think so?” I asked. It was already working; the darkness was subsiding.

“You were glowing when you came home. You nailed it.”

“I did, actually.” I smiled slightly, remembering. “I think I did a good job with the writing, but the other thing was, she just looked so hopeful. She started out tense, and at the end, she looked hopeful. I don’t know that I’ve ever had that kind of direct effect on someone before.”

“Well, not through your work.” Dan kissed the top of my head.

“You know what’s weird? That’s the effect you just had on me. In a matter of seconds. It’s crazy, the way you can do that.” I settled more deeply into his arms. “I can do it to myself sometimes, but you’re so much better at it.”

“It’s easier for you to trust someone else. I tell you it’ll be okay, and you take my word for it.”

“That might be true. I wish it wasn’t true, but it probably is,” I said sleepily. The day had finally caught up with me.

“Let’s go to bed,” Dan said, reading me perfectly. He shifted me around so he could stand up, then offered me his hand.

I still hadn’t told my mother about quitting my job. I’d had one conversation with her since giving notice, where I managed to answer all her questions without lying, but avoided telling her what I’d done. It was my most sophisticated verbal circumlocution yet, which is saying something because when it came to my mother, I’d become pretty crafty over the years. Now that I could claim one freelance success, I was ready to bite the bullet and return her phone call.

As I dialed, I felt nervous, and then frustrated with myself for being nervous. After all, the worst that could happen was that she’d be disappointed in me and I could handle that. I was used to her low-level disappointment. Now it might be a higher wattage, but that was entirely survivable.

“Hi, Mom,” I said. I looked down and realized I was clenching and unclenching my fists, the hallmark of a healthy mother-daughter bond.

“Nora! Finally.” It seemed like her happiness at hearing from me was always tinged with reproach.

“Sorry it took me a few days to get back with you.”

“I’m used to it,” she said. “But how are you? You sound pinched.”

“I’m fine.”

“So you and Dan are getting along?” She was on script. She turned on the faucet, and I could hear the water running. She was doing the dishes while we talked. I had “finally” called and she needed something else to occupy her.

“We’re doing well.” I’d be on script, too. For a little while, at least.

“You’ve been getting out?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Going to the movies? Have you seen anything good at the movies?” That was a new one, actually.

“I haven’t been to the movies in a while. I can’t remember the last thing I saw. What have you seen?”

“Oh, just some garbage.” Vintage Mom. For once, she had made what looked like a foray into normal conversation by asking me about movies; then when I followed up, she negated the whole thing. “And you’re eating well?”

“Pretty well.”

“I sent you that article on the low-carb diet, didn’t I?”

“Yes. But I don’t need a diet.” I was trying not to sound pinched, whatever that meant.

“The article was about why people shouldn’t do those low-carb diets.” I generally threw out the articles she sent me unread, and she always caught me like this. But she kept sending them. Why was my mother booby-trapping my mail?

“I don’t diet anyway.” We had at least another two segments to go before this show would be over. I couldn’t wait until we got to the Casey part of the call. That was the only time my mother actually answered questions at any length. When we got to Casey, I could always breathe again. Sometimes I tried to go there prematurely, and my mother would steer me back to the remaining topics in my own life that she felt still needed excavating.

Casey is my thirteen-year-old sister. She was adopted when she was three, so she and I have never lived in the same house together. Because of the infrequency of my visits, Casey and I don’t know each other very well. We talk on the phone sometimes, but she doesn’t open up easily. She’s smart and sweet and painfully neurotic. She has all sorts of nervous tics and perfectionist tendencies and she’s proof that my mother is to blame for my meta-life. I mean, Casey’s not even from our gene pool and look at her. When I entered adolescence, my mother’s snooping skyrocketed and I suspected the same thing was happening now. I also suspected that I was being routinely used as a cautionary tale to keep Casey on the straight and narrow. And leaving my job on a whim would surely, in my mother’s mind, be one for the annals.

“And you’re still not working out?” she asked. That particular question was designed to rhetorically showcase her disapproval of my lifestyle choice.

“No.”

“It’s going to catch up with you, Nora. I know you think it never will, but you’re almost thirty. That’s when the metabolism slows down. Believe me, I know. I was built like you, remember.”

“Um-hmm.” I wanted her just to hurry up and get to the work questions, because once we arrived there, we’d stay awhile. I glanced at the clock. I’d requested that Dan shout to me in ten minutes that we were late. He’d asked me what we were supposedly late for, and I said he didn’t need to worry his pretty little head about that, he just needed to play his part and then keep his yap shut. That made him laugh. He liked the word “yap.”

“And how’s work going?”

Finally. “I have a new job, actually.”

“Really? You didn’t even mention that you were looking.”

“I’m not looking. I’m building my own business.”

“Well, that’s enterprising of you. What kind of business?”

“I’m a freelance writer and editor.” I was trying to say it with the inflection I thought a real freelance writer and editor would use. I felt somewhat fraudulent, as in,
I’m not a freelance writer and editor; I just play one during conversations with my mother
.

“And freelance means that it’s not steady work. Isn’t that what freelance means?” The worry had already set in. If I acted fast, maybe I could stave off panic.

“It means you contract with different people to perform a service, instead of all your work coming from one source or employer.” I’d practiced that answer, and was pleased with my timing and pacing.

“What service are you performing? And is this really a growth industry that you’re getting into?” Despite my efforts, she was going to panic. She wasn’t there yet, but I could feel it.

“It is a growth industry. I’m helping people with their Internet dating profiles.”

“
Pornography
? Is that what you’re doing?”

Why did people keep saying that? “Of course not. Internet dating is a completely acceptable way to meet people. It’s getting more popular all the time. I’ll send you an article about it.” I didn’t really have an article, but the offer allowed me to both stress my legitimacy and take a jab at my mother.

All I could hear was her loud breathing. But at least she’d stopped doing the dishes.

“It’s going really well so far,” I said. “Kathy’s helping me do it.” My mother loved Kathy. She thought Kathy was “a real go-getter.”

“She is?” At the mention of Kathy, my mother’s breathing normalized instantly. It occurred to me that I should start having Kathy do these calls for me. Both my mother and I would probably be happier that way.

“She is. I actually worked on her profile. She was my first paying client.”

“You let Kathy pay you?”

“She insisted. And she said she would have paid me double, it was so good.” A white lie. Kathy would have said that, I’m sure, but she didn’t conceive of quality in monetary terms. My mother, on the other hand, did.

“And people other than your friends have started paying you for this service?”

“Yes. They’re paying me well for it.”

“Where do you get these clients?”

I hesitated, but I couldn’t think of any answer but the truth. “I placed an ad. There’s a Web site—”

“So these are complete strangers? Anyone with a computer can arrange a meeting with you? That’s how thousands of young women get killed every year.” Her voice was getting louder with each sentence.

“Mom, calm down.”

I could hear my mother trying to heed my suggestion, which was progress for us. “This seems dangerous.” She tried to keep her voice level. “Does Dan approve of this?”

“He supports me, yes.”

“And he goes with you to meet these people the first time?”

“He has a job and a life.”

“So he lets you go off to meet strangers.”

“Mom, stop this right now. Dan is not my father. He doesn’t ‘let me’ do things. We talk and he gives me his opinion and he respects my ability to make my own choices.” I was getting as huffy as she was, which was exactly why I hated these conversations. They reminded me of our similarities, while I generally tried to think only of our differences.

“How very enlightened of him. He supports you in endangering yourself. I don’t know what kind of—”

“Stop right there, Mom. Say one more word against him, and I am hanging up this phone.” Now I’d had it. This battle over my inadequacy had been going on for fifteen years, and I wouldn’t let an innocent bystander take shrapnel.

She was quiet, perhaps trying to gauge how serious I was. Most likely, she was finding another tactic. “I’m just saying that he should—”

I wished I hadn’t been on a cordless phone so that I could have slammed the receiver into a cradle. That would have been much more satisfying than clicking the “End” button, even if I did punch it three times.

Almost immediately I regretted hanging up on her. I regretted it for the following reasons, in ascending order: 1) It was juvenile; 2) Worse, it made me look juvenile; 3) I’d seemed defensive, and my mother would construe that I must have something to hide, which would increase her worry; and 4) Most important of all, now that she was worried, she would call more, creating more opportunities for me to horrify myself with my own behavior.

But right then, I needed to focus. I had to decide if I was going to call her back, wait an hour by the phone to see if she called me back, or hate the sound of my phone ringing until she did. Calling her back immediately was the move most likely to alter her perception that I was destroying my life. I could apologize for my behavior, say that I was a bit stressed with all the change, but that I was confident about my abilities and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, for her to worry about.

I do realize that I’m far too reactive to my mother. In between phone calls, I nurse the fantasy that someday I’ll outgrow it or, better yet, become so incontrovertibly successful that even a champion neurotic like her couldn’t poke holes in my life. Larissa once suggested I find a therapist who would do conference calls with my mother and me so we could heal our relationship. I said I’d prefer to give my money to someone who could impersonate me during phone conversations.

Dan called from the other room, “Honey, we’re going to be late!”

“Shut your yap,” I muttered as I redialed my mother’s number.

Chapter 7