Chapter 9
9.
I met my mother for lunch at a restaurant on the upper west side.
She sat in the booth waiting for me, all of her pomposity laid beside her next to her coat and purse.
"Good, you're here. And you actually look nice!" She said, coupling the insult with a smile. "What a pleasant surprise."
"Hey." I replied.
"Shall we have a drink before we start our 'power lunch'?" she asked while hailing the waitress. She ordered a scotch and soda before she started ordering me around. She took her scotch on the rocks, using the tart, heady intoxication of power as a chaser, which she sipped slowly, savoring its taste.
There she was, my beautiful mother. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, revealing her long graceful neck, accenting her face. Her face, one so lovely, so unmoved. A face that never showed her fury, showed her pain, a face so life-like that one was almost convinced that it was real.
"Your mother is really beautiful." the boyfriend used to say after she left the room to wash the dishes. After dinner, we would go up to my room. We would undress silently, not even glancing at each other. We would make love, just like the first time. Sometimes I would pretend I was someone else while we made our love. But sometimes, sometimes I would just be so happy to be held, to feel like I was pretty, to feel like being me was a good thing. I would fall asleep in his arms as if I were loved.
In the morning, my mother would serve us pastries and fresh fruit, then return to the kitchen to make orange juice.
"Your mother is so beautiful." he would say again as she left.
Too bad I took after my father.
"Well, the opening is slated to start at 8:30 tomorrow night. I would like for you to be there by 8:00, if possible. The reception starts at nine. There will be reporters there, so do try to prepare something to say, in case they quote you in the papers. Have you given any thought to what you are going to wear?"
I shook my head and continued drinking my drink, an ice cube bouncing against my upper lip.
"Well, I'm going to go shopping, myself. I could probably pick something up for you, if you like. I was thinking of something kind of artsy but sophisticated. What size are you wearing these days, an eight?"
"Six." I replied between sips.
"Really? A six? Wow. You've really been taking care of yourself!"
"Mmmmhmm." I said, irony echoing into my glass.
"Well then, I shall look for a six." She looked at me and smiled. Her smile was a perfect smile, with just enough teeth showing. Her upper lip curled just a bit on the left side to make it almost condescending. It was a smile that had a laugh in it, a smirk. I can imitate her smile perfectly, down to the flutter of her eyelashes that invariably accompanies it.
"Paolo said to stop by today, around 2:30, if you're not busy..." She was still smiling. "I'm really proud of you, Emmanuelle. I never thought that your art would get you this far. But it has and I'm very proud of you."
For a moment I was blithe that she was actually endorsing something that I had done and seeing, just maybe, some of what I felt, had felt, all those years. She was proud of me. I hadn't let her down. She approved. She approved!
I ate my salad and had three more drinks.
"Well, darling, I am off. I'll call you tonight to tell you what goodies I found shopping. Take care." She picked up her coat and purse, tossing a fifty dollar bill on the table.
"I love you, Mommy." I said, turning around in my chair and looking up at her.
She looked at me again and smiled, genuinely. She bent down and kissed my forehead. Her lips felt like childhood. I closed my eyes and focused on the feeling of her warm breath on my hairline. It felt like heaven.
"I love you too, sweetie." she said, her face so close to mine. "I'll talk to you later." Her warmth slowly faded and, when I opened my eyes, she was gone.
I picked up the change from the bill and walked over to the bar area. An older man was sitting there, alone. I took the seat next to him and put the money on the counter top.
"Excuse me sir, what's stopping us from trying to finish a whole bottle of wine before two thirty?"
"Nothing." He replied. "Nothing at all."
I meander my way over to Paolo's gallery and am let in. The room is dark, but for the little sunlight that enters through the windows facing the street.
"Emmanuelle! I am so glad to see you!" He smiles and embraces me. I lean my head on his shoulder.
He looks at me, or maybe smells me, and winces. "Been celebrating, have you?"
I drool in response.
"I just wanted to make sure everything was as you like it. I'll go turn on the lights."
I sit down on the floor. As the world turns, the lights come on.
And there she is. There she is, beautiful, there bending over to pick a flower, there, eating an apple, there looking away, over her shoulder. There she is, and here I am, sitting on the floor without her.
I have never wanted anything as much as I want her right now. I want her so much. And, perhaps more importantly, I want the room to stop spinning.
I don't want to be here now, when the girl that I love is so far away. I don't want to be here tomorrow, when people will stand around criticizing her between their bites of mini-quiches and cru d'été. I don't want to be here, period.
Epiphany: I am going to start doing what I have to do. I am going to stop doing what I need to stop doing. I am going to start doing what I have stopped doing. I am going to stop doing what I had started doing. I am not going to do what I did. I have not done, but I will do. I will because I can.
"What do you think?" Paolo says, walking back over to me.
"It's perfect." I reply. "And it's absolutely true."
My home is no longer my own.
I am a snail longing to be a slug. My house is my refuge. My crutch. I leave as quickly as I came, heading down the street toward a bar. I don't want to lose my high.
I sit and stir my tequila sunrise with my finger. I watch the men who make bets on limpid football pools, their giggling of obscenities and tactical athletic maneuvers, their jiggling hips over the sides of their stools. The windows fog and outside pictures blur. As dusk comes to an end and night falls, the newly ignited headlights of the cars become searchlights to the heavens.
Heaven. I was pleased to find that heaven was ticklish. My mother's love was heavenly. I had that. Ezra's love was a heavenly purgatory, though I've had my fill of that paradoxical paradise. But Nina was a god. Nina was God. I want to draw near to God. But, most importantly, I want another drink.
I call over the bartender and switch from hard liquor back to wine. I have many talents. When he brings it, I ask for a pen and some napkins.
"I have to write some letters." I explain.
"Do you want a pad of paper?" He asks.
I frown. "No, I'm an artist. I want napkins." I reply. "Lots and lots of napkins."
He brings them and, over the din of the crowd, I write. I pour my heart onto their high-absorbency tablet, sometimes spilling off of the napkin and onto the counter. The words flow, the wine flows, freely, and I, well I feel just swell, thanks.
