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Authors: Margo Candela

BOOK: Underneath It All
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23
Mamá
I
glance up and catch sight of the wall calendar my mother gave me, the kind she sends me every year at Christmas. She fills in the date boxes under the pictures of kittens or national monuments, or whatever that year’s theme is, with family birthdays, anniversaries, and any and all possible occasions where I either must be there, send a card or gift, or at least make a phone call.
To her handiwork I have added another regular reminder: a phone call to her once every three days without fail. It’s the minimum I can get away with. If she doesn’t hear from me she begins to suspect that I’ve been kidnapped, am delirious with fever and malnutrition, or happy and therefore doing things I’m not supposed to. To make things even more convoluted, she’ll call me in between my calls, but only when she knows she’ll get my machine. And she’ll leave a message, saying that I must be at work and that whatever she had to tell me can wait until my next phone call. These are the rituals that occupy my mother’s time. So, all in all, I hear my mom’s voice about five to seven days a week, whether we have a real conversation or not.
Lately, my mother has begun all her conversations with a list of her aches and pains. That’s when I realized she was getting old. Only old people think varicose veins and creaky joints are interesting topics of conversation. It made me pretty sad at first, but my mother really seems to get off on talking about how miserable she is and now that she has medical proof she can point to, she’s happier than ever.
I’m not in the mood, but prefer to call her before my date with George rather than after. If I call her now I won’t have any of that post-lunch taint on me that only a mother can sense. Plus, after a phone call with my mom there is the possibility I could call George, cancel and be my mother’s good little girl. Not that I intend to, but I could, and that I actually entertained the thought of doing the right thing is enough to keep me sleeping peacefully at night.
To prepare I take a few deep breaths and I close my closet door, even though the crocodile bag, still in the box, is shoved so far back I’ll need a pickax and a flashlight to dig it out. I pick up the phone, dial and count the rings. They don’t have a working answering machine and even then I don’t think it would help because they’d never plug it in. After six rings she picks up. I note this on the calendar. Last week it was two. A sign of something, no doubt.
“¿Hola?”
She sounds tired.
“Hi,
Mamá
. It’s Jacquelyn!” I hope that if I sound chipper enough she’ll get the hint that today is a happy day and a good mother wouldn’t burden her beloved daughter with her concerns. “Your favorite
hija
.”
“Jacquelyn!
¿Cómo estas?
I was going to call you.” She always says this.
“How is everything?” I take a deep breath and brace myself for the onslaught of ailments. “
Llamé
. Did Yolie tell you?”
“Yes. She drove me to the doctor for that blood work.” This lets me know I should have called back Friday afternoon or at the latest on Saturday to inquire if my mother was dying of cancer or not. The doctor suspected she was anemic, but my mother figured she may as well prepare herself and her kids for the worst. The first few times she predicted her death, I got all worked up. I even flew home, only to find out it was wax buildup in her ear, not brain cancer, that was causing her to lose her balance. I feel guilty just thinking about getting annoyed with her. She’s still my mother, after all.
“And what happened?” She’ll tell me anyway, but I have to ask to show I care. My mother has been complaining of feeling tired and unmotivated. I suggested depression but Mexican-American Catholics don’t get depressed, they get cancer.
“Oh, he said everything was fine. That I should try and
rela-jar
.” Relax is not a word in my mother’s vocabulary. For my mother relaxation comes in the form of a constant, low-grade worry. If something doesn’t seem wrong, then something even worse is possible.
“You should do that,” I say, staring out the window trying to gauge the weather. “You should go to that spa again.
Yo pago
. No problem, I’ll get you that same spa deal. It wasn’t so expensive.”
A few Mother’s Days ago I booked her a full day of pampering. Afterward she raved on and on about it and I’ve offered to send her again, but she’s always vague about committing to a date—too busy, she claims. It was like she had a glimpse of heaven but is content to live in her own, private purgatory, knowing that someday she may experience it again. Maybe.
“Oh, someday. It’s your
padre
who should pay.” My mother—a martyr without a pedicure.
“That’s right!” I try to encourage my mother’s feeble attempts at living the lessons she learns on
Oprah
. So far it’s been all talk, but that’s more than I thought she’d ever get the courage to do.
Not that my dad is an ogre. He’s OK, but I always made sure my boyfriends were as unlike him as possible. Unfortunately they all shared one same trait: they were men. And I was disappointed to find out that no matter how liberal, open-minded or sensitive they claimed to be, all of them still wanted what only a mother could give them—absolute adulation of their very existence. And sex, of course, but only when
they
were in the mood.
“Last week, on
Oprah,
she had a show of
esposas
who leave their husbands and how they can have better
vidas
and find new, better relationships.” My mother has never pressured me directly to hurry up and get married (again) but I know she worries about it. The worst fate my mother can imagine is her children winding up unattached and therefore uncared for. We could be drowning in a loveless marriage, but at least we’d have someone to hold our head underwater.
“¿Lo viste?”
“Must have missed that one.”
My mother was never one to give advice outright and now her
consejos
are cloaked in
Oprah
show recaps. The closest she ever came to imparting a life’s lesson was to tell me to always look my best for a job interview, doctor’s appointment or haircut so I’d be taken more seriously and/or get better service. To this day I can’t help following it. Other than that she just told me what to do (go to church, do you homework, be a good girl) until I got old enough to where her admonishing me to not have sex, drink too much and never sleep in my makeup kind of went in one ear and out the other since I was doing all those things and more.
“It just makes me think that maybe you weren’t so wrong in, you know”—she lowers her voice—“divorcing Nate.” She pronounces his name Nayet.
My mother has never really brought up my divorce, not directly, at least. It’s one of those things she just prefers to pretend never happened, like my brother Noel with the shoplifting and later, a stint at county jail for vandalizing a neighbor’s car. I’ve done my best to play along that my marriage and divorce were no big deals. I still think going to jail is a bit more serious, but people in glass houses can’t throw stones. And knowing my mother, she’d probably get in the way with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Windex.
Once she got over the shock she reassured me the marriage didn’t count because it hadn’t taken place in a church in front of God, my family or the neighbors. My father just grunted and told me not to tell my ailing grandmother. She had been under the impression that I was making plans to join a convent, an impression she got from my father. Something about the youngest daughter being turned over to God for the honor of the family or some crap like that.
“I, well, we did what we thought was best for both of us.” I keep my tone light, but firm. To betray any emotion will lead my mother to blame herself for my current state as a used-up, childless spinster. “
Qué era, era
. Right,
Mamá?
”
“Oprah has never been married,
tampoco,
” she says, ignoring the fact that I
have
been married and Oprah has been living in sin with some guy for years.
“So are you feeling better?” I ask, already knowing the answer. I look at my watch.
“Oh,
sí
. Just tired.” She’s never just happy. How hard can that be? I’m almost tempted to ask, but I know it’d make her cry that she’s failed me in some way. (And deep down, I secretly think she has.)
“
Always
cansada.”
“Get some rest. Take a nap. You deserve it. I’m going to be late,
Mamá
. My boss is going to Carmel and Santa Barbara in a few days so I need to make some arrangements.”
“How exciting.” My mother doesn’t ask if I’m going to go. Either she assumes I am and would rather not have to worry about me or she thinks I’m not important enough to warrant an invitation to go along.
“Yeah, just more
trabajo
for me.” I hope this assures my mother that I have enough work to keep me employed and for her not to worry about me. Second on her list of worries is my employment status. Getting married would null those two. Popping out a kid exactly nine months from my wedding night would take care of the third.
“Did I tell you your cousin Kiki is in Atlanta now?
Con su marido
. He got transferred and Kiki went with him. Your
Tía
Carmen is heartbroken.” She lowers her voice just in case someone should walk in and catch her midgossip. “What did she expect? For Kiki to let her husband move to Atlanta
solo?”
“That’s too bad,” I say blandly. Too bad for my aunt, who I’ve
never
liked, won’t have poor Kiki at her beck and call anymore. Now my mousy cousin Lina will have to bear the brunt of Hurricane Carmen. That woman is maternal poison, but my father’s older sister so I can’t show any disrespect. At least not outright.
“Now she can’t say to me that all I do is cry about my kids who have moved far from home. She’s doing it now, too.”
Ouch.
“Yeah. Hey, maybe I can visit for a few days. We’re practically going to be in LA anyway. I’m sure she’ll give me the days off. This always happens. Guilt, guilt, guilt. All of Dr. N’s very logical reassurances about making my own life away from my family come to nothing when I’m on the phone with my mother.
“We could have a party! Just for
la familia
.” For the first time she sounds full of energy.
My mother loves parties. She always complained that her own mother could never manage to get one together so she and her brothers and sisters grew up dreading birthdays and other special occasions. Once my mother had her own children our parties became her way of getting back at her mother without actually confronting her.
“Let me know when you will be here. I have to go. Your father is grumpy for his
café
.”
“OK.” I really do love her, but, shit, couldn’t she cut me some slack? This much reality so early in the morning makes me realize how contrived and shallow my life is and how very, very much I like it that way.
I slump over on my bed feeling totally deflated.
24
Mrs. Mayor
“
K
atherine, I was wondering if I could take some time off after this trip to visit my parents in LA?” I ask as I install her in their king-sized bed with a stack of glossy magazines and herbal tea that I’m sure she’ll supplement with the Xanax she keeps squirreled away in her nightstand.
After public engagements where Mrs. Mayor has to play Mrs. Mayor full time she’s so exhausted she spends a day or two recuperating—not the most vote-getting pastime for a political wife. If we don’t give her time to “unwind,” I have to lead her around like some impeccably dressed, drugged monkey.
“Sure, sure. You deserve some time off. Right? I have so many friends in LA. Good friends. I don’t care what Kit says about them. Don’t you think, Jacquelyn?”
“Yeah. Is there anything else I can get you, Katherine?” I look at my watch. It’s not even 10
AM
but my workday is effectively over. “Anita and Lei are downstairs if you need more tea or maybe something to eat.”
“I’ll be fine. I just need some sleep and quiet time to think.”
She is demanding, nosy, pushy and needy, but a real hands-off boss who doesn’t mind letting me wander off on my own while she’s enjoying a drug-induced mental vacation. After my morning phone flagellation with my mother, it’s almost a relief to be around a woman whose main interest in life is herself.
“I’m off to run some errands and stuff.” I smooth out the cashmere throw, which is her security blanket on these (frequent) occasions.
“Good night, Jacquelyn.” Her eyes are droopy and her voice is slurred.
“Good night, Katherine.”
25
George
G
eorge is waiting on the sidewalk in front of Globe, our usual lunch spot. When he sees me he smiles. I smile. We smile at each other.
To passersby we may look like a successful businessman and his sexy and equally as accomplished colleague getting together for a legitimate lunch. Or it may seem what it really is. Either way, I don’t really care, but I keep my sunglasses on until we get inside.
The restaurant staff surely knows, and maybe they’re used to an older man out for an expensive lunch with his much younger girlfriend. And I’m sure they speculate about what happens after lunch, even though we always make a point to part in front of the restaurant and walk off in different directions.
If I was them, I’d assume the worst, too. Why else would George be with me if not for confidence-building sex? What they don’t know is that we both share a love of old movies (in George’s case, movies from his youth), art, good food and wine. And this is what we mainly talk about—not politics, not my job and certainly not his wife or my ex-husband. (George doesn’t even know I’ve been married.)
“Jacquelyn, you look beautiful, as always.” George gives me a peck on the cheek and at the same time slips something into my hand. It doesn’t feel like flesh so I don’t freak out. My mother instilled in me that men are always after only one thing. And even though I’ve encouraged this in many a man, I still feel I’m obligated to feel a bit apprehensive.
“What’s this?” My heart beats fast. It’s a Cartier box. This is definitely something I should
not
accept. I should slip it back in his pocket and shake his hand, walk away and never look back.
“Open it and find out.” George takes my elbow and leads me into the restaurant. Like a lot of men from his generation, George automatically holds open doors, half-rises from his seat when you get up to go to the bathroom and takes your elbow whenever you walk next to him, and it never feels condescending. It’s so charming and old-fashioned, kind of like a Cary Grant movie. George reminds me a lot of Cary Grant: same dark hair, tanned skin and wolfish smile. I’d never tell him this. He’d only find it amusing that I know who Cary Grant is.
George pulls out my seat, waits for me to sit and gives my chair a gentle push toward the table. I make sure to cross my legs tightly and angle them toward the exit.
“George, this ... I really can’t.” I could, but I really, really shouldn’t.
“Don’t make up your mind until you see it, Jacquelyn.”
The hostess hovers, eager to catch a glimpse. George ignores her and concentrates on me.
“OK. But I’m not making any promises.”
I hope George understands I mean more than just keeping the gift. He’s not some thirtysomething ex-jock with a hard-on and a case of beer who is invoking the third-date rule. I open the box and gasp. So does the hostess, who hurries away after George gives her a dirty look.
“I can’t accept this. It’s just too ... too perfect.” It’s the bracelet I’d admired when I went in to get my watch battery changed at Cartier a few months ago. The sales guy even insisted I try it on while he gave me the spiel. I had forgotten all about it, but I guess the sales guy made a note in hopes that my sugar daddy would wander in one day in the mood to buy his girlfriend a shiny bauble. Now it was in my hand, staring me in the face, daring me to put it on. All I have to do is slip it on my wrist, have George fasten it, and it will be mine. All mine for the eternity I would spend in hell impeccably accessorized.
“You don’t like it?” George looks confused.
“It’s beautiful, George, really.” I really, really want to put it on. To prove how much stronger I am than temptation in the form of platinum and diamonds, I push the box away from me a few centimeters.
“Put it on,” he smiles coaxingly, “just to see how it looks.”
“I can’t.” But even I know that means I won’t. Up until this point the most important piece of jewelry I ever received was my engagement ring from Nate. That was totally legit, even though he gave it to me under duress and while we were already living together in the Biblical sense. “You don’t understand. I can’t.”
“Jacquelyn, it’s just my way of saying that I appreciate you for giving an old man a reason to get dressed in the morning.” George’s voice is like a caress.
“George, you aren’t that old,” I tease to break the sentimental moment.
Nice lunches and fancy dinners are one thing. An expensive handbag, maybe something a little more. But accepting a luxury piece of jewelry?
His offering it to me says more about me and how far I’ve strayed than about George. He’s just a married man plying a young woman with gifts to ... what? Impress me? Amuse himself? Get in my pants?
“What would your wife say?”
“My wife’s lawyers have finally convinced her not to fight our prenup, my divorce is just a formality at this point.”
“I’m sorry.” Hell, not really! Not that I want to marry George. It hasn’t really crossed my mind. Much.
“Please, just try it on. For me, Jacquelyn. It would make me happy after such a sad day,” he says. I hold out my wrist and George takes the bracelet out of the velvet box and snaps it on my wrist. Purely for the purposes of trying it on to make him happy, of course.
“It’s beautiful, George. Really.” Better to graciously accept it now and decide later if I should keep it. Yes, later I’ll be in better shape to deeply examine my conscience and morals. I’m sure I have them written on a slip of paper somewhere in the bag George gave me.
“Now, tell me what you thought of the benefit.” George signals for the waiter to pour the wine.
“It was interesting.” The bracelet glints as I lift my glass to my lips.

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