Authors: Isabel Kaplan
Hancock Park
Isabel Kaplan
For my parents.
M
y name is Becky Miller, and my life is insane.
I should be looking at the glass as half full, though. Right? That's what my mom says.
Okay, so: Before Rite Aid called about my abnormally strong antidepressant prescription, before Grandma came to visit, before the whole situation with my parents, before Amanda left town, before the Trinity, before Aaronâ¦things were kind of normal.
Or maybe they weren't. What is “normal” in Los Angeles, anyway?
Okay. Glass half full. On the bright sideâ¦I'm now a blonde.
I
awoke that Tuesday morning when a faint tapping gradually became not so faint and I realized that it wasn't just in my dreams. Someone was pounding at the front door. “Mom, I think she's here,” I called out, sitting up in bed. The tapping switched to the doorbell. Then the doorbell rang again. Our doorbell isn't one of those pretty-sounding ones. It's obnoxiously generic. “Do you want me to get it?”
I heard a crash, and then Grandma's voice rang out clearly through the house. “Is anyone alive in there? I've been standing out here for at least two minutes! I see your
cars in the driveway; don't think you can fool me!”
It had been this way for a week now. GrandmaâMom's motherâhad insisted on staying in a hotel as opposed to staying with us, but every morning, bright and early, she took a taxi over to our house. I had only seven days before eleventh grade started. These were the final mornings of my summer vacation, and all I wanted was to be able to sleep late.
Clearly, Grandma had other ideas. Fortunately, this was the last day of her visit. She had spent most of the week with my mom, which was beyond fine with me. I usually waited for my mom to call me down to say hello, but that day, the shrillness of Grandma's voice sent me runningâit was like a fight-or-flight thing. Mom and Jack, my thirteen-year-old brother, met me in the upstairs hallway. Jack was wearing only his boxers and held up a plastic sword, as if in defense. “I'm not going down there,” he said. My mom was half dressed, her hair up in curlers.
“I can't let her see me looking like this,” she told me. “Please, Becky? Just open the door?” In my wrinkled tank top and boxers, I wasn't looking so hot myself right then. I gave her a “You owe me” look, and she sprinted back toward her room. “I'll be down in a minute, I promise!” she called out to me.
Smoothing my hair a little, I headed down the stairs, refusing Jack's offer of the sword for protection. At the bottom step, I stopped and took a moment to gather myself. The little peek-through window in the middle
of our front door had been pushed open, revealingâher face twisted in between the iron grates, Chanel sunglasses askewâmy grandmother.
“Rebecca!” She moved back from the door as I moved forward to open it.
“It's Becky, Grandma,” I reminded her for the millionth time. “Grandma's here!” I directed my voice upstairs. As if they didn't know already.
My grandmother ran her acrylic nails over our new front hall table, no doubt inspecting it as if deciding whether to give her approval. Next, she lifted her sunglasses up over her head and gave me a once-over for the same reason. “You know, I'd been wondering what changed with youâyou look different this tripâand I've realized it's that you really aren't as chubby as you were when I last saw you.” Grandma nodded and walked over to me. I winced as she grabbed my upper arm as if I were a cut of meat and felt for fat. “You're finally thinning out.”
And you,
I thought,
are an anorexic jerk.
I know that's not a nice thought to have about your grandma, but it's not unwarranted.
The last time Grandma Elsie had visited was four years earlier, when I was twelve. Back then, Grandma, who did one independent film forty years ago and fancies herself a star, had talked a lot about how I was too chubby. “Kathy,” she told my mother while I sat listening, unnoticed, behind the kitchen door, “you should really think about watching Rebecca's food intake. She's looking
a little
zaftig
. Speaking of weight, Kathy,” Grandma had added, referring to my mother, who was never any larger than a size 4, “I didn't realize that you were
gaining
. You look as though you've put on at least three pounds.” She hadn't visited since, which was also beyond fine by me. I wasn't exactly sure why she was here now. She claimed to be helping my mother with somethingâwith what, I had no idea.
Grandma was running her fake fingernails along the newly refinished banister. “Your mother isn't still asleep, is she?”
“Of course not, Mother.” My mom glided down the stairs, her hair curled and her body wrapped in a dress that left little breathing room. Her smile was tight and forced. Jack followed behind her, still holding the sword.
“Good morning.” Grandma nodded at Mom and turned her attention to Jack, who was gripping the sword in front of him. “My
kindelach
!” Elsie opened her arms wide, as if she were expecting Jack to run into them. Mom gave Jack a nudge, and he trudged forward to receive his punishment. “And Harold? Where is Harold today?”
“Harold!” Mom called up the stairs for my dad. “My mother's here.” Every morning of Grandma's visit was a big production; day after day, she acted as if she hadn't seen us in years. We all waited a moment, silent and expectant, watching the top of the stairs and waiting for Dad to appear. Finally, he did, with his briefcase in one hand and his BlackBerry in the other.
“Right here. Good morning, Elsie.” He walked down the stairs typing, and my mom nudged him and whispered something into his ear. Then, he held his arms out as he walked toward Grandma, as if to initiate a hug.
Grandma dismissed his invitation, dropping her hands to her sides. “Likewise.” She smiled politely. After placing an overstuffed shoulder bag on the ground, she clapped her hands together. “Alright. Well, who wants to come shopping with me?” Grandma placed both hands around her minuscule waist and nodded toward my mother and me. From my position behind her, I placed my hands on my own waist and did an elaborate imitation of her mannerisms, sticking my chin up in the air and smirking. Mom stifled a chuckle and shot me a sharp look.
Dad straightened his tie and headed to the front door. “Wish I could, really, but I have to head to work. I'll see you all tonight.” He pulled the door shut behind him.
Jack let out a laugh. “
I
don't wish I could. Sorry, G-ma. I don't do shopping.” Nobody responded, so he made a quick exit toward the kitchen. Now, it was just me, Mom, and Grandma standing in the front hall. Mom fingered the hem of her dress. It was now or never.
I took an extended glance at the clock, sighed, and said, “Oh, would you look at that⦔ but Mom walked toward me, her eyes wide, pleading.
“I⦔ I clenched my hands, counted to three, then clenched my hands twice more. I could have said no. I
wanted to say no. But I didn't. I care too much about pleasing people.
I forced a smile toward Grandma. “Where did you want to go shopping?”
Mom grabbed her purse off the front hall table and came to stand next to me. Whispering in my ear, she said, “Thank you so much, sweetheart. That Ron Herman sweatshirt you wanted?
Yours.
I'll go get it for you this afternoon on my way back from Brentwood.” She put her arm around me and looked at her mother. “I really have to get to work, but Becky will take you shopping this morning. She has plans this afternoon, though.” Mom winked at me. “Right?”
I nodded.
I went upstairs to change but wasn't sure what to wear for a day of probable torture with Grandma. I settled on a basic if slightly preppy outfit: a frayed denim miniskirt with a light pink polo shirt. Grandma examined me from beneath her sunglasses as I reemerged in the front hall. I examined her right back, wondering how she and my mom could possibly be related. Grandma lives for leopard print, zebra print, and, well, any print in general. And she wears them all together. My mom, on the other hand, is a style guru. Reallyâshe has her own TV show. To her, mixing animal prints is cause for an intervention.
“Jack, we're leaving!” I called as we headed out the front door. “We'll be back soonish.” I hope. “If you need
anything, call me on my cell.” I shut the door behind me and stepped out into the already bright summer sun.
Grandma stood in front of my red Volkswagen Jetta, tapping her feet. As I clicked the
UNLOCK
button on my car key, two large golden retrievers leaped toward me, dragging Nancy Clarke, a middle-aged woman in tennis whites, behind them. “Becky, darling, how are you?” Nancy skidded to a stop on the sidewalk.
“I'm great. Nancy, this is my grandma, Elsie.” I turned to Grandma, who was busy examining her face in a compact. “Grandma, this is Nancy Clarke. The Clarkes live a couple blocks over, on Hudson.”
At least for the next few days they did. My best friend, Amanda Clarke, and her family were just two days away from moving across the country so that Amanda's dad could pursue “a new challenge” for his directorial career: Broadway.
Nancy put her hand on my back and smiled. “It's good to meet you, Elsie.” She extended her hand. Grandma snapped the compact shut and, wordlessly, shook Nancy's hand, then turned to open the passenger door and folded her tiny body into the seat.
I stepped forward and spoke quickly, eager to rectify Grandma's dismissive attitude. “Great to run into you! We're going shopping now. Have a good walk! I'm sure I'll see you soon,” I called out as I headed toward the driver's side of the car. Nancy still stood on the sidewalk, the dogs pulling at her, but after I flashed a smile and
opened the car door, she gave a wave and headed off. I drove toward Beverly Boulevard, took a deep breath, and addressed Grandma. “Where to?”
“Why don't we do Barneys?”
Grandma fiddled with the radio buttons, and as a light turned yellow, I slowed to a stop. “It's yellow! That means hurry up! You can go!” she shrieked, banging on the dashboard with her hands. I pushed down on the brake a little harder.
As we drove through Beverly Hills, Grandma's face was glued to the window, but her hands remained firmly folded in her lap. “Camden Drive! I know that street from somewhereâ¦is that where that new hot boutique is? I think I read about it in
Us Weekly
last month.”
“No. That's where my dentist is,” I replied. No hot boutique. Unless you count it as the hotbed of celebrity teeth whitening. Of course, I didn't say that out loud. I turned into the Barneys New York lot, left my car keys at the valet stand, and wondered if other grandmothers read
Us Weekly
and tried to keep up on the “hot boutiques.” How had this woman spawned my mother, who, despite being part of the Hollywood thing, didn't really care much about it?
Grandma marched ahead of me toward the large black-and-white-striped awning. Gusts of air-conditioning blew at us as we entered the building, stepping onto the mirrored tile floors. Behind the first-floor makeup and fragrance counters, salespeople clad all in black smiled brightly,
vying for attention and credit cards. Grandma approached the MAC makeup counter. She picked up a small pot of turquoise eye shadow and dabbed some on her palm. She was using her fingers, which is highly unsanitary, and I hoped that nobody was watching.
“Did you know,” I said to her as I fiddled with the cap of a lip gloss, “that department stores like Barneys put the products that sell best on the first floor? They make more money from lip gloss and perfume than they do from Marc Jacobs!” I don't think that Grandma even caught the end of my sentence because when I turned around, she was standing all the way across the store, arranging a plaid Burberry scarf around her neck.
But that fact, included as part of a speech, had helped Amanda win the gavel award at a Model United Nations conference this past spring. Model United Nations (or MUN to us MUN people) might sound like some geeky role-playing thing, but at Whitbread School for Girls, one of the best private schools in the country, we have a new slogan: “Not just pretending to solve world problems.” Last year, Amanda and I were co-presidents of MUN, and our team not only won the California MUN tournament but also raised money to rebuild several schools that had been damaged by the 2005 earthquake in Pakistan.
Not that Grandma cared about any of that.
All she cared about right now was jeans. After she finally found a suitable pair, women's waist size 25, we headed up to the top floor of the store to Barney Greengrass. The
elevator opened, and Grandma sighed with a smile of pleasure as she walked into the restaurant and waited for the hostess to approach us. I stepped forward reluctantly. Grandma would ask for “the best table in the house,” and while that might work for her in Florida, it wouldn't fly here. Especially since she was dressed head to toe in leopard print.
“Hi.” I smiled at the hostess. I glanced down at my lime green sneakers and clasped my hands behind my back trying to hide the anxiety I felt building. My psychiatrist says I should do my best to not let anxiety get the best of me. And if that doesn't work, well, there's always Xanax. “We'll be two today.” If I said “today,” she might think that I was a regular or even a once-in-a-while patron. Technically, I sort of was. I had been here once, in May, with my mom. Twice in three months counted as once in a while, right?
The hostess led us past Botoxed Beverly Hills women clinking glasses, as well as the occasional businessman or Hollywood type in suit and tie, to a table on the edge of the dining area, across from the pastry counter. It was a prime people-watching position, and Grandma was pleased. Except that once we had our menus and the waiter came over to take our orders, I immediately felt stupid for suggesting that we get something to eat. I had, of course, forgotten that my grandmother doesn't eat.
I ordered a grilled chicken sandwich and an iced tea. Grandma daintily closed her menu and glanced up at the
waiter, who was running his hands through overly gelled hair. An actor. For sure. Maybe he thought Grandma was some quirky casting director. “You know, I am just not that hungry right now,” she mused, patting her nonexistent belly. “I think I'll have a cup of tea.” She paused. “Yes, a cup of hot tea sounds nice.” While we waited for the food and tea to come, Grandma interrogated me about my love life and demanded that I explain why I didn't have a boyfriend. (Answers:
What love life?
and
The fact that the only boys I know are my teachers certainly doesn't help.
) She removed a cocktail ring that had been on her right hand and placed it on her ring finger. “I sure could use a man to put a real rock on my finger,” she said.
