By the Numbers (21 page)

My mom's eyes look really sad, but she's still wearing that big toothpaste-commercial grin. Actually, people ask her all the time if she's on television, because she's very glamorous. People used to say she was a dead ringer for Angie Dickinson, and then they'd add words like, “Va-va-voom!” which always made me feel funny. But over the past few years, her style has changed. Now when she goes to the beauty salon, she brings pictures of Princess Grace of Monaco and says she wants to be like that. People still admire her looks, but more quietly now.

I probably will not be pretty like her when I grow up. I take after my dad, who is more plain, but he's very smart even though he did not have a chance to go far in school. My mom says Gam-Gam was so beautiful when she was young, but I don't see it. Maybe it's because her personality makes her ugly.

Why can't Gam-Gam try to be nice? Why can't she just tell my mom and aunt they did a good job? When we go to other relatives' houses, there are a lot of dirty kids in bad-fitting diapers without enough grown-ups paying attention to them. Why isn't Gam-Gam saying to my family, “Wow! Look how far you have come!”

Gam-Gam tosses her napkin on the table, and her tiny dot of a mouth gets even more puckered. “The house is ostentatious.” I know what “ostentatious means,” and this makes me mad. We don't have plastic on a single piece of furniture, unlike at her house, and there's no crocheted doilies covering up our toilet paper, either, because we have plenty of cabinet space.
Custom
cabinet space. “Cobblestones? Turrets? All that landscaping and four bathrooms? You're four people. You two forget where you come from all of a sudden? You move twenty miles north and all of a sudden you have to put on airs? Makes me sick.”

When is my mom going to learn that Gam-Gam only seems to feel better when she's making other people feel bad? She is a MEAN MISTREATER. She is the Grinch and it's not even Christmas.

“Mama, you're being very hard on Marjorie. That's simply not fair,” Auntie Marilyn says.

“‘That's simply not fair,'” Gam-Gam repeats in a voice that is meant to mock Auntie Marilyn. She says this with her pinkie finger raised in the air. “You're as big a faker as Margie; you're just not as good at it yet,
Mary
. Oh, and I didn't name you Marilyn, so I'm not calling you that either.”

My brother isn't paying any attention to what's happening at the table because he's snuck a
Sports Illustrated
into the dining room. The magazine is sitting on his lap, and he's glancing at it between bites of his salad. But Patrick and I are taking in the whole scene,
and it's so uncomfortable. He reaches for my hand under the table and gives it a squeeze. His palms are really cold and dry. I can feel his pulse racing. Mine is, too.

Why is Gam-Gam so awful?

There's so much tension at the table I'm not even sure how anyone's going to be able to chew or swallow their food, when Miguel practically runs up to us with a tray full of drinks. “Oh, no!” he says, his voice real bright and cheery. “You asked for coffee and orange juice, but I accidentally bring a big, huge tray full of Bloody Marys. It's my mistake, so I am happy to leave the drinks for no charge. Otherwise I will have to throw them away. Can you help me out, please, and take them?”

The cocktails disappear off his tray, and I swear my parents look really grateful. After that, the meal is a little bit better, because the liquor takes some of the bite out of Gam-Gam. She stops telling Mom and Auntie Marilyn what's wrong with them and starts complaining about her other kids. Gam-Gam doesn't seem to like any of her children. She says they are all bums, worthless bums. I wonder if some of my aunts and uncles would have their acts together more if my Gam-Gam weren't so hard on them. They probably all stopped trying after a while.

I suspect my mom is never going to stop trying to get Gam-Gam's approval; nor is Auntie Marilyn, and that is too bad. They are both real good ladies, and they deserve to have come from someone better than Gam-Gam. They tell me all the time about the neat stuff Gam-Gam did when she was younger and about all of her business smarts. They say if she were raised in different times, Gam-Gam would be running a big company like Pepsi or Coke and that she used to be decent to them and rather sweet, but I sort of doubt it. I think she kind of ignored them.

Maybe Gam-Gam is why my mom is always after me to walk down the stairs instead of run, make a good first impression, use my napkin, chew with my mouth closed, pick up my bike, et cetera. Maybe she thinks if I turn out good enough, Gam-Gam will finally be happy.

Now that I'm thinking about it, sometimes my mom's constant instructions feel as suffocating as being hugged with Gam-Gam's arm flaps.

At least it's better than having a mother who ignores you. I know she wouldn't boss me around so much if she didn't love me.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: June 26th

Subject: I bought a ticket

Hey—I'll make this brief because I know you're busy, but I bought my ticket to come out to San Francisco over the 4th of July. Let me just say this—expect to see fireworks.

XO

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: June 26th

Subject: I'm so confused

Kelsey,

You're not answering texts, so I'm e-mailing you because I don't know what else to do.

Should I get you a ticket or not to see Owl City at the House of Blues in October?

I think I will err on the side of yes.

Hope to see you then!

Love,

Milo

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: June 26th

Subject: awkward, but . . .

Hi, Jess,

I know this is, like, an unpaid internship and all, but I'm kinda broke, so I'm wondering if you can start giving me some money for all the work I'm doing? Because that would be supes great! Maybe just PayPal me five hundo to start, kewl? Kewl.

XO,

Cassie

• • • •

J
essica is sitting at the island in the kitchen when I come home. She's eating a bowl of miso soup and snorting derisively as she looks at fashion blogs on her iPad. When she finally notices me, she asks, “Where have you been?”

“Have you seen your grandparents?” I say by way of reply. Hey, check me out. I can be brusque, too.

“I have. They're old, they're fabulous, and the lady always smells like juniper berries and Shalimar.”

“True, but not helpful. Specifically, where are they?”

“Specifically, they said they were playing bridge with the Cushmans, so they're probably at their house. Ew, how twisted would it be if they were actually all old swingers? Gross. Regardless, I bet
someone's
driving home twelve miles an hour with the blinker on the whole time tonight. Now,
specifically
, where were you?”

I actually feel a bit of pride in telling her where I've been. See? I'm young. I'm vibrant. I can do things. “I had a date.”

“Pfft. Not in that outfit you didn't.”

Well, that feeling of pride was short-lived.

“I think your mother looks nice,” Chris says. He clatters into the kitchen on his Mobilegs crutches. (His neck brace is also gone.) He says he felt like FDR in the wheelchair, so he's been giving the crutches a whirl instead. I'm amazed at the advances in crutch technology since I used to bang myself up in pursuit of country club sportsmanship back in the seventies. I had these wooden Tiny Tim–style deals, with odd-smelling rubber grips and pads. I had to stuff washcloths under my arms to keep my skin from rubbing off, and I was perpetually sore. But Chris's Mobilegs are these ergonomic lunar-landing-looking things that are
ventilated and spring-loaded and in no way appear to have come from a Charles Dickens novel. Sure they're still durable medical equipment, which is inherently not sexy, but they're the Lamborghini of durable medical equipment, so that has to count for something.

He says, “I'm just spitballing here, Jess, but if I showed up at someone's house uninvited and without a lot of explanation as to why I was there, I might try to be, you know, not horrible, as opposed to horrible.”

“I'm here to help
you
, Dad,” she replies, snapping shut her iPad, moral indignation set to eleven.

“I'm managing nicely and Sophie's taking me to PT, so you can probably go back to New York now,” he says. “The worst of it's over. You should apologize or pack.”

Jessica replies, “Listen, I'm not used to dealing with people from the Midwest anymore. I forgot that I have to sugarcoat every little thing here instead of just offering the truth as it is. My mistake.”

“We should write down that apology and send it to all the greeting card companies because,
damn
,” Chris says.

Chris claims he didn't hit his head when he fell and also that he was wearing a helmet, but I am not so sure. Where is the guy who constantly babies his daughters? Who perpetually gives them the benefit of the doubt? He's not letting her get away with any of her usual lip right now and
it is amazing!

From the expression on Jessica's face, she's surprised, too, but she quickly composes herself. “What I meant, as a
professional stylist
, is that you went out to a social activity in a daytime, business look. It's late June and it's evening, so you could wear anything—you could do a sundress, a halter, a tunic, a romper—even, God help us all, capri pants—yet you opted for a summer-weight gray
pantsuit with a white shell. No colorful scarves, no chunky jewelry, no strappy sandals. Nothing festive. An absence of joy or whimsy. Let me ask you something: Did you even take off your jacket so your date could get a peep of your reasonably toned arms?”

“I don't recall,” I mumble.

“You arrived home five minutes ago. You don't recall what happened prior to five minutes ago?” she presses.

“The bar was chilly, so, no, I must have left my jacket on,” I admit.

“This is what bothers me about your generation,” Jessica says. “It's like you guys have given up. You don't even try. What, you think it's all over because you're fifty? Well, news flash, look at Mimsy. She's how old?”

“She tells people she's sixty.”

“And they believe her because she's
fantastic!
She's got it going on. Follow her lead—she always has her hair set, her lipstick on, her nails just so, and the outfit always matches the occasion. No matter what, she's impeccable. I bet if Mimsy were a fashion blogger, she'd make a zillion dollars, because that shit is genuine.”

“What's your point, Jessica?” Chris asks.

“I'm just saying that your generation is the first to claim, ‘We can do it all!' but that is not necessarily true. Stuff has fallen through the cracks. Stuff like knowing how to present yourself for a date during your second act in life. You, PBS, have one speed, and that speed is set to business. You approach everything like it's a professional opportunity. Anything that falls outside the realm of business? Not your forte.”

“Again, your not-horrible, guest-in-this-home point is?” Chris queries.

She shrugs. “I can better prepare you for your next date, if
there is a next date, if the full Angela Merkel you're currently working didn't send him away screaming for mercy.”

“
Bzzt
. Close, but still wrong. Try, ‘Mom'—not PBS—‘Mom, let me help you get ready before your next date. I have some ideas,'” Chris says.

Whoa. This is new.

Chris was not often one to straight-up take my side when it came to the kids. He'd do that infuriating devil's advocate business the times he wasn't openly supporting the opposing side when it came to anything having to do with them.

Jessica rolls her eyes. “Yes, Mom, I mean
that
.”

To Jessica, I say, “Thanks. I would welcome your input. Maybe we could go shopping? I'm sure I could use a little spice in my wardrobe. Patrick says my taste is way too vanilla.”

Jessica rises, leaving her soup bowl exactly where it lies and her bar stool ajar. “What he calls vanilla, I call tragic. But with my help, you could probably avoid future train wrecks. Maybe not be basic as fuck, right? After all, you aren't getting any younger.” With that, she trots up the back stairs.

Chris turns to me and says, “She's our perfect little angel sent straight from heaven.”

We're silent for a beat and then both crack up for about thirty seconds. I can't remember the last time he and I stood in this kitchen and laughed together, and I didn't realize how much I missed it until right now.

Okay, why is this happening?

What am I
doing
here? I finally go on my first sort-of date and I spend the whole time comparing him to the guy I just divorced? I mean, yes, I really appreciate Chris stepping in and defending me to Jessica, because that's brand-new, but it doesn't exactly
make up for everything that went awry. Come on, I need to be reasonable. A couple of laughs are nostalgic at best, but they can't change the past.

I need to focus. I have other priorities. I need to figure out what's going on with my folks, but since they aren't home right now, I have to get to the bottom of what's happening with the girls. I have a feeling that until I do, they aren't going anywhere. As in, my Realtor's having a lot of trouble showing the house with everyone hanging around here, so my primary mission needs to be Operation Empty Nest.

I compose myself and clear my throat. “Any guesses as to what's going on with Jessica?”

Chris replies, “Money trouble, but I don't know the extent. I've gotten a couple of odd calls from people looking for her, so what else could it be? I'd guess she can't afford to go back to New York right now, or else she would; hence the nonstop bitching about what's wrong with Glencoe. She's not here to take care of me. She came to one doctor's appointment and then asked me to make her a grilled cheese afterward. I think she swiped a few of my pain pills before I hid them, too. I didn't say anything because I didn't have it in me to fight.”

I ease into Jessica's abandoned bar stool and push aside her bowl. “Why am I not surprised to hear this? The rules have never quite applied to her, have they?”

Chris takes the seat next to me. “I'm not playing the blame game here. All I'm saying is we spared the rod on that one.”

“We should have spanked her?” I ask. “We both agreed corporal punishment was barbaric.”

“I'm saying she's spoiled.”

I nod vigorously. “Oh, yeah, that I see now. Hundred percent. Mostly my fault, too.”

Chris gawps at me. “You've never said that out loud before.”

I wave him off. “Of course I have.”

“No, you haven't.” He traces patterns in the marble with his fingertips as we speak. “Trust me here; this was an issue with us.”

I say, “But it's so obvious. Her level of disrespect, her sense of entitlement, the idea that she's the center of the universe, the fact that she's never satisfied no matter what she's been given? All signs point to spoiled.”

“I can't believe you admit she's spoiled.”

I throw up my hands and let them drop in defeat. “Fine, I admit it. She's spoiled and I'm to blame. But where does that knowledge leave us? I can see with her being spoiled, she might feel like she deserves things she can't afford, and I imagine it's easy to get into trouble in such an expensive city. Chicago isn't cheap by any stretch of the imagination, yet if you do a cost-of-living comparison between the two cities, New York is twice as much. Then look at the goods and services index, the housing index, the transportation index—it's all so far above the national average. And let's be honest, she has
your
math skills, so . . .”

“So she can't do long division, but I still didn't spoil her.” He taps the counter to punctuate his point.

“Oh, stop looking so damn smug. I've admitted I've been wrong before.” Chris tries to wipe the smile off his self-righteous maw but is wholly unsuccessful. “The question is not about who was right here—”

He points to his chest. “Because the answer would be me.”

“Not so fast, pal—let's figure out what the definition of ‘spoiled'
is. If you just mean giving her things she didn't deserve or earn, yes, that's all me, but if you're talking about making life a bit too easy in general, we probably share the blame. You were always there, clearing the path for her, toppling any obstacle in her way. The great love of accumulating stuff? That was all me. The sense of entitlement? Maybe more of a gray area.”

“I suddenly feel slightly less smug.”

“The question is, what do we do for her? Do we ask her? Do we have her tell us what's going on? Do we offer to help? I have an emergency fund set aside for her, although maybe that's the wrong move. However, I was skeptical when President Bush signed the TARP legislation, but ultimately the 2008 bailout was beneficial and the banks have paid back those loans with interest, so maybe that's the right way to go. There
is
precedent.”

“Penny, Jessica's an adult. We let her figure it out. We can't parent her forever. We can't keep throwing goods and services at her.”

I suck air in through my teeth. “And toppling the obstacles for her.”

“Touché.”

“So I should leave it alone for now?”

“I would, at least short-term.”

“What about the other one?” I ask, referring to Kelsey. “Has she told you anything? Have you spoken with Milo?”

“You know what? He's been texting me and I haven't gotten back to him yet. I'll give him a buzz right now. Let me put him on speakerphone and you can listen in.”

“Is she home?” I ask.

“No. Zara came and got her and Caroline earlier.”

“Ah,” I say. “I thought things seem less destroyed around here.”

“You're probably not going to say that when you see the dining room.” He dials, and Milo picks up on the second ring. “Hi, Milo. It's Chris. I've got you on speakerphone here with me and Penny.”

“Hey, good to talk to you. Thanks for calling me. It's funny. I kinda forgot what my ringtone was on this thing. No one ever calls me. Wow, ringtones, man, right? So, how you gettin' along? You feeling okay?”

“I've been better, but thanks for asking,” Chris says. “Listen, Milo, Kelsey hasn't told us anything, and we really don't want to be in the middle of this. But if there's anything we can do to facilitate or mediate between the two of you . . .” He trails off, unsure of how to continue. Neither one of us has a clue as to what grievous trespass Milo has committed, but it must be significant for Kelsey to abandon her whole new marriage/life.