“I can’t stay long today, Mom,” I say. “I have to catch a flight back to LA for a concert. For work.”
For Georgina.
Again, the force of nature that is Georgina Ricci flashes across my mind. I imagine her showing up backstage tonight at the RCR concert, excited to begin her first day on the job with a press pass around her neck... and then being greeted at the backstage door by... me. Oh, God, I can’t wait for that delicious moment when our eyes meet again. When she realizes she’s got to play nice with me, whether she likes it or not. In truth, I’ve been obsessing about it all week long.
“LA,” Mom says with disdain. “I never should have let Terrence convince me to leave my family here in Scarsdale to move to LA. That was the beginning of the end for me.”
I take a deep breath and bite my tongue. Mom says something like this every time I visit, and it’s a whole lot of crazy. First, let’s be real here: the fire was the beginning of the end for her. Doesn’t she realize her family perished long before she even met Terrence Rivers? Which means my father didn’t “convince” her to leave her family, or anyone else, to move to Los Angeles. Actually, as far as I understand it, my thirty-five-year-old father convinced his deeply troubled, but stunningly beautiful, pregnant nineteen-year-old bride to leave Scarsdale, in the hopes she’d be able to leave her traumas far behind, and embrace the new life growing inside her. To begin a new chapter, in a new place, with a new husband.
Or, shit, maybe Mom is simply acknowledging she would have preferred to stay in Scarsdale forever, with the ghosts of her dead family, than move to California and become the mother and wife, and then, unhinged ex-wife, she ultimately became.
Either way, the comment annoys me whenever Mom makes it, because it’s my mother’s dead family that presently ties her to this facility in Scarsdale. And that’s a huge fucking inconvenience for me. I’ve begged Mom, more times than I can count, to let me move her to an even better facility in Malibu—a place right on the cliffs overlooking the glittering Pacific Ocean. But, no. She won’t do it. No matter what I say or do, or how many brochures of the Malibu facility I show her, Mom says she won’t leave her “family,” ever again. Plus, she steadfastly refuses to leave Lee, her “boyfriend,” so, it’s a double non-starter. Of course, I’ve offered to move Lee to Malibu, along with her, on my fucking dime, by the way—which wouldn’t be cheap—but she always says Lee won’t leave his brother, who apparently lives in the City. A fact she’s apparently been able to extract from a man so medicated, he constantly drools down his chin and says not more than six words a day.
“You have to stay for lunch,” Mom says brightly to me. “They’re serving chicken pot pies. Your favorite.”
They’re not my favorite. In fact, I rarely eat carbs. “Maybe next time,” I say. “I’ve got to keep this visit short, like I said.”
Mom frowns. “Your last visit was short, too.”
“No. Last time, I spent the entire day with you. We watched Jeopardy and played Scrabble. Remember?”
She shakes her head. “No. Last time, you had to leave because of some awards show.”
Oh my fucking God. The Grammys thing was months ago. During my most recent visit, Mom had a terrible meltdown, so I stayed the entire day with her, holding her hand. Listening to her talk. Trying, and failing, to make her smile. And then, finally, when she calmed down, we watched Jeopardy and played fucking Scrabble. And, by the way, I did all of this, even though I had so much on my plate at work, I hadn’t slept more than three hours a night in a week.
And while I’m cataloging recent visits in my mind, the visit before the most recent one was a long one, too. During which, as I recall, I joined Mom’s yoga class, let her win in checkers, and listened to her read mind-numbing poetry by Sylvia Plath. But, of course, Mom doesn’t remember my last two extra-long visits. All she remembers is the time, months ago, I had to make it quick because Grammy nominations had just been announced, and my artists had collectively received more nominations than ever before—and I had to blow out of here to manage the happy chaos of my life.
“Come,” Mom says, putting out her hand. “I want to show you my painting.”
I take her hand and let her lead me to her room, and then “ooh” and “aah” as she shows me the picnic I’ve already seen.
Simply to make conversation, I ask, “Once you finish filling in the grass and trees, will it be complete? Or is there something else you’re planning to add, after that?”