Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim (25 page)

Age spots.

Or as I think of them, constellations.

If you connect them, they form George Clooney.

Really, why waste time with Orion? Does he have a house in Italy?

No, all he has is a belt. And I don’t want to fight with a man, over accessories.

I didn’t even recognize my own hand. It didn’t look like it belonged to me, though it was sticking out of my coat sleeve. It wasn’t the way I remembered it, when it was young.

And hot.

When you know something well, they say you know it like the back of your hand, but I didn’t know the back of my own hand. I called Daughter Francesca and told her as much, and she laughed.

She said, “I was just thinking that myself. I noticed I have Mom Hands.”

I smiled. “What?”

“I looked at my hands, and the veins are getting bigger, either because I’m working out or getting older, and they reminded me of your hands.”

“And you threw up?”

“No, not at all. I like it. I always loved your hands.”

Which made me think.

I always loved Mother Mary’s hands, too. I remember everything about them, even as she aged. I know my mother’s hands like the back of my hand.

Only better.

Her fingers were little, and the nails had a neat curve, and when I was younger, she polished them with hot corals and frosted whites, the colors of the sixties, if you were a secretary.

And not a hippie.

I’m betting that I’m not the only one who can summon up an image of their mother’s hands.

How about it? Try it now. Show of hands.

And way back when, she wore a thick gold wedding ring, a basketweave pattern that had a warm and lovely hue. I used to try on her wedding ring, sliding it up and down my finger, taking it off and on.

I think they call that foreshadowing.

And as her hands aged, I didn’t love them any less. Just as I didn’t love her any less.

No one of us loves anyone less, simply because they age.

How they look is beside the point.

I imagine this is what men are always trying to tell women when we fret about our wrinkles. The way we look doesn’t matter to someone we love, so why does it matter to us?

And now, when I think about hands, I think about what they do. Mother Mary’s hands cooked, typed, and hugged us. And they pinched like, well, a mother.

My hands can’t type, but they hunt and peck. And they hug, pat, and scratch a cat behind the ears.

And applaud.

They can always find a tick on a dog, but not always a key on a BlackBerry.

Guess which is more important, to me.

You can tell a lot about a person by their hands, especially as they age. We all get the face we deserve, but we earn our hands.

We become handy.

And I’m proud of that.

You should be, too.

An Open Letter from an Open Heart

By Lisa and Francesca

By now you know that Francesca and I talk all the time about everything, whether it’s carbohydrate counts, hair, men, dogs, or a new recipe for salmon. We end each conversation with “I love you” or “have fun,” probably because it’s our general wish for each other that we are happy. Most parents, when asked, would say that what they want most is for their kids to be happy.

But for this last chapter, we wanted to go beyond “be happy.” We wanted to share our true wishes for each other in the future, like what we may encounter in the next five years, and how we see our roles in each other’s lives growing and changing on the road ahead. And so, we decided to write each other an open letter, without consulting each other or cheating, or even peeking.

We spoke from the heart and we told the truth. We hope our words will strike a chord with you or someone you love, beyond words.

Dear Francesca,

I love to look backwards, to the times when you were little, but it’s even more fun to look forward. Because I think Frank Sinatra was right when he said the best is yet to come, and I’ll tell you why.

But first, let me back up.

I know that I’m supposed to say that in the next five years, I look forward to you meeting a great guy, falling in love, and getting married, as well as continued success with your own writing, contributing stories to these memoirs, and finishing your own wonderful novel. I do want those things for you, but that’s not the whole picture. Those are only the milestones, events in a life, like ticks on a time line, or pages in a photo album. And as great as those things are, what I want for you is harder to define and to achieve:

It’s to know your own power, and to step fully into it.

You’re an amazing young girl, from the inside out, from your hugely generous heart all the way to your very skin. I won’t enumerate your many qualities here, because I tell you them all the time, and that would defeat my point anyway.

Because what I want for you in the near future is to know those qualities yourself, inside you.

To understand and enjoy the many things you’re good at, and to believe in them, and ultimately, in yourself. To trust in your own judgment, to have confidence in your instincts and skills. To realize that it’s not bragging to know you’re good at something, and say so.

I say this because in my own life, I think that was a mistake I made, and one that many women make, not necessarily you. It took me until I was fifty-five to have this epiphany, and I’d like to save you twenty-five years.

And it matters now, more than ever. Because in the short run you’ll have to make so many of those milestone decisions, like whom to marry.

I’m trying to save you from whom-to-divorce.

And how can I help you accomplish this? Where do I fit in? I suspect the answer is to get out of your way a little. I’m such an opinionated mom, from what to cook for dinner all the way to whom to vote for, and I need to shut up.

You don’t need me to carry your raincoat to the movies anymore.

In fact, you don’t need me to mother you anymore.

You’re an adult, and you don’t need me to raise you.

You need me to support you, as you raise yourself.

And so, in this curious and ironic way, I will do more, and less, as we go forward on our little journey together.

You’re driving now.

And I’ll pack the car with the things we need as we shuttle back and forth for visits; the summer clothes I’m storing at my house, plus the dogs, and maybe a fresh basil plant, because who doesn’t need fresh basil?

But I won’t bring art that isn’t your taste, like I did last trip. Or clothing that is warm enough to wear in the Arctic, as is my wont.

And every mother’s wont.

I’ll be the best passenger ever.

Because you’re the best driver ever.

Love, Mom

Dear Mom,

At twenty-five, I can’t claim to have much worldly wisdom to impart to you, that’s more your department. But there’s never been I time I didn’t know you, so it’s safe to say I know you pretty well. And when I think about what’s in store for you over the next five years, I see success, love, and motherhood, but I think you’ll redefine all three. Here’s what I see for you, what I wish for you, and what I want to be for you.

One of the things I admire most about you is how even after achieving success, you have all the energy and ambition of, well, a twenty-five-year-old. So I bet you’ll reach an even higher career peak over the next five years. But I worry that you’ll put more pressure on yourself in turn. Go easy. You had to do a balancing act when I was a kid, but now that you no longer have a teenager making demands or a college student whose school breaks dot your calendar, you can take advantage of this breathing room, even if it means keeping it as just that. By all means, chase what inspires you, write what moves you, but remember that there are many valid pursuits, some yet to be discovered. Be open to new passions and new loves.

Speaking of love, I hope and believe you will find romance in the next five years. You haven’t put yourself out there much in terms of dating, but you can change that whenever you want to. You may make yourself more available, or I wouldn’t be surprised if your charm attracts someone against your will; either way I think it will happen. At my stage in life, I’m putting myself out there constantly, and if you forget what that’s like, let me remind you—you will have many horrible, boring, obnoxious dates. Do not be discouraged. It’s part of the process and material for the books. And I know that if you get out there again, white knuckle it through a few weirdos and snoozefests, you will have a totally fantastic, magical date. It’s a statistical certainty. But you have to play to win.

When you do find a man who holds your interest, listen to the advice you give me: Don’t settle. I’m not worried about your putting up with a total jerk, that’s a rookie mistake. But you may find yourself in a relationship with a great guy who is still not great for you, a guy who’s close-but-no-cigar. Let that one go. Because age doesn’t make a case for settling, it argues the opposite. You didn’t go through the rise and fall of Thing One and Thing Two just to marry Thing Three. You’re stronger than ever, wiser than before, and now you know what you want and need in a relationship—so ask for it, expect it, believe in it. Let your past experience guide you to the love you deserve and nothing less. Because you are smart, funny, and beautiful, and you deserve it all.

As for us? I see our relationship growing and deepening, while the essential bond remains the same. You’re my mother, my hero, and my best friend, and I’ll always want your input and advice. But whereas I used to look to you for the little stuff—a ride to play practice, blow-drying the back of my hair, making plane reservations—in the next five years, I’ll look to you for life’s more important questions, like, “Is this career shift the right move?” or “Do you think he’d make a good father?” I’m sure we’ll still have stupid tiffs over silly things, but as I get older, I gain perspective, and that makes me value our closeness even more.

Maybe the main thing about our relationship that will change is the direction. When you were raising me, you had to tell me, teach me, guide me. Now that I’m an adult, let me be the one to reach to you. And you can trust that I always will.

But there I go again, thinking of how you’ll help me, instead of how I can help you. I’m still getting the hang of this new direction myself. Although it can feel like there’s greater distance between us, in reality I can offer you so much more now than I could when I was a kid, and I want to. As a child, I was a constant presence of walking, talking, needy love. Of course I still love you, but now I can offer you real friendship, even better than we’ve known before. I want to give you all the support you’ve always given me, guidance where I can, fun and joy everywhere else. Just don’t ask for grandchildren. You’ve got at least ten years on that.

Love, Francesca

Acknowledgments

We would like to express our love and gratitude to everyone at Macmillan and St. Martin’s Press for supporting this book and its predecessors. First and foremost, thanks to Coach Jen Enderlin, our terrific editor, as well as to the brilliant John Sargent, Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, Matt Baldacci, Brian Keller, Jeff Capshew, Michael Storrings, John Murphy, John Karle, and Sara Goodman. We appreciate so much your enthusiasm for these books, and we thank you for everything you do to support us.

We’d also like to thank Mary Beth Roche, Laura Wilson, Esther Bochner, Brant Janeway, and St. Martin’s audiobook division, especially for giving us the opportunity to record our own audiobook, which is the way it should be done. An authentic voice will always ring true, and stories are meant to be told, not read, which is why we love audiobooks.

Huge thanks and love to our amazing agents, Molly Friedrich, Lucy Carson, and Molly Schulman of the Friedrich Agency. They’re the smartest, funniest, and most loyal bunch you’ll ever meet. God bless them for their great good hearts.

Thanks to
The Philadelphia Inquirer,
which carries our “Chick Wit” column, and to our editor, the wonderful Sandy Clark.

One of the biggest hearts in creation belongs to Laura Leonard, and her help, friendship, and love sustain us. Laura, thank you so much for all of your great comments and suggestions to this manuscript. We owe you, forever.

Love to our girlfriends, among them Nan Daley and Nora and Jolie Demchur, Paula Menghetti and Bev, Tori, and Alex, Franca Palumbo and Jessica Limbacher, and of course, Molly Friedrich and Julia, Lucy, and Pi-quy Carson. And thanks and love to Francesca’s kitchen cabinet, Katy Andersen, Rebecca Harrington, and Courtney Yip (and the two men she trusts as brothers, Ryder Kessler and Marshall Roy), who help her navigate New York City and everything else. We’re blessed in all of you.

Family is the heart of this book, because family is the heart of everything. Special thanks and love to Mother Mary and Brother Frank, and we still miss the late Frank Scottoline, though he is with us always.

Finally, thank you to our readers. We value your support so much, as well as all the stories of your own you’ve shared with us over the years. If you feel like you know us, you’re right. In fact, you’re one of the Flying Scottolines now, and we’re stuck with each other.

We’re family.

Other Nonfiction by Lisa Scottoline and Francesca Serritella

Best Friends, Occasional Enemies

My Nest Isn’t Empty, It Just Has More Closet Space

Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog

Fiction by Lisa Scottoline

Come Home

Save Me

Think Twice

Look Again

Lady Killer

Daddy’s Girl

Dirty Blonde

Devil’s Corner

Killer Smile

Dead Ringer

Courting Trouble

The Vendetta Defense

Moment of Truth

Mistaken Identity