Leah, my father said.
He didn't mind that. I think he might have enjoyed it a little.
Promise me you'll go, he said.
She's not coming, she said.
The next day we drove to the clinic an hour early. My mother had the seat drawn as close to the steering wheel as she could get it; she gripped the wheel with her hands close together at twelve o'clock. She looked over at me as often as she looked out at the road.
There were squirrels and possums sprawled in the road, their heads red smears.
It's something about the weather, my mother said, makes them come out at night.
We're so early, my mother said, and we're right near Randy's salon. Why don't we stop in and see if he can give you a haircut and a blowout?
He wouldn't mind, I don't think. I talk about you whenever I go see him to have my hair done. He'd like to meet you.
If you just got it angled on the sides, here, and got a few bangs in the front--
Just like yours, you mean.
You know, I feel so bad for Randy, he looks terrible, circles under his eyes all the time, he says his boyfriend is back in the hospital. Now whenever I go to get my hair cut, I bake something to bring him, banana bread or something. But I think the shampoo girls usually eat it all before he can get it home.
That's nice of you.
I worry about him. He doesn't take care of himself.
Why are you still getting pimples? You're twenty-seven years old, why
are you still getting pimples like a teenager?
Not everyone has perfect skin like you, I said. Green light. Go.
I do not have perfect skin, she said, bringing her hands to her face.
Both hands on the wheel please. Do you want me to drive?
No, I don't. You must be tired.
I touched my forehead. Small hard bumps like Braille.
She drove. I looked at the side of her face, the smooth taut skin. I wondered when she would start to get wrinkles. I already had wrinkles. On my neck, I could see them.
So, how is it going with this Piotr?
He's all right.
Still playing the--what was it? Guitar?
She turned on the radio and started flipping through stations. Maybe we'll hear one of his songs, she said brightly.
I said: I told you he was in a band. I didn't say they were good enough to be on the radio.
Oh. I see. So the band's just for fun. What else does he do?
So. What kind of name is Piotr? Am I saying it right?
Polish, I said.
I did not feel like telling her that only his grandmother lived in Poland; his parents were both born in Milwaukee, and he had grown up in Chicago and had never been to Poland; Piotr was a name he had given himself; he was not really a Piotr at all, he was a Peter with pretensions and long hair. I did not tell her this.
A black car cut into the lane in front of us. My mother braked suddenly and flung her right arm out across my chest.
Mother! Keep your hands on the wheel!
I'm sorry, she said, it's automatic. Ever since you kids were little...
I'm wearing a seatbelt.
I know honey, I can't help it. Did I hurt you?
No, of course not, I said.
When we reached the parking garage my mother rolled down her window but couldn't reach; she had to unfasten her seatbelt and open the car door in order to punch the button and get her parking ticket. I looked at her narrow back as she leaned out of the car, its delicate curve, the shoulder blades like folded wings under her sweater, a strand of dark hair caught in the clasp of her gold necklace. I had the urge to slide across the seat and curl around her. It only lasted for a second.
She turned around and settled back into her seat and the yellow-and-black-striped mechanical bar swung up in front of the car, and I tapped my feet impatiently while she slammed the door shut and rolled up the window. Now she was fiddling with her rearview mirror and straightening her skirt.
Come on, I said, watching the bar, which was still raised but vibrating a little.
Relax honey, that thing isn't going to come crashing down on us the minute we're under it. I promise you.
I know that, I said, and then closed my eyes until we were through the gate and weaving around the dark oil-stained aisles of the parking lot. I would have liked to tell her about some of the legal cases Mich had described to me: freak accidents, threshing machines gone awry, people caught in giant gears or conveyor belts and torn limb from limb, hands in bread slicers, flimsy walkways over vats of acid. Elevator cases, diving board cases, subway train cases, drowning-in-the-bathtub cases, electrocution-by-blender cases. And then there were the ones that were just called Act of God.
I didn't tell her.
Remember where we parked, she said.
But she did not get out of the car right away. She sat, gripping the wheel.
I don't see why we have to do this, she said. Your father worries...
He'll be more worried if you don't go, I said, and anyway there's nothing to worry about because everything's going to be fine. Right? Right.
If there's something wrong I'd just rather not know, she said to her hands.
We got out; the car shook as we slammed the doors.
She was right about the clinic. It was cold, and it was ugly. She signed in with the receptionist and we sat in the waiting room. The room was gray and bare, the chairs were old vinyl that stuck to your thighs. The lights buzzed and seemed to flicker unless you were looking directly at them.
We sat side by side and stared straight ahead as if we were watching something, a movie.
There was one other woman waiting. She had enormous breasts. I could not help noticing.
I took my mother's hand. It was very cold, but then her hands were always cold, even in summer, cool and smooth with the blue veins arching elegantly over their backs. Her hand lay limply in mine. I had made the gesture thinking it was the right thing to do, but now that I had her hand I didn't know what to do with it. I patted it, turned it over.
My mother looked at me strangely. My hand began to sweat.
There was noise, activity, somewhere, we could hear voices and footsteps, the crash and skid of metal, the brisk tones of people telling each other what to do. But we could see nothing but the receptionist in her window and the one woman who looked asleep, sagging in her chair with her breasts cupped in her arms like babies.
I need to use the restroom, my mother said and pulled her hand away.
The receptionist directed us down the hall and around the corner. We went in, our footsteps echoing on the tiles. It was empty, and reeked of ammonia. The tiles glistened damply.
Here, do something with yourself, my mother said and handed me her comb. She walked down to the big handicapped stall on the end and latched the door.
I combed my hair and washed my hands and waited.
I looked at myself in the mirror. The lights were that harsh relentless kind that reveal every detail of your face, so that you can see all sorts of flaws and pores you didn't even know you had. They made you feel you could see your own thoughts floating darkly just under your skin, like bruises.
Mother, I said. I watched her feet tapping around.
Lisa, she said, there's a fish in the toilet.
No, I mean it. It's swimming around.
You're making it up.
No I'm not. Come see for yourself.
Well, it's probably just some pet goldfish someone tried to flush.
It's too big to be a goldfish. More like a carp. It's bright orange. Almost red.
You're seeing things--maybe it's blood or something, I said; then I wished I hadn't. The clinic was attached to the county hospital; all sorts of things were liable to pop up in the toilets--hypodermic needles, appendixes, tonsils.
No, no, it's a fish, it's beautiful really. It's got these gauzy fins, like veils. I wonder how it got in here. It looks too large to have come through the pipes. It's swimming in circles. Poor thing.
Well then come out and use a different one, I said. I suddenly started to worry that she was going to miss her appointment. You're just stalling, I said.
Come in and see. We have to save it somehow.
I heard her pulling up her pantyhose, fixing her skirt. Then she unlatched the door to the stall and opened it. She was smiling. Look, she said.
I followed her into the stall.
Come see, she said. Together we leaned over the bowl.
I saw only the toilet's bland white hollow, and our two identical silhouettes reflected in the water.
Now where did he go? my mother said. Isn't that the strangest thing?
We looked at the empty water.
How do you think he got out? she said. Look, you can see, the water's still moving from where he was. Look, look--little fish droppings. I swear. Lisa honey, look.
My mother is going crazy, I thought. Let's go back to the waiting room, I said.
But I still have to use the bathroom, she said.
I stood by the sink and waited. You're going to miss your appointment, I said. I watched her feet. Silence.
I was making her nervous. I'll wait for you in the hall, I said.
So I left, leaned against the wall, and waited. And waited. She was taking a long time. I started to wonder if she had been hallucinating. I wondered if something really was wrong with her, if she was bleeding internally or having a weird allergic reaction. I didn't think she was making it all up; she couldn't lie, she was a terrible, obvious liar.
Mother, I called.
Mom, I said.
I went back into the bathroom.
She was gone.
The stall doors swung loose, creaking. I checked each cubicle, thinking she might be standing on the toilet seat, with her head ducked down the way we used to avoid detection in high school. In the handicapped stall the toilet water was quivering, as if it had just been flushed. I even checked in the cabinets under the sink and stuck my hand down in the garbage pail.
I stood there, thinking. She must have somehow left and darted past me without my noticing. Maybe I had closed my eyes for a minute. She could move fast when she wanted to.
Had she climbed out the window? It was a small one, closed, high up on the wall.
She had escaped.
I walked slowly down the halls, listening, scanning the floor tiles.
I thought of her narrow back, the gaping mouth of the toilet, pictured her slipping down, whirling around and vanishing in the pipes.
I tried to formulate a reasonable question: Have you seen my mother? A woman, about my height, brown hair, green eyes? Nervous-looking? Have you seen her?
Or were her eyes hazel?
I came back to the waiting room with the question on my lips, I was mouthing the words she's disappeared, but when I got there the receptionist was leaning through the window calling out in an irritated voice: Ms. Salant? Ms. Salant? They're ready for you, Ms. Salant.
The receptionist was opening the door to the examining rooms; the nurses and technicians were holding out paper gowns and paper forms and urine sample cups, Ms. Salant, Ms. Salant, we're waiting, they called; people were everywhere suddenly, gesturing impatiently and calling out my name.
So I went in.
Later I wandered up and down the rows of painted white lines in the lot. I had forgotten where she parked the car. When I finally came upon it I saw her there, leaning against the bumper. For a moment I thought she was smoking a cigarette. She didn't smoke.
When I drew closer I saw that she was nibbling on a pen.
We got in the car and drove home.
All of a sudden I thought of something I wanted to pick up for dinner, she said at one point.
Some fish? I said.
We drove the rest of the way without speaking.
So how did it go today, ladies? my father said that evening.
My mother didn't say anything.
Did you go with her? he asked me. Yeah, I said.
So, you'll hear results in a few days, right? he said with his hand on my mother's back.
She looked away.
Right, I said.
She looked at me strangely, but said nothing.
NEXT > >
Copyright © 2000 by Judy Budnitz.
Photo Credit: Kate Milford