Odd Mom Out (36 page)

Nothing in me wants that life or the pressure these women must feel.

Must be thin.

Must be tan.

Must have smooth forehead and unlined skin.

Must have great house.

Must have great kids.

Must have successful husband.

Must, must, must.

Oh yes, and must take that daily antidepressant pill.

Sunday morning, we go to the Points Country Club to meet my parents for brunch, something we’ve been trying to do once a month while we can.

I’m not a country club kind of girl, but along with the usual golf club offerings, the country club itself has festive brunches during the holidays, twice-a-year bingo nights for families, and the swimming pool in the summer.

Eva and I get to the country club early. The dining room is practically deserted, and we’re seated at one of the prime tables in the bay window alcoves that overlook the golf course. The hostess gives Eva a cup of crayons and pages from a coloring book to keep her busy until my parents arrive.

After the waitress takes our drinks order, I glance around the dining room and realize with a little jolt that the family seated just two tables away is Bill and Melinda Gates and their three children. Bill’s reading at the table and Melinda’s chatting with the kids.

One table to the right of the Gateses is the Young family, another family of five. Last night at the grocery store Taylor looked tired and too thin but this morning her makeup is flawless, her hair is glossy and straight, the honey highlights catching the light, and she’s smiling at something Nathan has said to one of the girls. Nathan’s wearing a salmon-colored Polo that would be wimpy on someone else, but his bronze tan, sun-streaked hair, muscular frame, and square jaw somehow make it okay.

I covertly study the family, both intrigued and repelled. Taylor and Nathan together are striking, and their three little girls are all quite pretty. Almost too pretty. And I think they know it. The whole family has the glossy polish of a
Town & Country
magazine ad, something that only happens with a lot of hard work.

“There’s Jemma,” Eva whispers, darting a nervous glance at the Youngs.

“I know, but just keep coloring,” I tell her. “Pretend you don’t see them.”

My parents arrive just then, and it takes me all of five seconds to realize I’ve forgotten something very important. I failed to warn Mom and Dad about Eva’s hair.

“What in God’s name has happened?” my father booms. His voice has such an impressive range, perfect for getting the attention of young grunts and humiliating sensitive granddaughters.

Eva stops coloring, startled.

“Dad,” I say.

He doesn’t hear. “You look like a refugee,” he barks.

My mom is peering at Eva with some bewilderment. “Who is this?”

If we were taping a TV sitcom, this is when they’d play the laugh track. “Mom, it’s Eva.”

“But this is a boy.”

Mom is beginning to remind me of Edith from
All in the Family,
my father’s favorite show when I was growing up.

“Eva, your granddaughter,” I repeat.

“Who?”

I feel Eva stiffen next to me, as it sinks in that my parents are going to make a scene. Of course they’re going to make a scene. Isn’t this how they raised me? “Mom, Eva, my daughter, your granddaughter.”

“But Eva has long hair, and this boy doesn’t.”

And that’s about all Eva can take. Letting out a devastated huff, she whirls around and runs off, out of the dining room and probably toward the country club’s front doors.

My mother makes a peculiar little sound and lifts her hand to her throat (very Edith-like, if I do say so myself). “What’s wrong? Why did he run away?”

“It’s not a he, Mom. That was Eva.”

“Eva’s a boy?”

“No, Mom, but you said Eva looked like a boy.”

“Eva doesn’t look like a boy. That boy looks like a boy.”

“That boy and Eva are one and the same.”

My mother lets out a horrified cry. “So Eva is a boy!”

It just keeps getting better.

I’m of two minds right now. I could just go outside, get Eva, and go home. It’d be easy and fast, and we’d be free of any more unfortunate scenes and uncomfortable conversations, especially with Taylor and family sitting only a couple tables away.

But Mom’s not going to get better. Mom’s only going to get worse. And that’s why we’re here, having family time. Eva and I moved to Seattle so we could be part of this journey, or whatever you want to call what’s happening to Mom.

I try again. “Eva was upset this week, and she cut her hair off,” I say, hoping a simple explanation will eliminate any more confusion. “I took her to a hairdresser to get it shaped up, but it’s going to take some time to grow. Eva’s sorry she cut it, but there’s nothing we can do now but be supportive and patient and let it grow.”

Sadly, my dad isn’t strong in the empathy suit and isn’t making this process any easier. “But why would she cut her hair off? What’s the matter with her?”

“Nothing’s the
matter
with her. She just wanted a change.”

“Well, it’s not flattering at all. She looks like a mouse.”

“Not like a mouse,” my mother corrects. “More like an orphan.”

“Yes,” my dad agrees. “A refugee.”

“Or like Little Orphan Annie,” Mom adds, now smiling tenderly at me. “Remember when we saw
Little Orphan Annie
at the Fifth Avenue theater, Marta? It was one of the first musicals I took you to.”

“I do remember.” I hated it. All those little orphans singing, and Annie with her disgustingly red, curly hair. It gave me the creeps.

My dad suddenly takes my arm. “Is that Bill Gates and Melinda?” he asks in a whisper.

“Yes.”

Dad’s shoulders straighten, and he looks like a retired officer. “Why didn’t you tell me they were here? We should be sitting, enjoying our meal, allowing them to finish their breakfast in peace.

“Sit, Marilyn,” he says to my mother, pulling out a chair for her and holding it while she sits down. “Now go get Eva,” he tells me, “and let’s act like a family that has some manners.”

I go outside to cajole Eva into returning. It’s a chilly morning, the air damp and cold, and even though Eva’s shivering, she doesn’t want to come back in.

“I knew I looked ugly,” she says glumly, seated on the cement planter by the front door, picking at the purple and green cabbage foliage around tiny purple pansies.

“You don’t look ugly. You look different.”

“Huh. Same thing.”

I smile down at her and riffle her hair, the dark ends wispy. My little gamine. Like a young Audrey Hepburn before Audrey Hepburn was pretty. I smile a bit more. “Come inside and eat. I need you there. Your grandma is going to drive me crazy.”

The mention of her grandmother reminds her of her humiliation. “Grandma thought I was a boy,” she says bleakly.

“Grandma’s losing her marbles.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means Grandma has dementia, and little by little she’s losing her mind.”

Now Eva glares at me reproachfully. “That’s not nice. Grandma can’t help it. It’s the disease.”

“I know. But losing your mind isn’t nice, so we’re just going to love her anyway.”

We return to the dining room, and Mom and Dad are suddenly absolutely delightful company, and I know—because my dad keeps sneaking glances Bill’s way—it’s because we’re trying to impress the Gateses. Not that the Gateses even know we’re there.

Chapter Twenty

Monday morning, it’s back to work in the studio. Robert’s taken the week off. It’s his anniversary, and he and his partner have gone to Costa Rica.

I wish I were going to Costa Rica. What I actually wish is that I’d hear from Freedom Bikes. It’s been a couple of weeks, and we should hear something soon, even if it’s just a request to schedule another meeting, give me a budget, and ask for a more detailed proposal.

Tuesday, I present a proposal to Trident Conglomerate. I’m not really thrilled about the proposal because I don’t want to get their account. Trident’s a huge company undergoing tremendous change, which also means tremendous stress. Executives are being laid off quarterly, which is why we’ve been approached about handling their advertising. The last director of sales and marketing was just given the boot, along with the ad agency, and now they’ve got a new (panicked) director who is good at sales but doesn’t have a clue about advertising.

Tuesday evening, I get a call from Luke but don’t have time to call him back, as Mom’s disappeared. I hear the panic in Dad’s voice, and Eva and I throw on coats and rush to Laurelhurst to help look for her.

By the time we get to Laurelhurst, Mom’s home. A neighbor three blocks over found her in his driveway and thanks to Mom’s MedicAlert bracelet was able to escort Mom back to her house.

Eva takes Grandma upstairs while Dad and I confer in his study. Dad is absolutely sick. He sits ashen in a leather chair in his study, his head in his hands.

“I only went out to get the newspaper,” he keeps repeating. “I was gone just a minute. How did she slip out? Why didn’t I see her?”

“It was dark, Dad—”

“But she didn’t say a word. She just left.”

“That’s part of the disease.”

“I’ve already put locks on all the doors. I already watch her like a hawk. What else can I do?”

“I don’t know.”

He lifts his head and looks at me, eyes hollow. “It scares me, Marta, scares me half to death. It’s dark out, she’s not wearing a coat. She could have been hit by a car, attacked, raped—”

“But she wasn’t, Dad. She’s here now. She’s safe.”

“If something happened to her, I couldn’t live with myself. I couldn’t. She’s a fine woman, your mother. A fine woman.” His voice deepens, breaks. “You don’t get much better.”

I’ve always known my dad loved my mom in his way, but until now I had no idea how attached he was. When I was growing up, my parents weren’t particularly lovey-dovey, but I always had the sense that they liked each other, enjoyed each other, even if they didn’t make a lot of jokes or even laugh all that much. Maybe it was the way my dad’s mouth turned up or the way my mom’s eyebrows lifted, but when one talked, the other listened.

“Dad, everything’s going to be fine.”

“But it’s not. I’m losing her, every day, bit by bit. And I have to watch.”

A cold knot settles in my stomach. “Maybe it’s time you got more help. You can’t do this on your own anymore.”

“I have help.”

“The housekeeper is here to clean the house, not take care of Mom, and Mom’s going to need more and more care soon. She can’t be left alone.”

“But what I want to know is where is she going? What is she doing? The specialists say she’s looking for someone, but what . . . where?”

I clasp my hands together, feeling terribly useless. “I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know if we’ll ever know.”

I eventually leave and get Eva to bed, and I know I should go to the studio and work—I have dozens of e-mails to be returned—but I can’t make myself do it. I’m tired, and like Dad, I’m scared. I don’t want to see Mom in a hospital. I know they eventually have to “lock up” their Alzheimer’s patients, but Dad’s right. Mom could have been badly hurt tonight.

Thinking about Mom’s future, thinking about what’s happening to her—to all of us—I put my head down on my arms and cry.

I don’t cry. But I can’t seem to help it tonight.

I miss my mom, and the mom I knew isn’t coming back.

The next day is Wednesday, a day I haven’t been looking forward to, as it’s the first auction class project meeting. As first assistant head room mom, I’m apparently the fourth-grade co-chair for the class project. Not quite sure how that distinction was made, but here I am at Tully’s on Points Drive at ten-thirty in the morning, waiting for the rest of the moms to arrive.

I hate all these meetings. There are way too many meetings. Haven’t these women heard of e-mail or voice mail?

While I wait, I can’t help studying a cluster of women at another table.

They’re all very well groomed and certainly polished, but they don’t look quite normal. No one in the group looks quite like what a woman in her late fifties, sixties, or seventies should look like.

I’m reminded of those funny picture books made for kids, the ones where you can flip different heads and torsos with different feet and legs. These lovely, sophisticated women seem to have stepped from that book. Faces don’t match bodies, and bodies don’t match wardrobe. Skin is too taut in some places and droops too much in others. Some women with softening jaws and softening eyes are toned and taut. Other women with small shoulders and widening waists have the smooth, shiny complexion of a twenty-year-old. How is this possible?

It’s plastic surgery, and I know it’s plastic surgery, but something in me rebels. My stomach knots.

There’s nothing wrong with plastic surgery, yet when I look at these women, all “seniors,” it’s obvious that they work very hard at taking care of themselves. It almost seems indecent the amount of work involved. Such devotion, such dedication, such personal sacrifice.