In A Country Of Mothers Page 30

  Why? Everyone would ask. There had to be a beginning to this end. Los Angeles, when Claire had called for no good reason. That was the marker, the sign of crossing over. But now, it was like being woken up to see yourself spread out on an operating table, your guts warming the surgeon’s hands. “By the way,” he’d whisper as he fingered your liver, your kidneys, “you know, I’m not really a doctor.”

  “Do you want us to come up there?” her mother asked. “I could take a day off work. Your father and I would be happy to bring you back. You could live here. We’ll fix up your old room. You seem so unhappy up there anyway. Why don’t you come home?”

  “No thanks,” Jody said.

  “We love you very much. Why isn’t that enough?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Claire Roth called. She’s worried about you hurting yourself. Is that something we have to think about?”

  “You shouldn’t even be talking to her. You should be protecting me from her, not acting like you’re on her side.”

  “There are no sides.”

  “There are now.”

  “We want to help you. You’re not acting like yourself.” Her mother stopped for a minute. “I think you’re still angry with me for not racing out to California the second you said you didn’t feel well. You have to realize that I’ve done the best I could, the very best I know how.”

  “I can’t talk to you,” Jody said.

  “All right then, call me when you’re feeling better.”

  “Mother.” What a word, what a concept. There were secretaries, doctors, nurses, and housekeepers, but Jody wasn’t really sure there was any such thing as a mother. She slipped the tape of Claire at Patisserie Lanciani into the VCR, hoping to figure out exactly what had happened that afternoon. A close-up of Claire’s face filled the screen; you could see the pores, the features distorted by nearness. She watched Claire’s eyes — dead-on, intent — the face that sometimes seemed more than familiar, as if it were her own.

  Jody but not Jody. A stranger yet as familiar as anyone had ever been. Ellen was right: it was up to Jody; her life was her responsibility, no one else’s. She fast-forwarded. Claire went by, streaking blue lines across the TV screen.

  The telephone rang again and the machine clicked on.

  “Jody?” her mother’s voice said softly. “Are you there? It’s Mom, can you pick up? … Jody.” The voice that had taught her the sound of her own name, that had called her every night of her life. “I’ve been thinking. If you don’t want to come home, maybe you’d like me to come there for a few days. We could do some things — buy you a few new clothes. You’ve lost so much weight I’m sure nothing fits. Would you like that? I’m here. I’m home. Daddy and I only want what you want.”

  This was the woman who had loved her to the best of her abilities, however limited they might have been. She’d loved Jody to the limits of her fear. She’d taken a stranger’s child and claimed it as her own. How could Jody hope that her mother would magically become someone else? If Jody wanted someone else, she’d have to become that person herself. She thought of what the doctor had said when she was sick — that she wouldn’t be able to carry a child to term. She was at term now. She was her own.

  She picked up the phone. “Hi, Mom, it’s me. I’m here.”

  “Sweetie, I’m climbing the walls. You know how much you mean to us, how important you are. We’re beside ourselves. Have you had dinner? Is there any food in your house?”

  “Chinese,” Jody said, lying. “Chicken with broccoli and brown rice. Very healthy. Sauce on the side.”

  “What am I supposed to think? What about Claire?”

  “She’s overreacting,” Jody said. “I just need some rest. I’m very tired. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Well, take two aspirin and crawl into bed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s good for you.”

  “Mom, I’m fine. I don’t need to take anything. Go watch TV. Isn’t the ten o’clock news on?”

  “If you need us, you’ll call?”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Sleep well. Sweet dreams,” Jody said, hanging up.

  It was time to be reasonable. Forgive and forget. Jody did it in her head; she said thank you and goodbye. She had listened to her mother’s voice, looked at Claire’s image on the TV screen, and felt herself moving past them. Finished, Jody turned down the volume on the answering machine, aimed the remote at the television, and pressed the Off button. The room dropped into silent darkness.

  36

  It began in Balducci’s. Claire bought crackers and cheese, sliced meats, cold vegetable salads, miniature éclairs and raspberry tarts. She envisioned a picnic, romantic and grand. She saw herself spreading a checkered tablecloth across the floor of her new living room, unpacking the green-and-white shopping bags, handing Jody a bottle of good wine and an opener, then leaning back against the wall and letting whatever was going to happen, happen.

  Things had been going all wrong. What she’d hoped would pull Jody closer had actually pushed her further away. She would fix that now, once and for all. She would make everything all right. It would be the most wonderful moment, the moment she’d been waiting for.

  Claire would pick Jody up at her apartment and they’d drive to Connecticut in the last light of a spring afternoon. They wouldn’t say much. The steadiness and calm of their silence would dissolve her own anxiety as well as Jody’s anger. Once they arrived at the house, they would be comfortable, pleased with themselves. Jody would think the house was great. She would realize there was still a place for her and that for Claire, Sam, and the boys the move was necessary. Soon she would understand that it was necessary for her as well.

  Claire would carry in the supplies just before dark. The electricity had been turned on, but there were very few bulbs, so Claire would show Jody the house by candlelight. Then she would spread out the picnic as they talked — a conversation that didn’t lapse into accusations and failure. Night would come to Connecticut. They would be alone in the house. There would be no history outside the moment.

  When Claire pulled up in front of 63 Perry Street, Jody was sitting on the front stoop, video camera in hand.

  “Am I crazy to be getting in a car with you?” Jody asked as she pulled the door closed. “Why are you so dressed up?”

  “Special occasion,” Claire said. “I’m taking you to see the house.”

  “So, it’s like an S and M thing.”

  In Claire’s fantasy Jody was less resistant, more willing to go along with things. “I’ve brought a picnic,” she said, looking at Jody. “Fasten your seat belt.”

  “I didn’t know you had a car phone.”

  “It was Sam’s idea. You know, guys and their gadgets.”

  A steady rain started to fall as they headed up the West Side Highway. The tape deck was playing and they were mostly silent. Along the parkway the trees were green, thick with new leaves. Claire, not yet familiar with the route, turned on the headlights and drove slowly, leaning slightly forward in the seat. “What was the name of the street we just passed?” she asked.

  “Thorn something,” Jody said. “You know, it’d be fine with me if we just went back now. This doesn’t exactly thrill me.”

  “We’re here,” Claire said twenty minutes later, making one right turn and then another. She pulled close to the house and switched off the engine. “Can you get the bags out of the back?”

  Claire fit her key into the lock. Besides the electricity, that was the one thing they’d done so far — changed the locks. The locksmith had insisted on dead bolts, a key on both sides. “Better with little kids,” he said. “You can control the traffic.”

  Inside, Claire used her key again and locked the door behind them.

  “Flashlight?” Jody asked.

  “Candles,” Claire said, going through the bags, pulling out candles and the silver candlesticks that had been a wedding gift from Sam’s aunt.

  Jody raised t
he video camera to her eye.

  “You can’t hide,” Claire said. “I see you, I know you’re there. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  “Not enough light,” Jody said, putting the camera down.

  Claire smiled. “Take a look around.” She handed Jody a lit candle. “Four bedrooms, two and a half baths, and a lot of work to be done.”

  Jody wandered off through the house. “This is totally creepy,” she called from upstairs. “Don’t you believe in light bulbs?”

  “It’s an adventure,” Claire said. “Besides, we obviously haven’t moved in yet. It’ll be really great once we’re all together.”

  Jody came back into the living room, where Claire was unpacking things. “I hope you’re hungry,” Claire said, handing Jody the bottle of wine and the corkscrew.

  “What are we supposed to be celebrating?” Jody asked.

  Claire didn’t answer. She watched the candlelight play on Jody’s face, strange shadows dancing, and finished laying out the meal. Her throat was filled with a ball of words wanting to come out all at once. Claire swallowed, then handed Jody two wineglasses. “Pour,” she said.

  They sat on opposite sides of the room, the picnic spread out on the floor between them. They ate in bits and pieces and spoke in fragments about the house, the city, anything but themselves.

  The rain plunked against the windows.

  “Jody,” Claire said softly, about an hour later, when the first bottle of wine was nearly gone, when all that was simple and easy had already been said. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

  Jody sat motionless on the other side of the room. “I’m tired of talking.”

  “Then just listen.” Claire pushed the tablecloth away, slid closer to Jody, and put her hand on Jody’s ankle. “In December 1966, in Washington, D.C., I gave birth to a baby girl. Three days later I handed that baby to a stranger and then went home. For nearly twenty-five years I’ve tried to go about my life, to forget that I’m the mother of that child. But I can’t.” Claire looked at Jody, checking for a reaction, but she was motionless. “Jody,” Claire said, squeezing her ankle, “you are that child.”

  Jody pulled her leg away, drew her knees to her chest, and put her hand over her eyes.

  “I am your mother,” Claire said, wrapping her arms around Jody.

  Jody raised up the wineglass in her hand and brought it down hard on the floor, smashing the bowl, then dug the broken stem into Claire’s arm. “Don’t touch me,” she said, “or I’ll kill you.”

  “I can understand that you might be angry,” Claire said, wincing as she fingered the gash on her arm. “Your whole life you’ve been waiting, and now I’m here, just like that.” Claire blotted the wound and again moved toward her.

  “You’re not my mother,” Jody said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sweetie,” Claire said, kneeling in front of her, “it’s true. You and I both know it. That’s what these last few months have been about. I wouldn’t be surprised if on some level you’ve known all along. Maybe you got sick so I’d come back to you. It explains so many things. That’s why everything has been so confusing. But now the mystery’s solved. We can go on.” Claire paused and smiled. “I’m so glad it’s you.”

  “You’re crazy,” Jody said, springing up, running to the door. “Why the fuck can’t I open the door!” she screamed, pulling at it.

  “I have the key,” Claire said, coming up behind her.

  “Let me out! Let me out of here!”

  “Calm down. I want you to calm down. You can’t go racing out like a maniac.” Claire put her hand on Jody’s shoulder. “Stop,” she said. “Just stop.”

  Jody whirled around, waving the stem of the wineglass in Claire’s face. “Leave me alone! This is your problem, not mine.”

  She ran up the stairs, Claire chasing after her, and ended up locked in the bathroom with the broken tub.

  Claire banged on the door. “Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this. Come out, Jody. I’ll give you the key. Here, I’ll side it under.” Claire took the house key off her ring and tried to fit it under the door. “It won’t fit,” Claire said. “But it’s here, right outside the door.” She paused. “You’re free — you can go.”

  Jody didn’t answer.

  Claire rattled the knob. “I want you to open this door.”

  “Just go away.”

  “Sweetie, don’t do this. We can be happy now.” Claire sat down on the floor outside the bathroom door. The hall was narrow and dark. “When you were five,” she said, “on your first day of school, when your mother put you in a Florence Eiseman dress and walked you to your classroom, do you know what I did?” Claire paused. “Well, I went out the night before and bought you a pencil box, crayons, paper, Elmer’s glue, and a lunch box, all the things I thought you’d need. I stopped on my way home, bought a loaf of white bread, a jar of smooth peanut butter, grape jelly, strawberry jam, and then I made twelve peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, trying to get it right, to make the one you’d really want — crust, cut in half, no crust, cut in quarters. A whole loaf of sandwiches. I wrapped them in wax paper and put them into the fridge, and in the morning, when your mother was getting you ready for school, I didn’t know what to do. So I ate them, all of them, one at a time.”

  “I hate peanut butter,” Jody said.

  “I’ve loved you so much for so long. Every year I’d buy you a present for your birthday; I’d wonder what you were doing and if you were happy. For twenty-five years I’ve thought about you and worried about you. How can you do this to me? Don’t you realize nothing can keep me from you? Not your resistance, and certainly not this door.”

  Jody didn’t answer.

  “What are you doing in there? I want you to tell me what you’re doing.”

  “Nothing. I’m not doing anything. Leave me alone. You have to go away and leave me alone.”

  “Come out and let’s talk. Can we do that?”

  “Shut up, Claire, just shut up.”

  Claire poked at her bloody arm, and thought about the broken glass in Jody’s hand. “What are you doing in there?”

  Jody didn’t answer.

  “Please, tell me what you’re doing.”

  Claire imagined Jody working the stem back and forth against her wrists, her neck, sawing at her skin, splitting the veins. She imagined blood spilling onto the floor, traveling in thin rivers down the grouted paths between the tiles.

  “Jody?”

  There was no answer.

  She pictured blood pooling in the sunken spots under the sink, in front of the toilet, and Jody slumped against the tub.

  Claire stood up and threw herself against the door. “Say something!” she screamed. “If you don’t open this door I’ll have to call the police and they’ll break it down.” Claire waited for a response. “Jody, don’t make me do it.” She conjured the pulse slowing, the heart stopping.

  She picked up her keys, ran down the steps, out the door, and to the car. Breathless, she picked up the car phone and dialed information. “Stamford,” she said. “Greenspan, Bert.” A classmate from Columbia, a guy she’d dated, head of a private hospital in the hills of Stamford.

  “Hi, Bert, it’s Claire Roth.”

  “Claire, hi. It’s been a while. Where are you? The connection’s terrible.”

  “It’s my car phone. Listen, it’s an emergency, I’m in Glenville. I bought this house. It’s a long story, but a patient of mine is out here. She’s locked herself in the bathroom and—” Claire paused—“she may be suicidal.”

  “You want to have her admitted to Seven Trees?”

  “She’s not crazy,” Claire said. “But she’s very upset.”

  “I’ll call and arrange it. Do you know how to get to us?”

  “I can’t even get her to open the door.”

  “Well,” Bert said, “we don’t have a livery service.”

  They didn’t speak for a minute.

 
“Call the cops,” he said. “They’ll take her to the local hospital and we’ll get her transferred out in the morning.”

  Claire didn’t respond.

  “You’re wasting time. If she does something, you’ll be responsible. Call the police. It’s not like in the city — they’ll be there in a couple of minutes and they’re very good about these things.”

  “You think?”

  “I know,” Bert said. “Call the cops. We’ll talk later.”

  “Thanks,” Claire said, hanging up and immediately dialing for help, knowing that if she stopped to think, she might not be able to do it.

  “Police, fire, or rescue?”

  “Police,” Claire said, looking up at the house through the wet windshield. “I’m a therapist. I’m calling about a patient.”

  “An emotionally disturbed person?”

  “Upset,” Claire said.

  “Is there a crime in progress?”

  “No,” Claire said, then gave the operator the address.

  “Is it dangerous to enter the premises?”

  “No.”

  “Is the person armed?”

  “She’s locked herself in the bathroom,”

  “A danger to herself?”

  “Possibly,” Claire said.

  “Please identify yourself when the officers arrive.”

  “Of course,” Claire said. “I’ll wait in the house.”

  Claire ran back up the steps, ducking her head against the weather. The remains of the picnic were scattered all over the living room. Claire quickly packed up as much as possible. In the distance, she heard sirens. Soon lights were swabbing the front of the house through the low, uneven fog — red, white, blue. Claire hurried toward the door, thinking about the neighbors, embarrassed that she hadn’t even moved in yet and already there was this display. Her foot accidentally kicked a piece of glass, hurling it like a hockey puck into the fireplace.

  “I’m Claire Roth,” she said, standing in the driveway, in front of the police cars. “I’m the woman who called.” A cop sat in his car, radio in hand, talking. Claire came closer. “Hurry,” she said. “Please hurry.”