The Reluctant Daughter Part 9

"Well, you're acting like it's my fault," I cut her off, my voice starting to rise. "What do you want me to do, Allie? Walk around L.A. until I find a post office that's open at this hour so I can mail my stupid blow-dryer back to you? Crawl across the entire country on my hands and knees so I can personally deliver it?" I am really yelling now. "Pardon me for packing my blow-dryer so my hair would look good for my mother who happens to be lying in a hospital bed all hooked up to a ventilator and a feeding tube, and who may very well die before morning without ever setting eyes on her only daughter again." My voice breaks on the word "again" as the last syllable disintegrates into a sob that racks my body anew with grief. "I don't care about the G.o.dd.a.m.n pipes," I shriek, heaving the phone across the bed. The receiver bounces on its cord twice, like a bungee jumper being jerked through the air, before it lands on its side next to my knee and lies perfectly still.

"Lydia? Lydia?" Allie's voice coming through the phone is barely audible over my wailing. "Lydia, I'm sorry. Lydia, talk to me. h.e.l.lo? Lydia, are you still there?"

"No," I scream toward the phone, crying even harder.

"Lydia, shh, it's all right. Hush now. Come on." I pick up the phone, but don't say anything as Allie continues speaking. "Lydia, listen to me. Everything's going to be all right. Really. I promise." Allie talks to me in a soothing voice, the same voice she uses to calm Mishmosh during thunderstorms when our poor boy scurries around the house panting with fright, his tail bent and tucked between his legs. "Okay, now, Lydia? C'mon. Take a few deep breaths. Let me hear them. C'mon. Breathe." Allie's voice always works on Mishmosh and it works on me, too. I follow her advice, inhaling and exhaling deeply until my body's shuddering slows to a halt.

"Allie?" I'm still crying and her name comes out as a hiccup. "I'm sorry."

"No, Lydia, I'm sorry. It's my fault." As I reach for a tissue from the box on the nightstand to blow my nose, I picture Allie sitting at the kitchen table, raking her fingers through her dark buzzed hair and then holding her head in her hand. "I didn't mean to yell at you," she says quietly. "It's been a very tough day, and I just lost it, that's all. And I miss you."

I twirl the telephone cord around my right pinky the same way Allie sometimes takes a ringlet of my hair and curls it around one of her fingers. "I know," I say, my voice almost back to normal. "I miss you, too."

"I'm sorry, Lyddie," Allie says again. "It's just that everything is so much easier with two. If you were here we could have taken turns thawing out the pipes. My arm is killing me."

"Poor you," I say, meaning it this time. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to help." In the silence that follows, I imagine myself down in our drafty bas.e.m.e.nt balancing on a rickety stepladder, arms raised, aiming a blow-dryer at a cold copper pipe. Allie would be standing close to me, hugging my thighs from behind and resting her head against my b.u.t.t. Afterward I'd make us big mugs of steaming hot chocolate and we'd cuddle on the couch and congratulate ourselves for being such smart, savvy homeowners. "I wish I was home with you and Mishmosh, Allie," I say, sniffling. "Believe me, nothing would make me happier."

"How's everything going?"

"Awful. Worse than awful." I prop a pillow behind my back and sink into its downy softness. "My mother's all hooked up to a million tubes and machines and she can't talk or eat or anything. They say she has a fifty percent chance of pulling through this. And if that isn't bad enough, my father and Jack are being..." I pause, searching for the right words, but there aren't any. "My father and Jack are being...well, they're being my father and Jack."

"That's unfortunate."

"You're not kidding. Allie, I was so stupid not to let you come with me."

"No, I'm the one who was stupid not to come. I should just jump on a plane right now. Wait, hold on a second." I hear Allie put the phone down on the table and shuffle off in her slippers to another room. "Mishmos.h.!.+ Cut it out." She claps her hands sharply and then lets loose a string of Spanish words that must make Mishmosh stop whatever he's doing because a minute later she returns to the phone.

"What was he up to?" I ask.

"Chewing on the rubber plant. He misses you, too, Lydia. He's been following me around like a puppy, getting under my feet all evening, and the minute I stop paying attention to him, he starts acting out."

"Poor Mishy." I press my hand against my chest to try and quell the strong fist of loneliness that's squeezing my heart so tightly it feels like it might burst. "I'll be home soon, Allie."

"How soon?"

"I don't know yet. I'll know more tomorrow after I speak with the doctor."

"It's tomorrow here already," Allie says with a yawn. "I better go to bed if I'm going to be able to get up on time. Call me when you know what's going on. I want to hear everything. And Lydia, I'm very sorry I yelled at you. I was just cranky. You know how I get when I'm hungry and cold."

"Turn up the heat if you're cold. And why are you hungry?" I swing my legs over the side of the bed, resting my elbow on my knee and my chin in my hand. "What did you eat for supper tonight?" Silence on the other end of the phone, which is not a good sign. Allie's eating habits aren't exactly the greatest. Before we were a couple, her idea of dinner was a hot fudge sundae with a bag of plantain chips on the side. "Allie, what did you eat?"

"Nothing," Allie says in the voice of a child who knows she's been naughty.

"Allie-e-e-e." I stretch her name into a groan. "Why didn't you have something? There's plenty of food in the house. I went shopping, remember?"

"I know, I know. But I got all involved with the pipes and then I looked through the mail and scooped out the kitty litter and got undressed and read the paper, and by then it was eleven o'clock and food was just too much to deal with."

"You won't sleep well if you're hungry," I remind her.

"I won't sleep well without you in my arms," she reminds me.

"You have to eat something before you go to sleep. Have a bowl of cereal. Or a sandwich."

"I don't want a bowl of cereal or a sandwich."

"What then?"

Allie thinks for a minute. "I'll make myself some rice and beans. You know. Puerto Rican comfort food."

"I wish I was there to have some, too."

"Why, Lydia?" Allie's voice rises with suspicion. "Didn't you eat any supper?"

"No."

"Lyd-i-a." Allie stretches out my name in the same tone of voice I used to stretch out hers. "You need to keep up your strength. Promise me you'll have a decent breakfast tomorrow. I don't want to have to worry about you not eating."

"Allie, you don't have to worry. I'll eat, I'll eat, I promise. G.o.d, we're pathetic."

Allie agrees. "We just don't do well when we're apart."

"I'll come home as soon as I can, Allie. And I'm sorry I didn't listen to you about the blow-dryer. I'll leave it home next time."

"Blow-dryer? What blow-dryer? What are you talking about?"

That's my Allie, I think with a smile . "I love you," I tell her. "A lot."

" Te quiero mucho . I love you, too. Good night."

"Good night." As soon as I hang up the phone, the room becomes deathly silent and a tidal wave of loneliness washes over me and pulls me under. Sadly, I crawl between the sheets, gather a pillow into my arms as though it were Allie's soft warm body, and shut my eyes to sleep.

WHY DID THE MAN throw the clock out the window? He wanted to see time fly . It was the very first joke I ever learned, and I remember repeating it to my mother, my father, my school bus driver, even the mail carrier, but despite my enthusiastic delivery, the silly question with its even sillier answer never got a laugh out of anyone. And I certainly don't find it funny now as I lie still as a stone and stare through the darkness at the red numbers of the digital clock on the night stand next to my bed. Two-twelve...two-thirteen...two-fourteen... It feels like an infinity pa.s.ses between each minute and the one that follows it, and I am absolutely convinced that this night will never end.

It's no surprise that sleep is impossible to come by, three thousand miles away from home in a strange hotel room without Allie nestled beside me and Mishmosh slumbering at my feet, using my toes as a pillow for his great mottled head. Still, I'd do anything to make time fly, even carry the d.a.m.n clock across the room out to the balcony and hurl it over the railing with all my might, if I thought that would do any good. In my sleep-deprived state, I imagine I'd get a great deal of satisfaction watching the instrument of my torture sail through the air in a graceful arc before plummeting seven stories to smash into a hundred pieces on the sidewalk below. If nothing else, at least the act would kill some time-a minute, maybe two-before I'd crawl back into bed and resume my lonely vigil, waiting for morning to come.

I rotate the clock away from me so its obnoxious little numbers are facing the wall, try a different pillow, roll onto my belly, squeeze my eyes shut, and after what seems like an hour, open my eyes and pull the clock toward me to check the time again. Two-nineteen...two-twenty...two-twenty-one... As I moan and groan and toss and turn and stare through the darkness at the maddening red numbers of the digital clock, I remember another time I found myself wide awake when I should have been sound asleep, staring at something glowing and red: I am standing in the doorway of our dark kitchen sometime after midnight, my pudgy eight-year-old body encased in flannel feet pajamas, my small hand reaching up along the wall in search of the switch that turns on the light. I have come downstairs for a drink of water, but the glowing red circle, small as a Cheerio, is like a tiny stop sign, freezing me in my tracks. The small sphere blazes for an instant like a summer sun whose color intensifies right before it sinks below the horizon. Then it moves through the darkness, tracing a narrow arc down, up and back down again. I stand silently and watch it for a moment, until thirst wins out and I turn on the light. But I still don't move because what I see now roots me to the spot: my mother, sitting at the kitchen table wearing her blue fuzzy bathrobe and a white protective hairnet that encircles her head like a cloud. A cigarette is held between the second and third fingers of her right hand, which rests on the table between a green overflowing ashtray shaped like a leaf and a s.h.i.+ny silver lighter. Our eyes meet and we stare at each other, my mother's gaze fixed, serious, and slightly curious as if I am a strange creature that she's never seen before. I feel a nervous giggle start to form in my belly and I'm afraid I'm going to laugh the way I always do when Colleen and I have staring contests on the school bus, which try as I might, I always lose. But I know laughing right now would be a big mistake, so I swallow hard, forcing myself to remain still, still looking deeply into my mother's eyes. I wait for her to say something or do something or simply look away. But she remains just as she is: unmoving and silent as the chair she is sitting on. Even the cigarette at her side seems to be holding its breath.

Finally my hand, as though it is something separate and apart from the rest of my motionless body, wanders up the wall again and pulls the light switch downward, returning the room to darkness. The red circle of my mother's cigarette travels upward and glows more brightly as she brings it to her lips once more. Quietly, I remain where I am for another minute before backing out of the room on tiptoe and then turning to make my way down the hall, up the stairs, and into my room, where I crawl between the sheets and pull the covers over my head. I know I have seen something I shouldn't have, like the time last year when bored with my Sunday morning cartoons and impatient for breakfast, I opened my parents' bedroom door and caught a glimpse of them thras.h.i.+ng about on their big king-sized bed. "What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you?" my father yelled, yanking the blankets around himself and my mother as I backed away and pulled shut their bedroom door. Tonight I have done something wrong again, though I don't know what it is. I do know, however, that it is not something to mention to my mother. Ever. I don't have to be told that I am not supposed to know my mother sits by herself at the kitchen table in the middle of the night staring into the dark. Once upon a time this was her secret. Now it is ours.

I haven't thought about this in years, but now that the memory has surfaced during my own sleepless state, I can't help but wonder. What did my mother think about, sitting all alone in the dark kitchen while her husband and child slept upstairs in their respective beds? Did she daydream about what could have been and what still might be? Did she regret the choices she had made and consider other options? How did she feel, sitting there with no one keeping her company except a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a sky full of stars? Was she lonely? Sad? Angry? Or unlikely as it seems, content? Maybe she was just enjoying a little peace and quiet in the middle of the night when there was no one making demands of her: Mommy, can I have a drink of water? Will you play Chinese checkers with me? Doris, where are my good shoes? Have you seen my blue-and-white striped tie?

I roll over and glance at the clock again. Two-thirty-three...two-thirty-four...two-thirty-five West Coast time translates to five-thirty-five Allie time, way too early for me to give her a call. But maybe it isn't too early to check in with Vera.

The thought of hearing the familiar voice of someone who loves me propels me out of bed to cross the room, rummage through my purse for my cell phone, and slide open the gla.s.s door to step out onto my tiny balcony. The fresh air feels good-it's brisk but not chilly-and I breathe in deeply. For some reason I feel better standing outside in my stockinged feet and pink tiger-striped pajamas, staring up at the dark, velvety, star-scattered sky. Corny as it sounds, I know that across the country the very same sky hovers over Allie and Mishmosh, and that offers a small degree of comfort.

I turn on my phone and speed-dial Vera's cell number. She answers on the first ring. "Good morning, Suns.h.i.+ne," I sing out with false cheer as I lean my elbows on the cold, metal railing of the balcony. "Where are you? Did I wake you?"

"I'm at Serena's. And no, you didn't wake me. You'll have to try much harder to do that. I'm already on my fourth cup of coffee." The sound of Vera's husky voice wraps itself around me like a warm blanket, soothing me instantly. "I'm glad you called, Lydia. How's it going out there?"

"Oh, Vera." I say her name as if it contains all the sadness of the world. "My mother's on life support."

"She is? Oh, Lydia, that's awful. I am so, so sorry." Vera easily offers the sympathy I need as desperately as my mother needs the oxygen that is being pumped into her lungs. "How are you doing? Are you holding up all right?"

"I don't know. I guess so. No, not really. Allie and I had a fight on the phone." I fill Vera in on the details but she doesn't seem all that interested.

"You and Allie are fine," Vera a.s.sures me, almost impatiently. "You just had a little spat because you're both stressed out, that's all. She wishes you were home and you wish she was in L.A. No big deal. Tell me more about your mother. And about how you're feeling."

"I can't even figure out how I'm feeling." I lean over the balcony to take another deep breath of fresh California pre-dawn air and then straighten up to do something I hate: get in touch with my emotions. "I'm sad, of course," I state the obvious. "And tired. And right now I'm kind of numb."

"That's understandable," Vera says. "How's it going with your father and Jack?"

"Pretty bad. Jack is hostile as ever and my father is trying to control everything, including me. He won't let me cry in front of my mother and-"

"Whoa. Stop right there." Vera cuts me off sharply. "What do you mean your father won't let you cry?"

"I mean he won't let me cry." I don't know how to explain it any better. "He doesn't want me to get my mother upset."

"I would think she'd be more upset to see that you're not crying," Vera points out.

"What do you mean?" I turn away from the sky to lean my back against the wrought-iron railing and stare through the gla.s.s door at the disheveled bed in the middle of my room.

"Lydia," Vera says. "How will your mother know that you care about her if she doesn't see you cry?"

"I don't know," I tell Vera. It's a good question, even if I don't have the answer to it.

"Have you spent any time alone with her?"

"Not yet. I don't know if I'll be able to." I exhale loudly and push a wayward curl off my forehead. "My father is acting like her personal bodyguard. He won't let me go in to see her by myself."

"Lydia, why are you behaving like a child?" Vera asks, her tone stern.

"Because I feel like one," I reply in a tiny voice that sounds remarkably like a five-year-old's.

"Well, you happen to be an adult," Vera states firmly. "No matter how your father treats you. You don't have to listen to him, you know."

"I don't?" I ask, as if this is news to me.

"No," Vera says. "You don't." She pauses and I hear her take a sip of coffee. "Have you decided what you have to say to your mother yet, Lydia?"

I step off the balcony and head back to the island of my bed, diving into the safety of the blankets. "No."

"Well, it might be a good idea to give it some thought. It's now or never, as they say. And lucky for you, Serena won't be up for hours. I've got plenty of time. And plenty of coffee."

"I hate it when you pull your tough-love act on me, Vera."

"I know you do. I can practically hear you pouting." Vera falls silent, and I listen as she pours herself a warm-up and opens the door of Serena's refrigerator. If I know Vera-and I do-she's searching her daughter's shelves for some half-and-half, among the cartons of soy milk and no-fat or low-fat diary products that real coffee lovers like the two of us regard with disgust.

"I'm stumped, Vera, I really am." I sit up to pull a strand of hair forward, looking for split ends before I realize what I'm doing and stop.

"Lydia, this is so unlike you. I don't think I've ever known you to be at a loss for words."

"Well, there's always a first time," I say with a lightheartedness I don't feel. "I can't say what I've wanted to tell her for years: that she was a rotten mother and I've been p.i.s.sed off at her for decades. She's so weak and frail now, even I'm not mean enough to do that."

"Why don't you tell me?" Vera asks. "Tell me all the ways she's been rotten to you."

"You've heard it all before, Vera. You've been hearing about it ever since we met."

"I know, Lydia. But I want to hear it again. Really."

"You do? Okay. Here goes." I hug my knees to my chest and start reciting the long litany of all the ways that my mother has failed me: how she never held me or kissed me or told me she loved me when I was a child, how she never called me or visited me or told me she was proud of me as an adult. As usual, giving voice to all my hurt makes me blubber like a baby. "How can you stand being friends with such an unlovable person?" I wail when I am done.

"You're not an unlovable person, Lydia," Vera states emphatically. "Not by a long shot. What you are is a very hurt person."

"I am," I howl into the phone as yet more sobs rise up from my throat. "I am a very hurt person and now it's too late to do anything about it." I let it all out until my tears are spent, and then use the edge of my sleeve to wipe my runny nose.

"Listen, Lydia, you're right. It may very well be too late to get what you need from your mother," Vera says once I am quiet. It's times like these I wish my old friend knew how to mince words. "That's the bad news," she continues. "But the good news is, it may not be too late for your mother to get what she needs from you."

"What are you talking about, Vera?" I lean back against the headboard and draw the covers up to my chin. "What could my mother possibly need from me?"

"What do you want from her?" Vera, in true therapist fas.h.i.+on, answers my question with one of her own.

"I just want her to love me," I say, pathetic as that sounds.

"I imagine she just wants you to love her," Vera counters. "The one thing you can give her that n.o.body else in the world can is a daughter's love. The hurt goes both ways, Lydia. As can the healing."

There is silence across the telephone wires between us while I think this over. "But I don't even know if I do love her," I say, baring my very soul. "Maybe I just feel sorry for her because she's so sick right now."

"Nonsense, Lydia. Of course you love her. If you didn't, you wouldn't be so upset. The opposite of love isn't hate. It's not caring. And you do care. Clearly. A lot."

"But what if I don't know how to love her?" I ask. "And what if she doesn't want my love?"

"Good questions." Vera gives me her highest words of praise, as she often did when I was a student sitting in her cla.s.sroom. "You can't do anything about the latter, but I'm not sure I agree with you about the former. You know how to love, Lydia. You love me. You love Allie."

"But I don't have a lifetime of baggage attached to either one of you," I argue.

"No, but maybe it's time to forget all that."

"Forget all that?" I repeat Vera's words slowly, like they're a phrase uttered in a foreign language I've never heard before. "How?"

"Be in the moment with her. I know it sounds preposterous, but just give it a shot, Lydia. Come to think of it, didn't you once go through a Buddhist phase?"

"Yeah. it was pretty short-lived, though. Oh, I do remember one thing. Ommm." I wedge the phone between my neck and shoulder so I can clasp my hands in my lap and chant the syllable that always began the meditation sessions at the Zen center where I halfheartedly practiced many years ago.

"What if you acted as if there was no past and no future?" Vera asks as my monotone fades away. "Isn't that what the Buddhists teach? What if when you go to the hospital tomorrow, you act as though your mother was someone you'd never met before?" By Vera's tone of voice, I can tell she's warming up to the idea. "Pretend you have no past history with her. And you don't want anything from her in the future. If this was the very first time you were meeting her, and you saw her lying there suffering in that hospital bed, what would you feel for her? Nothing but compa.s.sion."

"It's a theory, Vera." I unbend my neck and switch the phone to my other ear. "Maybe. If I was a saint. Or a holy person. Which in case you haven't noticed, I'm not."