Plan C (22 page)

“Hi, Mom!”

“Madeline! You made it.”

She kisses me. “I hate the subway, but this was
so
worth it. Hi, Aunt Kitty,” she says, giving her a peck. “You’re looking good.”

“I love this kid of yours,” says Kitty. “So how’s college? Boyfriends?”

“None in New York. All the boys here wear skinny jeans. I can’t go there.”

“Don’t blame you,” says Kitty. “You should go for a wild European. Come with me to Paris. Maybe your mother will let you do a semester abroad.”

“Maybe,” I say, my tone dubious.

Madeline looks hopeful. “I wouldn’t go now anyway. Not until after I hook up with my English professor.”

“Better not till he’s done grading you,” I say.

“Fine, fine, Mother,” says Madeline, taking a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray. “And in the meantime, there’s those construction workers down at Ground Zero near my dorm. Kidding. They’re so nasty. Always screaming out, ‘Come sit on daddy’s lap.’”

“Pigs,” say Kitty and I simultaneously.

“Gosh, can you imagine being Bebe’s daughter?” I say. “What a Cinderella story…”

“Bebe can adopt me anytime,” says Madeline, grabbing a canape off a silver tray. “Most kids have tap water by their bedside table. Tamara has Pellegrino!” Madeline bites into the shrimp on her napkin and says, “Oh mom, I lugged my laundry up on the train. It’s in Bebe’s pantry. You don’t mind, right?”

“What else am I here for?” I say. “Besides money. And love-life advice…”

A handsome man makes his way over to my daughter. I whisper to Kitty, “Ah, youth. Wasted on the young.”

“Hey, she might have the legs,” says Kitty eyeing my daughter’s micro mini- dress, “but you have the wisdom.”

“Lucky for me,” I say sarcastically. “Just what every man wants in a woman. Firm, perky, wisdom.” I catch sight of Bernie sitting on the burgundy Lignet Roset couch, his big, bare, hairy foot up on the glass coffee table. He’s actually clipping his toenails. A few landed on the carpet below a ballerina now posed in third position. Bernie crawls across the floor. Not just to retrieve the toe nails but also to get a glimpse of what’s under her tutu.

And then I hear “Hey Daddy!” and my focus moves to the most beautiful little girl, who comes bombing into the room, a little Kazakh blitzkrieg. It’s Tamara. And from the moment I met her, just last week, I knew for the first time what it was to be an aunt who truly love of somebody else’s child.

*

It was just this past Thursday when Bebe asked me to “come over and meet my daughter.” I had my shoes on within two minutes, was at curbside within ten. And faster than you can say “I need a taxi to Park Avenue,” I was at Bebe’s front door. Bebe’s eyes met mine and instantly the scene went on mute though this show was still playing. There, tucked into Bebe’s side, was Tamara, gazing up at me apprehensively, wondering whether it was safe to come out. Tamara’s eyes met mine, and it was love at first sight – just as it had been for Bebe. Tamara ran to my side, attaching to me as if she’d been super glued. “Oh, sweetheart,” I said, not sure what to do. Tamara looked up at me, still attached.

“I - Tamara,” she said slowly. “Hello, please meet you.” She had practiced those words all day.

“Oh, I’m so pleased to meet you,” I said.

“We shared our first Ring Ding today,” said Bebe. “Isn’t that silly?”

“Not silly at all,” I said. Tamara took her mother’s hand in one hand, and mine in the other. “All my life I wanted somebody to eat Ring Dings with...” said Bebe,

“…my daughter,” I say with her, the words sounding wonderful. We both burst into laughter, and then subsided into hugs. Tamara joined in our huddle, and suddenly the
three of us looked like football players strategizing a big play except this was bigger. If Kitty were here she might even say it was “huge!” “You’re a mommy now,” I said, dabbing at the corner of my eyes.

“Yes,” said Bebe. Tamara looked on, quick to understand the bond her mother and I share.

We made our way to an ivory damask loveseat where Bebe poured Earl Grey tea. Tamara dropped to my feet to pick up the doll – “My First Barbie” - that I bought her. It had seemed like the American thing to do.

I could tell by the look on her face that Tamara was fascinated by the doll’s perfection. Could I be creating an expectation by buying it for her? Would she, too, think the way American girls do, that
this
is what she should look like – a 2 inch waistline, a tiny tight ass, and legs that never end? The truth was that Tamara was prettier than anything a Mattel designer could dream up.

Watching Tamara undress her doll, I watched Barbie’s plastic and catatonic stare. I studied her slab of painted blue eye-liner and the black made-to-seem-real eyelashes and the perfectly brushed blonde hair. I considered how many times Barbie had reinvented herself. I thought about the day that some Mattel executive had been forced to come up with a Plan B, when sales might have plummeted between the 1960s and the millennium, little girls looked elsewhere for new playmates.

Barbie was at least fifty years old now. At this point she could be “Cougar Barbie,” equipped with leopard leggings, golf clubs, a Jag, and fake breasts - which of course she already had, so she was off to a good start.

Tamara caught me staring at the doll and gave me a big crooked-toothed smile. She couldn’t speak English very well, but her expression said it all, so I articulated for her: “It’s so great that you’re here, Tamara.” I ran my hand under her chin. “Thank you for coming into our world. You’ve made your mommy so very happy.”

“Tamara happy,” she said.

Bebe’s blue eyes watered to red, making them all patriotic, and Tamara tossed Barbie aside to jump up into her new mother’s arms.

*

Tamara tugs at my dress hem, snapping me out of it. “Hey, Lib,” she says. “Are you listen – me?” Forget listening. Tamara is exquisite to
look
at. I can’t stop staring at her chiseled Eastern European features - her sexuality already blooming, a Victoria’s Secret model in the making.

“Hey, Lib,” Bebe sing-songs, approaching from the kitchen with a silver tray of sushi in her hand.

“Hey Bebe,” I sing-song back. “Need any help?”

“No, it’s under control now. I had to spend the first hour going up the stairs.”

“And that dumb waiter doesn’t help,” says Kitty.

“Is the button broken?” I ask.

“NO, not
that
dumbwaiter,” says Kitty. “I meant that one,” she says, pointing to some guy over near the watermelon boat.

“Oh, that’s not my waiter,” says Bebe. “That’s my high school sweetheart. Can you imagine? We found each other on Facebook.” Kitty and I share a look as Bebe sets down the silver tray and give me cheek a peck on both sides. Tamara has now plowed straight into my side, burying her head and squeezing tightly. She’s like a Lego that’s just clicked into place - a perfect fit.

“Heylib; Auntie Heylib…” says Tamara, doing the hokey pokey while imitating her mother.

“Tamara, it’s time to get dressed,” says Bebe. “This is your party, sweetheart. Time to look pretty.”

Tamara swings from my waistline like a chimp, refusing to go.

“I love my Auntie Heylib,” she says, standing there in her white monogrammed robe with the tiny RS on the lapel and the matching terry headband over her bangs. It’s as if she’s come from a day the spa.

“Tamara, please,” says Bebe again, her tone slightly more aggressive. “Mommy said you must go and get dressed.”

It’s interesting to watch Bebe handle this new thing called motherhood. Tamara sticks her tongue out. But Bebe uses sign language; pointing to herself to mean the word “I” then drawing a “heart” in the air for “love” and then pointing to Tamara for “you.” Kitty and I look at Tamara to see her response. Again, she sticks her tongue out. Now I’m sure Bebe is about to cry.

“And you wonder why I don’t like kids,” says Kitty under her breath. She steps in front of Tamara, who has since let go of me. Kitty plants her hands on her hips and stares Tamara down. Tamara crinkles her eyebrows, pouts, and finally stands up straight.

“Okay, kid. Auntie Kitty says get dressed. Pronto!”

“Fine,” says Tamara, stomping. “Tamara - dressed,” she says, imitating Kitty. “But Tamara …” and then at a loss for English words, Tamara points at Kitty and shakes her head violently as if to say, “I don’t like this Aunt Kitty friend of yours.” We watch Tamara march backwards toward the white frilly room with pink wallpaper, all the while staring Kitty down, and cursing her under her breath. She sounds like some Russian spy looking daggers at James Bond.

“I don’t know what she’s saying, but I can only imagine,” says Bebe.

“She sounds like Hitler,” says Kitty, tilting her head to size Tamara up. “I kind of like her.”

“Are you softening about children, Aunt Kitty?” says Bebe.

“Okay, the kid is cute. I admit it,” says Kitty. “Maybe they’re not all
that
bad.”

“I’ve gained five pounds since I’ve had her,” says Bebe, patting her waistline. “Hot cocoa and Halloween chocolates.”

“And Ring Dings,” I say.

“But why do you suppose she’s so fixated on Libby?” says Kitty.

“I think you remind her of her house mother from the orphanage,” says Bebe. “You have the dark brown hair and the same look. And she’s hung your photos up. Want to go see? She’s taken a whole bunch of them from old photo albums – all of you, Libby – and made a collage above her headboard.”

I can see, all right, see where this is all going. Having raised teenagers in the age of the invaluable best seller
Reviving Ophelia
, I knew that Bebe’s situation would require a book that didn’t exist. Rescuing Tamara, maybe. A book that explains, that Tamara’s
secretly telling Bebe, “Mommy I love you for taking me out of my homeland of Kazakhstan, but I hate you because I’m forced to be grateful to you, because I owe you something I can never repay. It also means I have to love America better and betray my real home.” The truth was, no matter what problems Tamara created, tantrums she produced, defiant boundaries she crossed, Bebe’s silent underlying response would always be, “I was right because I brought you to the land of the free.”

“She sees things so differently,” says Bebe, as though she can read my mind. “Last week I was paying a stack of bills and Tamara was putting the checks in the envelopes. I was about to lick one closed and she said, ‘Mommy get glue.’ You try explaining to a child who can’t speak English that there is glue already
on
the envelope. She thought I was lying until I made her lick it for herself. Her eyes bugged out in shock, and she was completely fascinated – opening and closing the flap and trying to re-lick it. And then she did a 180 on me, and got so furious because I was right.”

Just then Tamara returns in her blue, satin, party dress, the long sash dragging across the floor. She flits over to me as if she’d she’s stepped out of Disney’s
Cinderella.
Except this Princess has her arms wrapped around an eight-pack of Charmin toilet paper, certainly not the kind of wishes Fairy godmothers bestow. Tamara carefully moves the other presents on the gift table aside, placing the Charmin in the front. “Is big -- mommy! Big!” She goes to Kitty’s side. “Thank you much, Auntie Kitty.”

“See that,” says Kitty. “She already knows how much shit life delivers.”

“Toilet paper is a fascination to her,” says Bebe. “They always had a shortage at the orphanage.”

Tamara tugs at me and then points behind herself at the big sash that needs to be tied. I spin her around and form a big square knot. My mind drifts back to when my daughters were little and a pang of sadness stabs at my chest. Without understanding why, I feel as though the pain has transferred from my chest to Tamara’s. She can sense I’m tearing up. She spins back around before I pull the strand of ribbon through and beams. “Tamara love you, Auntie Heylib.”

“Libby loves you too, Tamara.” But then vulnerability turns to caution. “And I love your mommy,” I say, patting Bebe’s long hair. “She’s one of my best friends in the world.” Just as I suspected, Tamara’s eyes turn to slitted daggers and they’re directed at me, as if to say, “Don’t you
ever
one-up me!”

For somebody who can’t speak more than a few lines of broken English, this sexual, manipulative and possessive little creature is dauntingly eloquent.

Tamara suddenly changes course, entering the center of the room, where all the children have started dancing to “Who Let The Dogs Out?” The children dance as children do – clapping, jumping, awkward. And then there’s Tamara. She gyrates her hips in a sexy circle. She raises her eyebrows suggestively. She struts to a nearby floor lamp, with Bernie right behind her holding the video camera. He sets the lens on close-up and encourages her. “Go Tamara, move it, girl! Shake that butt.” Tamara absorbs his every suggestion, and soon she’s slithering up and down the lamppost. I wonder if I’m the only one seeing what I’m seeing. But I’m not.

“Great,” says Kitty. “Now he’s turning a nine-year-old into a pole dancer!”

“Eight,” I say. “She’s only eight.”

The music stops and Tamara skips back to me all breathless and sweating, reaching into her little white, faux-furry, purse which rests on the coffee table. Unclasping it, she lifts out a hundred dollar bill and waves it in my face. “Mommy -- give me,” says Tamara.

“You gave your child a hundred-dollar bill?” I ask Bebe.

“To clean her room,” says Bebe proudly.

“Sign me up,” I say. “I’ll do the entire house for seventy-five.”

And then there’s a big crash and a loud scream. I recognize the sound of the culprit, but decide to polish off my chardonnay with one steady gulp, before turning to see…

Sure enough, Jean-Christophe is kicking Darth Vader. “Stupid dog! Stupid, stupid dog!” The party goes silent and Jean-Baptiste calls out to Ben, “Daddy, the dog knocked over the cake. I swear I didn’t do it. I swear.”

“He swears, my ass,” says Madeline, who returns to my side with a bacon wrapped scallop sitting on a napkin. “You’re telling me that this old dog from the rescue jumped up onto the chair, ran his paw through a cake to taste the frosting, and then knocked it over.”