The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus (13 page)

Samantha and I

head home from

the Macy's One-Day Sale.

But as we round the corner

onto our block,

and our house comes into view,

my heart shatters

like a windshield

in a head-on collision—

Michael's car

is not

in the driveway.

He's been out

“buying art supplies”

for over three hours.

“Geez,” she says. “What did Dad do?

Fly to
Paris
to buy pastels?”

She pulls out her phone

and punches in his number.

“He's still not picking up…” she says,

starting to look worried.

“I'm sure he'll be home

any minute,” I tell her.

But I am not

at
all
sure.

I've
got
to open those emails.

Because if Michael's
not
with Brandy

maybe he's been in an accident…

Maybe

he's in the
hospital…

Maybe he's—!!!

I pound up the stairs to his studio,

the blood rushing in my ears

almost loud enough

to drown out the sound

of Madison having

another one of her tantrums.

I yank open the studio door,

fling myself onto the chair

in front of Michael's computer,

square my shoulders,

swallow hard,

and click on the email with the heading:

“will I see you later on?”

i hope you can

sneak away today

like we planned…

can't WAIT!

xoxo,

Brandy

He's with that…

that
skank!

Everything I've feared all along—

all
of it's
true!

A tornado rips

through my chest

leaving my heart in shreds,

my ribs scattered like fallen trees.

Omigod…

Omi
god
!

Am I going to lose my mother

and my daughter
and
my husband—

all in one

hideous fell swoop?

And nearly mow down—

Michael!

“Whoa, there…” he says,

catching me in his arms.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?

Did someone let the cat out of the bag?”

I pull away from him

and croak,
“What
did you just say…?”

But Michael doesn't answer me.

He just flashes me a huge, dopey grin.

I don't get it.

He's
so
busted.

And he seems to
know
it.

How can he be
smiling
at a time like this?

Then, he reaches into his jacket pocket

and pulls out a small paper bag.

Out pops the tiny sleepy face of the most

adorable fuzzy white kitten imaginable.

“Holly, I'd like you to meet Secret,” he says.

“Secret, this is Holly.”

He lifts her out of the bag

and places her into my hands.

Secret gazes up at me

with big, wise, solemn blue eyes,

and says, “Mew?”

I begin weeping.

I mean seriously bawling my eyes out.

Michael's face falls.

“Don't you like her?' he asks.

“Are you kidding?” I sob. “I'm
crazy
about her.

Where did you get her?”

“From Brandy's shelter,” he says.

“She's been helping me find you

the perfect cat for months now.”

This,

of course,

only makes me weep harder.

Though Michael

will never

know why.

When

I call Alice

to share

the amazing news with her,

she doesn't say,

“I told you so.”

But I can hear her

thinking it.

Michael's sitting next to me on the couch,

working on a sketch of Samantha—

who's sitting at her laptop

working on another get well card.

I'm stroking Secret

with my right hand

while biting the nails

on my left hand,

trying not to stress

about the fact

that I still haven't heard

the results of my mother's biopsies.

Suddenly—

the telephone rings.

I stop stroking Secret,

stop biting my nails,

and start

scratching my hives.

What if it's Dr. Hack?

What if the news is bad?

The phone's sitting right next to me

on the coffee table.

It rings. And rings.

And won't stop ringing.

I'm just about to grab it

and hurl it out the window,

when Michael reaches over

and firmly places it into my hand.

My heart

pulses in my throat.

He tells me the good news is

that my mother doesn't have cancer.

“Thank
God!”
I say.

Then I thank the
doctor,
too,

and hang up

fast—

before he can tell me

the bad news.

Then we call my mother

on speakerphone

and sing her a rousing rendition

of “For She's a Jolly Good Fellow.”

She applauds our off-key effort,

then thanks Samantha

for sending

the funny get well cards.

“And those brownies…” she says.

“My God! I told all the handsome

young interns that
I
baked them,

and got half a dozen marriage proposals!”

We all crack up at this.

I swipe at a tear—

my mother's cancer-free!

And she sounds like her old self again…

But then she says,

“Of course, I told the interns

I was unavailable.”

“Unavailable…?” I say.

“I had to be

honest with them,” she says,

suddenly dead serious.

“I'm a married woman!”

My dad died

when I was a kid.

And she never remarried.

But I can't bring myself to tell her this.

So I change the subject:

“Is Dr. Hack treating you well, Mom?”

“Oh,
yes!”
she cries.

“That man is exquisite.

He comes to see me every day.

And he always brings me fish feet.”

“He brings you…fish feet?” Samantha asks.

“Bushels of them!” my mother boasts.

“He has quite a crush on me, you know.”

“No wonder,” Michael says.

“You're a knockout!”

My mother giggles at this.

But then she stops abruptly—and gasps.

“What is it, Mom? Is something the matter?”

“My head…” she moans.

“It hurts like a radio upstairs.”

“Like…a radio?” I ask.

“Can't you hear all those

stations switching?” she says.

“Uh…Not really, Mom.”

“Can't
any
of you hear all that awful static?”

A shroud of silence descends on us,

like the sullen eye of a storm.

The only sound that can be heard is Pinkie,

the neighbor's dog,

yapping in the distance.

Then—

Samantha clears her throat and says,

“Hey…Wait a minute, Grandma…

I think I hear it…Yes! I
do!

It's so…so awful…and so…so staticky!”

My mother heaves

an audible sigh

and says, “You are such a dear.

What would I do

without you, Samantha?”

What will
I
do without you, Samantha?

Is it

a bad sign

if when you hear

the next-door neighbor's daughter

singing “Now I Know My ABCs”

it reduces you

to tears?

Automated Voice:

Thanks for calling

the American Airlines Advantage desk.

Para Español, diga “Español.”

Me:

Automated Voice:

What's your Advantage number?

Me:

XDD5376.

Automated Voice:

That's FBB5376. Right?

Me:

Wrong.

Automated Voice:

I'm sorry.

Please say your Advantage number again.

Me:

X. D. D. 5. 3. 7. 6.

Automated Voice:

That's FVV4367. Right?

Me:

No. You are
not
right.

You are not even slightly right.

Automated Voice:

My apologies. I didn't get that.

Please say your Advantage number again.

Me:

XDD5376!

Automated Voice:

That's STD5376. Right?

Me:

You have got to be kidding me…

Automated Voice:

I'm sorry. I seem to be having

some trouble understanding you.

Please say your Advantage number again.

Me:

Just let me speak to an agent!

Automated Voice:

Do you want to talk to an agent

about travel within the United States,

Puerto Rico, or the U.S. Virgin Islands?

Me:

Agent!

Automated Voice:

I understand you'd like to speak to someone.

Let's find out what you need first

and then I'll get you to the right place.

Me:

Agent!
Agent!

Automated Voice:

Okay. Do you want to speak to an agent

about travel within the United States,

Puerto Rico, or the U.S. Virgin Islands?

Me:

Agent!
Agent! AGENT!

Automated Voice:

I'm sorry. I didn't get that.

Me:

Of course you didn't get that.

You're a machine, for chrissake.

You can't “get” things.

You have no ears.

And in case you haven't noticed—

you have no heart.

So quit telling me how sorry you feel.

You can't feel sorry.

You can't feel
any
thing.

Because you are nothing but

A GODDAMN STINKING

SHITTY HEAP OF HIDEOUSLY

INFURIATING DIGITAL SOUND!

Automated Voice:

I'm sorry. I didn't get that.

She is being

a major pain in the butt.

Bristling like iron filings

whenever I walk into the room.

Glowering at me

when I speak to her.

Slamming around the house

like a racket ball.

She pretty much

can't tolerate

a single thing

I do.

I tell myself not to take it personally,

calmly remind myself that she
has
to think

I'm an incredibly irritating parent

so she'll be able to bear leaving in September.

But then it occurs to me: maybe I actually

am
an incredibly irritating parent.

And a shudder sweeps through

the sudden canyon in my chest.

A second later,

she growls past me and out the front door,

crashing it shut behind her

like a prison gate.

What a bitch,

I find myself thinking.

I can hardly wait

till she leaves for college.

But then a new revelation dawns:

maybe
I
have to think

that
she's
incredibly irritating

so that I'll be able to stand separating from
her.

And maybe she
knows
this.

Of
course
she does! She's only

acting this way to make it easier for me

to say good-bye to her come September.

What a dear sweet wonderful

darling daughter!
I think to myself.

How am I going to bear it

when she leaves for college?