Eleven

It was a few weeks after the crying incident when Sarah got a call from Human Resources, asking her to come to the office immediately to answer some questions. She agreed and went upstairs before most people had come into the office. She was greeted by a woman in high-waisted pants and a blouse with a tied collar, a style that looked suspiciously like it had come from the pages of the 1985 J.C. Penney catalog. Sarah had the eerie feeling that she was stepping back in time.

“One of your coworkers reported inappropriate behavior between you and another employee,” the HR manager began.

Sarah’s heart was in her throat. “What kind of inappropriate behavior?” She was in a panic, thinking that she had wrongly criticized one of her employees, or said something off-color that had offended someone.

“We have been told that a male employee was embracing you on company property during business hours. As you are aware from the employee handbook, intra-company relationships are strictly forbidden.”

Sarah’s mind raced. She wasn’t having an affair with anyone. Who could they have mistaken her for? “I’m not really sure…” she began, then stopped. “I mean, I am seeing someone. Offline. Well, sort of. Occasionally. At his convenience, really, which pretty much sucks. But that’s really beside the point. He’s not an employee here. I don’t think he’s ever visited me at work, either.”

“We’re not speaking of Michael. Our anonymous tipster informs us that they witnessed you and,” the HR manager reached for her notes, “Jared Michaels with your arms around each other.”

Sarah burst out laughing, then tried to contain herself. “Oh, no. You don’t understand. You see, Jared is… well, he’s gay. I’m not divulging any big secrets here, because he’s out of the closet and all that. And it wasn’t an embrace as much as it was a reassuring hug. You know, the kind where you’re walking next to someone and you reach around and pull them close, shoulder to shoulder.”

The HR manager folded her hands, with skin that betrayed her age in a way that her impeccably made-up face and well-colored hair did not. In fact, cosmetically she gave off quite a different aura from her dated clothing. Her face alone almost seemed young. “While that is an interesting strategy to protect both of your jobs, that is not the information that I have heard,” she said, sternly.

“And exactly what have you heard?” asked Sarah, relieved by the fact that she knew that there was no impropriety in this case, and genuinely interested in what the rumor mill had to offer.

“My notes indicate frequent lunches together. Midday jaunts to the coffee shop. Quiet whispering in the kitchen.” She looked up at Sarah and handed her a piece of paper. “On your first day of employment, you did sign this form, acknowledging that you had received and read the employee handbook.

“And since when is male-female friendship against policy?” Sarah asked.

“It is against policy when you are sleeping with a coworker,” replied the HR manager.

“I can absolutely assure you that I am not,” Sarah said emphatically.

“Well, we’ll see what Mr. Michaels has to say about that. My colleague is questioning him in another room.”

Sarah panicked. What if Jared, being a joker, decided to play along and pretend that they were having an affair, just because he thought that the situation was absurdly funny? What if his sense of humor led to her losing her job? She was unable to contain the fear that flashed in her eyes. The HR manager noticed.

“Are you sure that there isn’t anything you would like to tell me about your relationship with Jared Michaels?” she asked. “Because the more upfront you are right now, the more likely it is that we can reach some sort of equitable arrangement to conclude your tenure.”

“You’re so certain about this that you’re already telling me that I’m fired?” Sarah asked, astonished.

She smiled with a barely contained joy at the thought of a termination proceeding. “I wouldn’t have brought you in here if I wasn’t.”

Sarah wasn’t sure what to do next. Should she tell the HR manager about her family situation and how much she was worrying about her mother and grandmother? Should she tell her about how helpful (in his own, strange way) Jared had been during this time? Should she tell her about her lackluster relationship with Michael, and how she was sure that this was going nowhere, but that she didn’t know how to extract herself from something that had been going on for so long? Half a dozen thoughts were racing through her brain when there was a knock at the HR manager’s door. A man opened the door, motioned to Sarah’s inquisitor to join him outside in the hallway. There was much banter between the two, but just below the threshold where Sarah could hear or understand any of it. Finally, her HR manager returned to the office and pulled out a file folder.

“It says in your personnel report that you were the youngest director in the company’s history,” she said. “Someone must have seen something special in you.”

Sarah was on the defensive. “It might have been my tendency to work 22 hours a day, but I could be wrong. It also might have something to do with an ivy-league degree.”

“Your first boss was male, correct?” The HR manager had Sarah’s file in hand, so she already knew the answers to the questions that she was asking.

Sarah didn’t like where this line of questioning was headed. “Yes,” she replied, opting for brevity to keep the floodgates of anger from opening up and drowning this woman.

The HR manager leaned across the desk. “I know your kind. Don’t think that you’ll be able to rely on your youth and looks forever.”

“I haven’t relied on them yet,” said Sarah.

“Of course you haven’t,” she said with an artificial, pinched smile. “Well, after discussing the situation with my colleague, we have decided to let both of you go with just a warning in your permanent file.”

“I see,” Sarah replied.

“But don’t think that we believed Mr. Michaels’s elaborate theatrics for one moment. No one—and I do mean no one—is that flamboyant. He shouldn’t take lessons in ‘how to act like a gay man’ from Liberace or Charles Nelson Reilly.”

Sarah had to stifle a laugh. She had always thought that he had more of an Elton John-ish quality about him, but the image of Charles Nelson Reilly sitting on his Match Game perch, replaced with Jared in Charles Nelson Reilly’s giant glasses was almost too much for her to handle.

“Now,” the HR manager said sternly, “I suggest that going forward, you will be far more cautious about your choice of associates and on-site behavior.”

Sarah nodded and the HR manager stared blankly, waiting for the next instruction. After a lengthy pause, she suddenly realized that she had been excused. She awkwardly rose from her chair and hurried to the door, fumbling with the knob as she rushed to exit. She practically ran down the hall to the stairwell, and as the heavy fire door closed behind her, she slumped to the step, clutched her head in her hands and sighed with the frustration of it all.

“Is that you?” she heard Jared’s voice echo in the cavernous stairwell.

She looked around, not sure where the voice was coming from. “Yeah. Where are you?”

“6th. Are you still on 8th?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. I didn’t hear more than a few footsteps.” She heard him approaching, taking the steps two at a time.

“Oh, don’t come closer,” she said sarcastically. “It might confirm our affair.”

He popped into view below her. “Who the hell is the ass-clown who reported us, and why?”

“I have no idea,” she replied. “Clearly it was no one who knows you. It’s not like you hide your orientation.”

“I mean, for god’s sake, I can’t act any swishier. To day that you’re having an affair with me is like saying that you’re having an affair with...”

“Charles Nelson Reilly?” she chimed in.

“Oh god, no. No! I was thinking more like the suave, debonair Rock Hudson type, although that would make you more of a Doris Day.” He paused for a moment, then returned to the celebrity comparisons. “Why the hell would you say Charles Nelson Reilly?” he asked.

“Evidently that’s the vibe you conveyed.” Jared gasped in horror at the thought. “What the heck did you say to your inquisitor, anyway?” Sarah wished that she could have been a fly on the wall for that conversation.

“Nothing of consequence. I told him that they had it all wrong. You and I had much the same taste in men: emotionally and physically unavailable. I told him about Michael and how I secretly covet your boyfriend when he’s around and attentive. I also told him that there was no excuse for wearing that shirt with that tie.” Jared shook his head at the memory of it. “Talk about clashing patterns!”

Sarah tried to drag his attention back to the matter at hand. “Well, it appears that they thought that your gayness was all an act.”

“Oh please,” Jared said. “I’m impeccably dressed and I spend 90% of my time so visibly flamingly gay that I could set your curtains on fire, and yet they doubt me?”

“I’m afraid so, my dear. Evidently they don’t think that real gay people act quite that gay.”

“Ha!” he exclaimed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“They live sheltered lives up there in HR,” she said, pointing at the door. “What can I say? Evidently all of their mandated trainings about diversity and acceptance don’t include, ‘how to identify the gayest gay man on staff.’”

“They’ll need a remedial course.” He shook his head. “Have you had your coffee yet today?”

“No, and I need it.”

“Well, let’s go.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her up to standing.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea under the circumstances?” she asked. “I feel like we’re treading on thin ice.”

“There is no Grand Inquisitor that is going to stand between me, you and fancy coffee drinks,” he said matter-of-factly. “We’re going.”

“Didn’t you tell them that you drink foufoucinos? That would have been a dead giveway.”

“No, I didn’t think of it. Maybe I should.” He turned and headed for the door as if he were on his way back to HR.

“Yeah, and while you’re at it, tell them that we’re going out for coffee, and ask them if they want anything.”

“Funny girl,” he said, smiling.

“You know that we still need to figure out who reported us,” she said.

“Don’t worry, I will,” he replied. “I have connections.”

“Then how come these connections didn’t warn us about HR before we got the urgent meeting request?”

“You ask too many questions. Shut up and let’s get caffeine.”

Ten

As time passed, the conversations with her mother became increasingly surreal, and clearly revealed that Kathy had lost touch with the inevitability of her mother’s rapidly approaching demise. She would call in the morning, flush with excitement.

“I saw a segment on the news about a new experimental treatment that I think could help Mom,” she would say. Sarah tried to point out to her that Dottie was too far gone for experimental anything, and even if she wasn’t, what exactly did Kathy think was the source of the problem? “I think it might be some form of fibromyalgia,” she would say one day. Another day was cancer. Yet another was a parasitic infection, or mad cow disease.

One day, Sarah lost patience. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe she’s dying of plain old ordinary failure? Old age?”

“She’s not dying,” Kathy said. “She just needs the right treatment.”

“Oh for god’s sake, Mom. She’s dying. It’s clear to everyone but you. This isn’t reversible unless you have a time machine and can head back a few years.”

“I don’t understand why you’re giving up,” Kathy said. “I didn’t raise you to be a quitter.”

“This isn’t about quitting, Mom. It’s about being realistic. And the reality is that she’s dying.”

“We’re all dying, Sarah,” her mother said pointedly. “It’s just a matter of when.”

“Yes, I understand that, but you do have to understand that her time is much closer than others. It’s obvious.”

“It’s nothing of the kind,” Kathy said. “I know that with the right doctor….”

Sarah could take no more. “Mom, I have to go. I have a meeting.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“No, just frustrated as hell.”

“Why?”

Sarah had a list of frustrations a mile long, but didn’t have the time or patience to list them. “It doesn’t matter right now. I have to go or I’ll be late.”

“Ok, I’ll call you back later.” Today it sounded more like a threat than a promise. She got up from her desk, headed for the ladies’ room and sat in the stall, trying meditative yoga breathing to calm herself. But the breathing only served to sound like she was doing something illicit behind the locked door. She emerged from the restroom feeling exhausted and defeated, a winning combination for a Monday morning.

She met Jared in the hall on her way back to her cube. He could instantly see that whatever had happened that morning was not a laughing matter. He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “It’s ok, Sares. It’ll be ok.” His open display of caring and affection caught her so off guard that she began to cry, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. He shuffled her into the kitchenette to give her some privacy.

“She doesn’t…” Sarah began.

“Shhhh. I know. It’s nothing new.”

“So why does it bother me so much today?” Sarah asked between sobs. “Why do I care that she’s being completely unreasonably optimistic?”

“Because you love her and you know how hard she’s going to fall. Because you want her to set her hopes lower because you don’t want to see her crushed.”

Sarah blotted at her tears with a coarse brown paper towel. “But I know that there’s nothing that I can do.”

“Knowing that you can’t help doesn’t change the fact that you hate that you can’t.”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?” she asked.

“Years of therapy.”

Sarah snorted. “I’m glad that your years of therapy are finally paying off for me.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled, waved a finger as if to tell her to wait, then darted out of the kitchen. He returned with a box of tissues. “These have to be better for your face than those sheets of sandpaper.”

“Yeah, but they don’t exfoliate in quite the same way.” She finally cracked a smile as she said it.

The days went on like this for weeks. Some days were good, some bad, but Sarah never fully let go of her quest to convince her mother that her grandmother was dying. Kathy, on the other hand, was hearing none of it. She bought medicinal herbs and special teas to help nurse her mother back to health, but Dottie continued to weaken. Sarah remained amazed by how far the human body could deteriorate before the soul or life force or whatever it was that kept you breathing finally gave way.

Kathy had been at Dottie’s house on a full-time basis for six months when she called Sarah one Tuesday.

“Hello?” Sarah began.

“She can’t have my jewelry.”

Sarah was confused. “What?”

“She can’t have my jewelry.”

“What? Who?”

“Your father’s new wife.”

Sarah stopped for a moment. “New wife? What’s happening to his old wife?”

“Just promise me that she can’t have my jewelry.”

“Why would she want it? You don’t have anything of value.”

“She’ll give it to her girls. They’re young enough not to know better.”

“Who’s young enough?” Sarah practically shouted. “What are you talking about?”

“Your father is having an affair.”

Sarah scoffed. “Get out. You’ve been watching too much daytime television.” Kathy did not respond. “What makes you think he’s having an affair?” She heard Jared pop up out of his chair and scurry to her doorway to listen in.

“I just know. She’s younger.”

Sarah tried to play it off with sarcasm. “Well, sure she is. Nobody has an affair with an older woman. Not at Dad’s age.”

“Just promise me—promise me—that you won’t let her have any of it. Throw it away if you have to, but don’t let her have it.”

“Ok,” Sarah said hesitantly.

“Promise!”

“Ok, I promise.”

“Good. Grandma needs me. I have to go.”

Sarah sat there with her headset on, long after her mother had hung up the phone. Jared waited patiently.

“Is she serious?” she asked him.

“You tell me. They’re your parents.”

“I can’t really imagine my father taking the time, and yet she seems so completely certain….”

“Are you sure that it’s not too much daytime television?” Jared asked.

“I asked that, but it seemed to offend her.”

“Geez, wonder why?” Jared said sarcastically.

Sarah thought about it. Who on earth would he have an affair with? Did she know the woman? Did she know anyone with young girls? How young was this younger woman? Three years? Five? Fifteen? She shook her head. She didn’t really believe any of this, did she?

“Well, do you believe her?” Jared asked.

“No, not at all,” she replied. “Mostly. You know, because I’ve known my father for 30 years and he just doesn’t seem like… wow, do you really think that he’s cheating?”

“I can’t answer that for you.”

“Why the hell not? You have an answer for everything else.”

“Sorry, this is outside my area of expertise,” Jared admitted. “I try to stick with the love lives and family relationships of the under-35 crowd, not the AARP crowd.”

“What good are you?” she asked.

“None whatsoever.” He retreated to his cubicle and left her tapping a highlighter against the edge of the desk, staring into space and wondering if anything that her mother said was possibly grounded in reality. She was increasingly retreating into her own little universe, and it seemed plausible that her mother’s capacity for clear, objective thought was vanishing as well. And yet… there was a grain of the story that stuck with Sarah, and she kept coming back to it, rubbing it around like an oyster creating a pearl. The pearl grew larger and larger with each passing day until it threatened to overwhelm her. And yet, from that day forward, her mother never again mentioned the accusation. Whether it was a moment’s passing speculation or something more, Sarah didn’t know. She simply wished that if there was large doubt-provoking information out there, that her mother would keep it to herself unless she was certain enough to take action on it and clarify her position once and for all.

Nine

The line at the coffee shop was longer than she had expected for this time of the morning, but she needed the break. Jared had an amazing ability to boost her spirits, point out the absurdities of life and just listen when she needed to talk. Sure, he played the role of The Flighty Gay Friend in public, but in private he was understanding and always supportive.

They came to this coffee shop so often that the baristas saw them, said hello by name, and had their orders complete before they had even made it to the register. Sarah always drank classic lattes, the same kind that you could find in a European coffeehouse. Jared, predictably, always ordered a complex frou-frou drink complete with flavored syrup, whipped cream and a straw.

They snagged the primo table in the corner: two oversized plush chairs with giant wings and brightly colored velvet that was fading from sunlight and wear. Sarah sank into the chair and cradled her cup in her hands. She loved the way the heat from a fresh cup of coffee penetrated her fingertips, regardless of the season. Jared would usually mock her for the placid look on her face as she just held the cup, but today he refrained. He could tell that this was not the day.

“So what’s up with your mom?” he asked.

Sarah shook her head, not really sure where to begin. “I think she might be slowly losing her mind.”

Jared started to speak, sarcasm at the ready, but then thought better of it. “What happened today?”

“I don’t know,” Sarah said. “Nothing out of the ordinary, really. I don’t think that she’s come to grips with my grandmother’s mortality. I think there’s a big part of her that thinks that she can nurse my grandmother back to health.”

“So?” Jared asked. “I’d think that a certain level of optimism is required in this sort of role.”

“It is. I understand that. It’s just that… I don’t know what, exactly.” She paused to contemplate the situation and sip on her latte. “You see, I think that she’s taking care of Grandma because of the guilt and obligation thing: what would people think if she put her mother into a home? And I think that the same sort of thinking applies to ‘healing’ Grandma. If she can’t make her better, then what kind of a daughter is she, and what will people think? Does that make any sense at all?”

“In general? No.” Jared was nothing if not honest. “And yet, having heard as many stories as I have about your family, on some level this seems perfectly normal. And I can’t really believe that I’m saying that.”

“You see my dilemma, then,” Sarah observed. “I can see both sides of it, and I want to be on the reasonable, rational outsider side, but instead I keep seeing the irrational, guilt-stricken insider side.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t really know,” Sarah confessed. “Grandma has already outlived my expectations. I didn’t expect her to make it through the summer. And yet here we are again. If I knew that the end was close, I would go home and spend the remainder of the time helping my mother get through this and easing my grandmother out. But then again, if I had done it when I first thought that it was time, I would have been there for six months already.” She sighed, paralyzed. “And I’ll bet that I don’t look like much of a daughter or granddaughter for staying away as long as I have. What will people think?” She said the last sentence with sarcastic emphasis.

“The people who know you know that you’ve done everything you can to help your mother without quitting your job and putting your life on hold. And honestly, no one expects you to do that.”

“Are you sure about that? Because I know at least one person who does.”

“Look, it’s bad enough that your mother has stalled time and is living one endless day with an incontinent, catatonic old woman. Two people will not improve the situation; it will just double the misery.”

“But I don’t want to leave my mother hanging,” Sarah said. “I want to be able to help her. The stress is unbearable. Not just the worry, but the physical stress of lifting a limp body into and out of bed. She’s dead weight. She doesn’t help at all. And my mother is doing this all alone.”

“What about your father?” Jared asked.

“He’ll go over and help a bit, but in the end this is between my mother and her mother. Nobody ever really expects the men to do anything. It’s weird, really.”

“So is he spending all of his time at home?”

“I guess so,” Sarah said. “Between going to work and doing his woodworking in the workshop, I guess that he doesn’t have a lot of ‘free’ time to help out.”

“That’s too bad,” Jared said. “She could use his help.”

“I know,” Sarah admitted. “But I’m pretty sure that he thinks that Grandma should be in a nursing home, and this might be his own personal silent protest. You don’t get a lot of words in edgewise with my mother.” She dribbled coffee onto her sweater and rushed to get napkins to blot the stain.

“Fortunately, you wore the camel today,” Jared noted. “The coffee stain should match perfectly.”

She shook her head. “I feel like a klutz.”

“You are, sometimes. But it’s charming.” He tossed an extra napkin her way. “What about a visiting nurse?”

“No, I’m fine. It didn’t burn me at all.”

“Not you, you nitwit! For your grandmother.”

Sarah stared for a moment before speaking. “I think it’s clear that my brain isn’t functioning the way that it should.”

“So what about it?”

“My brain or the nurse?”

“The nurse.”

“No deal. What if she comes in and steals things?”

Jared laughed. “You can’t be serious. What is there to steal?”

“Evidently some old pottery or something. It’s supposed to be very valuable, but I’ve stared at it for almost 30 years and never saw any value in it at all. She also has some business cards, but they’re in the attic that’s so difficult to get to that no one has been up there since my grandfather died in the 1970s. It’s so completely unlikely that a nurse would take anything anyway, but it’s just another excuse.”

“Did your mother originally set out to be a martyr?”

“I don’t know,” Sarah admitted, “but she’s doing a very good job of it now.” She grew quiet and fidgeted with her cup.

“You’re worried about her, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, of course I am. I just don’t know what to do for her. I want to get her a Grandma-sitter and send her out for a day. Actually, I’d like for her to go to a doctor and get checked out to make sure that the stress isn’t really killing her. But barring that—which I know will never, ever happen—I’d love for her to just get out and get her hair done or get a manicure or something. Just to take her mind off of things.”

“But you know that would have the absolute opposite effect,” Jared observed. “She would only be more uptight and stressed out because she had dared to leave the house.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Sarah said. “I can’t win here, can I?”

“Nope, I don’t think so.”

“Could you do it?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Put your life on hold and care for a dying parent for an indefinite period of time?”

“Well, there are a variety of factors at play here, not the least of which is the fact that, as you mentioned, guys are not expected to do that sort of thing for their parents.”

“Oh, so you’re a guy now?” Sarah feigned surprise. “Since when?”

“Aren’t you the funny one today?”

“Give me points for trying, ok?”

“Try harder next time,” he said with a smirk. “Point number two is that my mother would be so shocked to see me come home that it would flat-out kill her on the spot, so the long-term care aspect would be irrelevant.”

“Good point. Nobody would really expect you to roll back in after a decade of being disowned.”

“Exactly. So the best I can do is hypothetical situations here. And third, I suppose that putting your life on hold would require having a life.”

“Oh shut up. You have a life.”

“No I do not. I spend most of my weekends at home with my Tivo.”

“So do I,” Sarah said.

“And you have just made my point for me.”

“I have a life!” she protested.

“No you don’t. You have an intense job, a sometimes boyfriend and a crazy travel schedule. This is not a life.”

“I’ve been all around the world!”

“It does not count as ‘seeing the world’ if you primarily see the inside of planes, airports, hotel rooms and manufacturing facilities,” Jared pointed out. “When was the last time you went sightseeing?”

“Uh… does a class trip in 1989 count?”

Jared laughed and looked at his watch. “Come on, Cinderella. You have staff meeting in 10 minutes.”

“No thanks,” she replied. “I’ll just sit here and wait to turn into a pumpkin.”

“Pumpkin season is over, sweetie, and orange is so not your color.” Jared quickly slipped back into his stereotypical flaming gay man persona, complete with a sashay over to the garbage can to dispose of his frou-frou drink cup.

She gathered up her used napkins and empty cup and headed for the garbage, stopping to kiss Jared on the cheek as she went by.

“What was that for?” he asked, surprised.

“For being the other Jared for the last 30 minutes. I love you both, but I really needed the other Jared today.”

He bowed with a flourish. “Anything you need, m’lady. I’m your man.” He winked, laughed and headed for the door.

Eight

In hindsight, the start of Dottie’s slow descent was obvious. What seemed to be a basic, run of the mill cold slowly morphed into something deeper, a pneumonia that left her breathless and weak, two words that had never been used to describe her before. But in the early days of her illness, no one suspected that a simple cold would have such a profound effect on a woman who had survived three kinds of cancer, a cracked vertebra from a horseback riding accident and splitting her head open after falling on an icy sidewalk.

Slowly, she began to avoid doing things that she once enjoyed. The first time Kathy realized that something was wrong was when her mother asked her to return clothes to Winslow’s for her because she didn’t feel up to going to the mall herself. Soon she started skipping lunches with her friends, and then canceling appointments with the hairdresser. To look at her, you would have seen an average 85 year old woman, but Dottie had never shown her age. She didn’t go out because she didn’t feel well and she didn’t feel well because she didn’t go out. She became weaker and weaker, her shoulders more stooped and her walk less steady. By the time spring arrived, she was barely leaving the house; by mid-summer, she could hardly make it up the stairs to her bedroom. In mid-September, Kathy and Steve set up a mini-bedroom in Dottie’s dining room, and she never climbed the stairs again.

Yet she remained defiant as always. Her mind was sharp even as her body softened. She continued to do the daily crossword puzzle and shout the Jeopardy! answers at the television screen. Kathy visited at least twice a day, and helped her prepare small meals for herself, but Dottie was still largely independent.

With the arrival of another winter came another bout of pneumonia. Dottie spent nearly a week in the hospital, and in spite of the fact that they sent her to a transitional physical therapy unit to help her regain strength after six days in bed, her physical capacities had greatly diminished, and her mental acuity was only a fraction of what it had been just a few months earlier. She could no longer rise from her chair without assistance, and she required Kathy’s assistance to get into bed at night. Kathy left a phone beside her bed so that she could call if she needed anything before morning, but Dottie was too proud to even consider such a foolish thing. By the time she most needed Kathy’s help, in the middle of the second winter, a combination of fading memory and declining motor skills left her unable to dial the phone.

Kathy was hysterical about the turn of events. Her initial optimism about her mother’s recovery was replaced, not with an acceptance of her death, but an almost paralyzing fear of long term incapacity. She started to spend her nights at her mother’s house, sleeping upright in the armchair, listening for signs of distress. During the day, she would take short breaks and go back to her own house to shower, do laundry and generally pretend that everything was still normal. But Dottie’s condition deteriorated further still, and slowly Kathy began spending all of her time at her mother’s house, watching the hollow shell of her mother stare off into space.

Sarah would get calls from her mother five and six times a day. Kathy, desperate to speak to someone, would call Sarah at work. Most of the time she would try to keep the conversation light, chatting about neighbors—what else?—and the endless amounts of daytime television that she was watching throughout the day.

“I was watching Maury this morning,” she would begin, and Sarah would tune her out. Periodically she would hear words like “paternity” and “in tears”, but for the most part, Sarah didn’t care about the plight of the women that went on national television for those “Who’s my babydaddy?” shows. I mean, wasn’t it bad enough that these girls were pregnant? Did they really need to announce on national TV that they didn’t know which of five guys was the father? Sarah was no prude, but she found that those sorts of shows gave her the creeps in a way that no other television could.

Jared popped his head up over the wall. “Is she talking about Montel again?”

Sarah muted her headset. “Maury.”

“Same difference,” Jared scoffed. “Why on earth doesn’t she watch something better?”

“Have you ever been home during the day? Have you seen what’s on? Let’s see, you have the horrible acting of the soaps. You have any one of a dozen choices of courtroom shows that might as well all be called ‘Judge Jackass’. And then there are the talk shows. They’re as bad as the soaps, but at least they have the excuse of being unscripted.”

Jared shook his head. “You have thought about this waaaaay too much.”

“Remember last month when I was home with the flu for three days? I had hoped that I was just hallucinating how bad the shows were. I wasn’t. They were still that bad after the fever broke.”

“So what do you think?” Sarah heard Kathy ask.

“Shit!” Sarah fumbled for the mute button. “I’m sorry, Mom. Someone came into my office.” She fired a look at Jared, who laughed. “What was that last part?”

“I was asking what you thought about me taking Mom to someplace warm. For a vacation. You know, to rehabilitate her.”

Sarah paused, looking for a way to delicately point our that her grandmother had become an incontinent invalid and couldn’t sit up on her own couch, let alone in a car or airline seat, and the prospect of getting onto a plane might very well kill Dottie altogether. “Well, you know, it’s a nice idea and all that, but I wonder if it might not be too… uh… ambitious.”

“I didn’t say it was going to be easy,” Kathy said. “I would probably need your father to come along. Or you. Maybe we can go to Florida.”

“Uh, how? Driving?”

“Sure, why not? The three generations on a road trip!” Kathy was so excited about the idea that Sarah wondered if she was on something.

“Wow, that’s quite an idea, Mom, but I think that maybe….” She stopped, unsure of how to proceed. “My travel schedule is pretty tight this month. Let’s talk about it again when I’m back from Singapore.”

“You’re avoiding the topic, aren’t you?” Kathy accused.

“Well, yes. Actually, I am.”

“Don’t you understand?” Kathy’s voice sounded like a plea. “I need to get away from here. Even if it’s just for an hour.”

“What about an elder care nurse?” asked Sarah. “They can come in and take care of the basics for you.”

“Absolutely not!” Kathy exclaimed. “I’d be afraid that they would steal your grandmother’s things.”

“What things?” Sarah asked. “She has nothing of value.”

“She has some glassware that’s valuable,” Kathy said defiantly.

“Really? What?”

“Those blue and white earthenware pitchers. They’re antiques.”

“They’re also hideously ugly,” Sarah noted. “I’ve seen those things for nearly 30 years and always assumed that they came from a flea market. I doubt that any home care nurse will be well-versed in ugly earthenware pitchers.”

“I can’t take that chance,” Kathy said.

“Honestly, Mom, that’s ridiculous.”

“Well, what about her baseball cards?”

“Where are they?” Sarah asked.

“In the attic.”

“Let me get this straight: if you take two hours to go out on your own, you think that a visiting nurse will get the ladder out of the garage, haul it up the stairs, go into the attic, rummage through all the boxes and maybe—just maybe—find a dozen valuable baseball cards? And then put everything back the way it was so that you’re not suspicious when you get home?”

She could hear Jared in near hysterics on the other side of the wall. She pounded on the panel with her left fist, which only made him laugh harder.

“You make it all sound so ridiculous,” Kathy said huffily.

“I don’t think it’s me….” Sarah said, leaving the thought hanging.

“Oh, shut up. You could at least be nice to me. I’m under quite a lot of stress, you know!’

“I know, Mom,” Sarah said. “I’m sorry that I can’t be there to help you. I know that you need a break.”

“No, I’m fine, really,” said Kathy unconvincingly. “I just need to build Mom’s strength up a bit more, and then she can start doing things for herself again. Maybe I can talk with her doctor about getting her back into some sort of rehabilitation or physical therapy program.”

Listening to her talk that way saddened Sarah. She knew that her grandmother was beyond the point of no return, and she was concerned that her mother hadn’t yet come to grips with that fact. Nonetheless, it was easier to go along with it than to rock the boat and confront her with the truth.

“When was the last time you talked to her doctor?” Sarah asked.

“About a week ago. I wanted to see what I could do for her… digestive distress.” Her mother never spoke openly about unsavory things; she merely hinted at their existence. “He didn’t really have much of a solution, but I’ve been feeding her more bananas every day and that seems to help the problem.”

“That’s… good, I guess. You certainly want her to be as comfortable as possible when she can’t really help herself out.”

“Once she’s feeling better…”

Sarah never heard the rest of the thought. She pulled the headset from her ear and placed it on the desk, rubbing her forehead to make the sharp pain go away. This was starting to happen every time she spoke to her mother. The collective stress of three generations manifested itself in a red hot poker behind Sarah’s left eyeball. She popped two Excedrin, put the headset back on and noticed that her mother was still talking, unaware of her absence.

“Listen, Mom, I have to go. Someone’s here for a meeting. Can I talk to you later?”

“Of course. Love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.” Sarah hung up the phone and turned to find Jared standing in her doorway.

“She’s killing you, isn’t she?” he asked.

“Slowly but surely.”

“Have you had your coffee yet?” he asked.

Sarah surveyed her desk. No cup was in sight. Maybe this was the source of her headache today. “No, I don’t think I have. Want to take a walk?”

“It’s better than working!” Jared practically skipped towards the door.

“You do realize that you can be gay without acting gay,” she pointed out.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh honey! Where’s the fun in that?”

Seven

“I told your grandmother that she should have come with me for this visit,” Kathy said while examining a pair of boots in the floor mirror. “I don’t know why she’s so afraid of flying.”

“Everything is scary until you do it once,” said Sarah. “Think about it: the first day of a new job, or the first time you ride a bike… they’re scary things, but not nearly as scary as the thought of something the size of a whale being able to leave the ground. It’s really an absurd concept, when you think about it. What were we thinking?”

“But statistically, it’s more dangerous to ride in a car,” Kathy pointed out, as though she needed to convince Sarah, too.

“Statistics have nothing to do with familiarity. I knew a guy once who would ski at absolutely horrifying speeds, bungee jump, ride motorcycles and go rock climbing without ropes to support him. But he was absolutely terrified of flying. It was statistically safer than most of the things he did for fun, but he wasn’t nearly as comfortable with it.”

“I just don’t understand it,” Kathy said. “And I just know that she’s sitting at home, thinking that I’m a terrible daughter for leaving town for a few days. I feel so guilty about it.”

“Don’t feel guilty. It’s her choice.” Sarah held up a pair of red mary janes. “I don’t know why, but I like these. They look like good shoes for walking the city, something nicer than my bulky running shoes.”

“So buy them,” Kathy said. “One in each color.”

“I don’t like them that much,” said Sarah. “One pair will do.”

“Your choice,” her mother said with a shrug. “Maybe I should buy a pair of shoes for Grandma. Something to show her that I’m thinking about her.”

“Oh no. She won’t keep them. It’s just one more thing to return, and then you’ll feel bad that she’s returning them. No. Just give her a call to let her know that you’re thinking of her.”

“I do call,” Kathy said. “You know that I call her three times a day.”

Sarah was amused by the way her mother underestimated the number of calls per day. As far as she could tell, her mother and grandmother had spoken at least seven times each day. But Sarah assumed that her mother was only counting the calls that might have some substance, like the end-of-day recap, rather than quickies like, “I heard on the radio that they’re running an expose on supermarkets on 60 Minutes tonight.”

The calls really had nothing to do with television schedules. It was Kathy’s way of making sure that her mother was ok, and more importantly, that she was still speaking to her. Convinced that there was a boatload of resentment about this and any other trip, Kathy lived in fear that her mother would one day cease to speak to her. After all of these years of living for and through her mother, Kathy was terrified by the thought of being out in the world on her own, having to think and feel for herself.

Sarah knew the feeling. In spite of the fact that she was subject to the same forces, she never really understood why. It was like gravity. Sure, she knew that if you dropped an object, it fell to the floor. But the complexities of the “why” behind it were somewhat more complicated. Much like physics, she was sure that whole thesis programs could be easily based on the strength of the pull between generations, and how that force caused things to be drawn together, yet simultaneously be pulled apart. Physics teaches you that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, but in families it’s modified to say, “every action has a disproportionally larger overreaction.”

“And how is she today?” Sarah asked.

“Oh, she says she’s fine, but I can tell that she’s not,” Kathy said while flagging a salesperson to bring her an 8 ½. “She’s upset with me. And that makes me more upset.”

“Mom, you have to let it go,” Sarah began for the jillionth time. “You don’t have to feel guilty about everything in the world. You can’t spend your entire life sitting at Grandma’s house because you’re afraid that every move you make is wrong.”

“I don’t have to worry that every move is wrong. Every move is wrong. This is Grandma, remember?” Kathy stopped herself, unable to even say that much without feeling guilty. “But she is my mother and your grandmother, and she deserves our respect. You just need to remember that it’s important not to upset her, and to treat her with respect. Because, you know, she deserves it. All she wants is our respect, because she’s earned it over the years.”

“Mom, you’re repeating yourself,” Sarah pointed out.

“I just don’t think you understand,” Kathy said, black stiletto boot in hand. “We have to show her respect as a sign of her authority. Otherwise, the guilt comes out. She uses guilt to get what she wants in life.”

“Oh, that doesn’t sound like anyone I know,” Sarah said with ample sarcasm. “Not at all.”

“What? Who?”

“You!” Sarah said, her tone clearly stating that this was the world’s most obvious conclusion.

“I have never used guilt to influence your life!” Kathy exclaimed.

“Oh, no, never. ‘What would people think, Sarah?’ Or how about the old favorite: ‘I’m not angry. I’m just very disappointed in you.’”

“I don’t say those things!”

Sarah practically threw a snakeskin pump at her mother. “What the hell are you talking about? You say that stuff all the time!”

“Never! I would never say those things to you!”

Sarah quickly rattled off examples. There was the time that she was late getting home for Sunday dinner because she fell off her bike. The wheel of the bike—and fortunately not Sarah—was jutting out into the road and was run over by a passing car. A bloodied, scraped-up Sarah struggled home with a bike that wouldn’t roll. Kathy, having received a stern lecture about respecting others’ time, told Sarah that she wasn’t angry that she was home late, just very disappointed. When Sarah tried to protest that there was no way that she could have predicted a bike accident, her mother made certain that she knew that the guilt and disappointment were coming from two generations. Her knees would heal, but she had “breached trust” with her mother that wouldn’t be easily repaired. There was the time that she was caught eating chocolate cupcakes at a friend’s 8th birthday party, a food that her mother had forbidden. “How can I trust you?” Kathy asked. “Every time I let you out of my sight, you disobey me. I’m very disappointed in you.”

Kathy sat before her, jaw dropped. “I never said that,” she said quietly.

“Yes, you did. I remember both instances quite clearly.”

“Oh my god,” Kathy whispered. “I’m just like her.”

“No,” Sarah said, trying to cushion the blow. “Not exactly. You’re much warmer and more caring and giving. But there are times where it’s clear whose daughter you are.”

Kathy looked stricken. “That’s not the way I want to be,” she said, her tone almost begging for forgiveness. “I never wanted to be like that. Not with you.”

“I know, Mom.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Kathy asked.

“Well, I mean, I thought you knew.” Sarah couldn’t imagine how this could be a surprise. “You know, it would be like telling you that you have blue eyes.”

“Wow. It’s really that obvious?”

“I’m afraid so, Mom. But never fear. I still speak to you in spite of it all.” She tried to make her tone playful and light, but her mother was crushed to the core.

“Is this why you moved away?” Kathy asked.

“I moved because I was offered a job,” Sarah said. “I wouldn’t have gone anywhere without it.”

“But no one else’s daughters moved away. Just you. Oh my god, is this because you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you, Mom. I don’t like everything you say or do, but I’m not supposed to. I’m your daughter.”

“You don’t hate me?” Kathy was desperately looking for validation now.

“No, clearly I do not hate you. I wouldn’t take this kind of abuse from someone I hated.” She flashed a big smile and tried to get her mother to laugh at her joke, however lame.

“Not funny, Sarah. You’re making me feel awful.”

“At least you don’t look awful. You could be wearing that hideous paisley ruffled shirt!” They both chuckled at the thought of it. “Come on, let’s get these shoes and go back to my place.”

Kathy held two mismatched boots in her hands. “I don’t know which one to pick,” she said, still reeling.

“Buy both,” Sarah said. “It’s in our genes. You couldn’t even dream of buying just one pair.”

“No,” Kathy admitted. “You’re probably right. Everything enters the house in groups. Why is that?”

“We hoard,” Sarah said.

“What?”

“We hoard,” Sarah repeated.

“Oh, I thought you said something about whores,” Kathy said.

“Why would I say anything about whores? What does that have to do with shoes?”

“I have no idea,” Kathy answered. “That really didn’t make any sense at all.”

Sarah shook her head. “So are you going to be buying these or not?”

Kathy looked at the two boots and weighed them in her hands, as though this were a deciding factor, then looked at the mates on her feet. She stood and limped over to the mirror, one heel and one flat, then turned to examine each carefully. “I really can’t decide. They’re both cute, but not really what I’m looking for.”

“Then don’t get either,” Sarah said.

“I guess I’ll get both,” her mother replied.

“Good,” Sarah said. “Grandma will be pleased.”

Six

Every few months, Kathy came to visit Sarah in Washington. As was the custom on these visits, they would go shopping, just like they had at home. Kathy would wander the racks, picking out clothes that she thought would be just perfect for Sarah. Sarah was largely convinced that her mother lived in a parallel universe, complete with a daughter who wore the kind of clothes that Kathy would pick out. The real Sarah, however, would not be caught dead in a tweed blazer with elbow patches (“But it’s Ralph Lauren, and it’s marked down 40% with an additional 30% off at the register!”) or a long, flowing skirt that reminded Sarah of the schoolteacher on Little House on the Prairie.

Sarah carried around an armload of clothes to try on: fitted blazers, crisp white blouses and delicate cashmere cable sweaters that always looked put-together without looking like she was trying too hard. She caught up with her mother, deep within the sale racks, carrying an eclectic assortment of clothing in the weird colors and patterns that tend to remain at the end of a season. “I’m heading into the fitting room. Do you want me to take any of that in with me?”

Kathy sighed. “I don’t understand why you try clothes on here. The lighting is unflattering. The rooms are small. And god only knows what you might step on in there. Keep your shoes on.”

“Mom, I refuse to be like you and Grandma. I’m not going to buy a dozen random items, take them home to try on, and then return 11 of them. That’s how Grandma got banned from Winslow’s.” The previous year, Winslow’s had sent her grandmother a letter, calling her on her buy-and-return habits and suggesting that if she found the merchandise to be so unacceptable as to warrant a 95% return rate, then perhaps she would be better served shopping elsewhere. Dottie was indignant, but that didn’t stop her from shopping at Winslow’s. She simply stopped using her Winslow’s card to make her purchases.

“She wasn’t banned, Sarah.” Kathy shook her head. “I can’t believe the nerve of those people. Whatever happened to ‘the customer is always right?’”

“I think that motto went out of style at about the same time as customer service itself,” Sarah observed. “Either that or they just offshored the sentiment to a call center in Bangalore.”

“Where is Bangalore, anyway?” asked Kathy.

“India.”

“Isn’t it the middle of the night there when it’s daytime here?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, that’s terrible.” Kathy thought for a moment. “Imagine dealing with angry American customers all night long. Oh, that’s just a nightmare!”

Sarah plucked the clothes from her mother’s arms, selecting some that might have potential and putting others right back on the rack.

“Oh, Sarah, you have to try this one on!” her mother protested, holding up a ruffled shirt with a paisley pattern.

“Mom. No. Just put it down.”

“Oh, come on,” Kathy urged. “I just want to see what it looks like on you.”

“I think it looks like paisley ruffles.”

“Come on.”

“Fine.” Sarah added it to the pile. “Let me go try these on before my arm breaks.” She headed for the doorway to the fitting rooms.

“Sarah!” her mother called from several feet away, and Sarah turned to look. “Keep your shoes on!” she said in an exaggerated stage whisper. The saleswoman giggled.

She went into the fitting room, locked the door and slumped against the wall. Shopping with her mother was grueling. Everything with her mother was grueling. She stripped down to her underwear—a gorgeous lace set that she had purchased in Thailand, along with several gorgeous custom-made business suits that cost next to nothing—and began to survey the pile that lay before her.

As she tried on each item, she noticed that her body responded to each piece differently. When she was wearing something that was comfortable and familiar, her body relaxed and her features softened. When she tried on something that her mother selected—the paisley ruffles, for example—her body tightened and her shoulders showed enough tension to make a yoga teacher apoplectic. She stepped out of the fitting room wearing a plaid skirt and the paisley shirt and flagged her mother down for approval.

“What do you think,” she asked. “The colors are all wrong, but the patterns have a very circa 1975 J.C. Penney-catalog feel about them.”

Kathy laughed. “Oh, you’re right. The paisley is very… what’s the word I’m looking for?” she asked.

“Hideous?” offered Sarah.

“No, that’s not it, exactly. Ummm… dated. Maybe it looks dated.” Kathy was seriously contemplating the blouse as if to try to find some element worthy of special merit.

“Yeah, that’s one way to look at it.” Two teenaged girls walked by, giggling. “Don’t laugh. One day this could happen to you. Sure, you think you’re cool now, but suddenly you’re standing outside a fitting room wearing mismatched patterns while your mother tries to justify why she picked these items out in the first place.”

“Oh Sarah, stop that,” her mother chided. “Step back inside where no one can see you.”

“I know, I know. ‘What would people think?’”

“I didn’t say that, Sarah.”

“No, but you were thinking it.”

“I don’t know why you think I’m obsessed with other people’s opinions.”

“Because you are. It makes the assessment perfectly simple and logical. All you need to do is watch you for an hour at most, and you can see that you’re looking around, wondering what others think of you.”

“Well maybe more people should worry about appearances. The world might be a better place.”

“No,” Sarah said. “Just more paranoid.” She went back into the fitting room, tried on the rest of the clothes, and came back with a beautiful red blazer, a pair of overpriced jeans that fit beautifully, a black cashmere cable sweater and a shimmery silver top, just in case she ever had someplace to go.

“You look better in gold than silver,” her mother noted as she stood at the register. “Silver makes you look cold.”

“Point taken, but I like the top and I can correct the coldness with makeup.”

“Speaking of your makeup,” her mother began.

“No. No, no, no. Not today. I am not going to sit through some Elizabeth Arden session on how to look like a middle-aged woman. If anybody is going to do my makeover, I’m going to have it done at MAC and look like I’m in my 20s and have someplace exciting to go.”

“Elizabeth Arden does wonderful work.”

“No they don’t, Mom. Every time they do your makeup, you look like you’ve been embalmed.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say,” her mother exclaimed.

“It’s true. You look so much younger and more natural when you do your own makeup. But they way they want you to do it—the way they sell it—I remain convinced that you need to apply it with a spatula. Do they have a co-marketing deal with Williams Sonoma?”

“Be nice,” her mother warned, watching over her shoulder. “Don’t even tell me that you’re paying that much for a cashmere sweater! Wait a few more months and it will be on sale for a great price.”

“Not everything can be bought on sale with an extra bonus coupon,” Sarah pointed out, uselessly. “If I wait a few months, I won’t need a sweater, will I?”

“Of course you’ll need a sweater. You’ll just save it for next year.”

Sarah sighed. “Why not just buy things when you need them and want them? Why wait?”

“Because there’s no reason to pay full price,” her mother scolded.

“It’s not full price. It’s 25% off.”

“And soon it will be 50% off, maybe even with an additional 15%.”

The salesperson held the sweater in her hands, unsure if she should remove the sensor tag. “Are you going to buy this?” she asked quietly.

“Yes,” said Sarah, handing over her credit card.

“I thought I taught you better than that, Sarah,” her mother said. “I taught you to be a sale shopper.”

“I know, I know. It was all my shopping experience that taught me how to do fractions and percentages in second grade. But life has taught me that it’s better to buy sweaters in cold weather and tank tops in warm weather, and not the other way around just because of a sale. The thrill of the hunt only goes so far.”

Her mother folded her arms across her chest. “Fine. Waste your money however you’d like. I’m going to look for new shoes.”

“I’ll meet you there,” said Sarah. “And Mom, be careful not to take your shoes off. You never know what you might step on in the shoe department. I hear it’s worse than the fitting rooms.”

“Very funny. Can you see me laughing?” Kathy walked away.

After she was out of earshot, the saleslady quietly said, “I think this is a really good price for cashmere.”

“Me too,” said Sarah. “Over the years I’ve learned to ignore the ‘gentle feedback’ that my mother likes to give. It’s kind of like a dog with an electric fence. What’s the marketing phrase they use? ‘A mild correction?’ She expects me to feel the zap, but I largely ignore it anymore.”

“Wow, that must be hard to do,” the saleslady said while folding Sarah’s new clothes. “She’s pretty forceful.”

“It used to be. And then I moved away.” Sarah smiled. “Sometimes you just have to go out on your own and force everyone, including yourself and your mother, to grow up.”

Five

The first two years that Sarah spent in Washington were a blur. She traveled extensively for work, crisscrossing the country and visiting doctors and manufacturing plants in a dozen countries, from Mexico to Malaysia. Her mother called half a dozen times every day, updating her on everything from important news to random minutiae, often with no distinction between the two.

“Did you know,” she would begin, “that they’re going to close down the old pizza place and replace it with a coffee shop?”

“Uhhh. Really?” Sarah would half-listen with her headset on as she typed at her desk.

One of her coworkers told her that she could always tell when Sarah’s mother called, because Sarah would become unusually quiet and would type at a breakneck pace. “I think you’re actually more productive when she calls. It’s like those white noise headphones that drown out everything else. Your mother is noise that you can ignore.” Sarah laughed, knowing that she was correct.

“And so I said to Phyllis, ‘I don’t know who in their right mind would show their face in a place that charges $3.50 for a cup of coffee.’ I mean, I’d be ashamed to admit that I had that much money to throw away,” Kathy said, full of self-righteousness. Sarah sipped her extra-large latte and realized that she was pleased that telephones didn’t yet have video capability; she certainly didn’t need a lecture about her daily caffeine fix. “But enough about that,” Kathy said. “How are you?”

“Me? Hmm, oh, fine, I guess,” said Sarah, still typing.

“And what’s new with you?” her mother probed.

“Uh, let’s see, it’s been exactly 90 minutes since the last time you called. So… I’d have to say that there’s not much that’s new.”

“Have you done anything interesting today at work?”

Sarah always felt a compulsion to reply sarcastically and tell her mother that she had cured cancer, brokered world peace and arranged the office holiday party, all before 10:00, but she decided against it. “Uh, no, not really. I had a meeting and worked on a proposal, but that’s all.”

“A proposal. Interesting.” Sarah suddenly realized that she had set herself up for the next line of questioning and braced for the onslaught. “So when will you get a proposal from Jeff?”

“Not now, Mother.”

“No proposal now, or no, you don’t want to speak about it now?”

“Both. This isn’t a topic I want to discuss.”

“I’m your mother. You should be able to discuss everything with me.”

Sarah snorted. “Not at work, I’m not.”

“Well you never seem to have time when you’re not working.” Her mother sounded hurt.

“That’s because I’m always working. I’m busy. There’s just no escaping it.”

“Well, I don’t understand why you can’t discuss this Jeff thing with me,” her mother said.

“First of all, why do you always call it, ‘this Jeff thing’? And second, I’ve only been seeing him part-time for two months in between trips. That doesn’t leave a lot of time to get to know someone. And third,” she added almost as an afterthought, “I’m only 26 and I’m in no hurry to get married, settle down or do any of the other things that you’re in such a blazing hurry for me to do.”

“I’m not trying to pressure you, dear,” her mother said artificially sweetly. “I’m just interested in my daughter and her wellbeing.”

“No, you’re nosy,” Sarah said with a laugh. “But I know that, so it comes as no surprise.”

“How can wanting to be involved in your daughter’s life be considered nosy?” Kathy asked with surprise. “Would it be better if I never asked and didn’t care?”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

Her mother grew quiet. “How am I supposed to take care of you? How am I supposed to protect you? You never tell me anything.”

“You’re not supposed to protect me. I’m an adult. Adults take care of themselves.”

“You don’t have children. You can’t possibly understand.” Kathy liked to take every available opportunity to invoke the fact that there were no grandchildren. She would whine about the fact that all of her friends had grandchildren, but Sarah liked to point out the fact that they were all at least a decade older than she, since her mother didn’t have Sarah until well into her 30s. And let’s face it, most people do have kids by the time they’re 40.

“No, I can’t. Listen, Mom, I have to get some work done.”

“Oh, sure. Change the topic. At the rate I’m going, I’ll never be a grandmother.”

“Nope, probably not. Gotta go, Mom. Bye!” She clicked the button on her headset and slumped into her chair. “Lord, why does she do this to me?” she asked no one in particular.

“Estrogen.” The reply was almost shouted over the cubicle wall.

“Nice try, Jared. You blame everything on estrogen.”

His head popped up, prairie dog style. “I do not,” he said emphatically. “Just most things.” He scooted out the door of his cubicle and walked around to her aisle, picking up papers from the printer along the way. “I just think that there isn’t enough understanding of how a little bit of estrogen, run amok, can completely affect the lives of everyone and everything around it.”

“And this would be why you’re gay?” Sarah asked.

“Honey, I moved out of my mother’s house the day I turned 18, and I have never looked back. I’ve never lived with another woman.”

Sarah snorted. “That’s debatable. Dmitry was more effeminate than any woman I’ve ever met.”

“But I never lived with him,” Jared protested. “I just…”

“Enough! That’s more information than I need before lunchtime.”

“Ooh! So you want to hear more after lunch?”

“No! Thanks, but no. I’ll leave it to my imagination.”

To Sarah, Jared was the life of the party. He gave her a reason to get out of bed and look presentable each day. A stereotype right down to his perfectly manicured fingernails, Jared took great delight in pointing out every flaw and foible in those he loved; Sarah was part of this elite group, and often had to endure lectures about why those shoes don’t go with those pants, or how a new shadow color would hide the fatigue that was so visible in her eyes. He helped her select outfits for business trips, dates and family gatherings. “You never know when you’re going to need to impress someone, so you need to look your best at all times.” And wearing one of these chosen outfits—jeans, black boots and a surprisingly crisp white tee shirt—was how she met Michael.

People will tell you that the supermarket is a great place to meet members of the opposite sex, but Sarah only managed to meet old women who needed help reaching packages stored out of their reach on the top shelves of the store, or teenaged boys who couldn’t figure out that produce should be bagged on top of canned goods to avoid being crushed. And then, one day, much to her surprise, she ended up in a deep discussion with a good-looking and funny guy as they debated the relative merits of nuts in ice cream. He insisted that nuts were actually at the heart of every good ice cream flavor blend; Sarah believed that nuts were a nuisance that turned yummy flavors into weirdly crunchy experiences. She offered to give him all the nuts in her rocky road—“It wouldn’t be much of a rocky road if there were no nuts, would it?”—and he gave her his number. She called two days later to see if he had equally strong opinions about pizza toppings. They met at her favorite local pizza shop, and she brought a small Ziploc baggie filled with the nuts from her ice cream. They discovered that aside from the nut issue, they had a surprising amount in common, and enjoyed the time that they spent together. But both traveled extensively for work, and trying to find time to spend together required a full-time scheduling secretary and some creative dates, including Saturday matinee movies and hamburger lunches to accommodate international flights later in the day.

Sarah liked Michael a lot, but saw him so infrequently that she realized that she knew very little about him. She knew that he worked for the government, like 95% of Washington, and that he had some sort of intense job that required a great deal of math, but she really didn’t understand the details. It wasn’t really necessary; their relationship just wasn’t at that level. In spite of all of her mother’s pressure about settling down and finding “the one”, she wasn’t sure that he was it. She couldn’t explain it in any tangible sense, and wasn’t really sure that it didn’t have something to do with the fact that they were both married to their jobs.

“So where is Mr. Globetrotter this week?” asked Jared.

Sarah glanced at her calendar. “Today’s the 12th? He’s at that symposium in London.”

“Ah, London. Home of rain, rain and more rain.” Jared shook his head with disappointment.

“I thought that was Seattle’s motto.”

“Oh no,” he said. “Definitely London. It’s impossible to keep a decent-looking hairdo in London. Look at the queen! She’s living proof. Woman hasn’t changed her hairdo since the 1940s because there’s just nothing else that can be done with it in that weather.”

“And to think, I always assumed that was why Curt Cobain and Courtney Love looked the way they did.”

“No, sweetie, that’s a cross between caffeine and depression. It’s bad stuff.”

Sarah laughed. “Get out of here. I have work to do.”

“Work? Who has time for work?” He rolled up the print jobs and used them as a megaphone. “Attention everyone: Sarah will be taking the day off, because she’s a slacker.”

Sarah smacked the paper away from his mouth. “Come on, I’m serious. I really need to finish this stuff before this afternoon’s meeting.”

“Or else…?”

“Or else what?”

“My point exactly.” Jared had rolled the paper again, and poked her in the arm with the tube. “Slack for a while.”

“Nope. Can’t. Gotta fly to Buffalo tomorrow to train our distributor’s sales force.”

“Whooo! Buffalo! You do see all the glamorous places! Well, let me leave you to your work.” Jared bowed theatrically and scurried off to his cubicle, giggling. “Buffalo. I love it!”

Four

She knew that her decision to take the job in Washington was going to be controversial, but Sarah never expected the firestorm of guilt and criticism that she actually received. She actually thought, for a brief moment or two, that her family might be pleased with her accomplishment—the youngest director in the history of the company—and be happy for her.

She announced her decision at Sunday dinner, heart pounding as loudly as if she had run a marathon. As usual, her grandmother had come for the big family meal that was as much a part of the family’s weekly routine as going to work or school. After a few mouthfuls of pot roast that stuck in her dry, nervous throat, she finally spoke.

“I’ve accepted the Washington job,” she said. Her mother fell silent and clutched the edge of the table. Her grandmother was the first to speak.

“There is absolutely no excuse for a young girl to go out and live on her own, especially in another city.” She shook her head in disgust. “My god, Sarah. What will our neighbors think when they find out that you’ve moved out. Unmarried. Ugh. I am so ashamed.”

Her mother began to cry. “I can’t believe that you would just leave us behind. I thought that you cared about us.”

Sarah sat stone-faced and silent. She was equally disappointed, hurt and angry at their response.

“All of these years, you were probably just waiting for the moment that you could turn on us, just cast us aside like a used toy.” Her mother sniffled. “I’m not angry. I suppose I expected this sort of stunt from you all along. I’m just very, very disappointed in you.”

“How can you be disappointed?” Sarah asked in disbelief. “I’m being promoted. I’ve got a good job with a good company. They respect the work that I do and they’re rewarding me for it. How can this be a disappointment?”

“I don’t know what those Washington people are like, but I know that our kind of people would think it mighty suspicious” Dottie said. “Young girl living alone in a city, supposedly there for ‘work’. Oh, I’m sure they’ll have stories to tell about you.”

“And what,” her mother asked, “What on earth will they think of your family? Who in their right mind would let their daughter out into the world like that, without guidance or supervision?”

“Jesus Christ, Mom!” Sarah yelled. “I’m 24 years old, not 7. I don’t require a babysitter. I’m being promoted to Director. And you’re worried about whether or not the neighbors in my apartment think that you’re some sort of failure as a parent, all because I’ll be living alone?”

“Sarah, it’s not about you living alone per se. It’s what living alone means. You know that they’ll hear that you’re living alone and they’ll just know that it’s because you’re having S-E-X.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“We are absolutely not kidding, Sarah,” her grandmother said sternly. “And I am deeply disappointed in the way that you have been raised if you think even for one moment that this sort of behavior is acceptable.”

“Three generations without scandal,” her mother mumbled. “No drug habits, no unplanned pregnancies, no divorces and certainly no illicit affairs. And now this. Next you’re going to tell me that you’re dating a married man.”

“I’m not seeing anyone, which is why I have the flexibility to take this promotion. I wouldn’t have gotten this chance if I’d been married at 22, or if I had kids to take care of.”

“There is nothing wrong with finding a nice man and settling down. I don’t see why your generation thinks it’s acceptable to be a whore. I blame it on MTV.” Dottie rose from the table, her unfinished dinner left behind, secretly uncertain as to what MTV actually was, but knowing that it was often cited as a reason for the moral decline of the nation’s youth. “Frankly, I’m disgusted by this turn of events. Kathy, I don’t know if you ever plan to show your face in this town again, but I would advise against it. I’m just disgusted by the way that Sarah has turned out, and frankly, I have nothing further to say to you until you find a way to make her toe the line.” She picked up her coat and purse and headed for the door. “I am appalled, Kathy. Appalled.” She shut the door forcefully, but without properly slamming it like a normal person in an argument. She certainly wouldn’t want to draw attention to their family issues.

Kathy stared at Sarah, tears in her eyes. “I hope you’re happy,” she hissed at Sarah. “You’ve disgraced this family and hurt your grandmother deeply.”

“Hurt!” Sarah yelled. “She’s hurt? What about me? Why has no one taken a moment to think about how I feel? Here’s this great opportunity, and what do I get? No congratulations. No ‘we’ll miss you.’ No, I’m told that I’m a disappointment, a disgrace and a whore. Well I’ve had enough. I’ve played by your stupid”—Sarah paused for a moment as she debated whether or not to use the forbidden f-word—“fucking rules for entirely too long. I’ve had enough.” She stormed out of the dining room and slammed her bedroom door, not caring which of the neighbors heard, or what they thought.

Her mother raced up the stairs behind her. “Don’t you dare slam doors in this house, young lady! This is my house and as long as you live here you will play by my rules. Do you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Sarah shouted back through the door. “Don’t worry. I won’t be playing by these rules for much longer.”

She pulled a folder out of her briefcase, found the toll free hotline number and began to dial. “Yes, hi. I’d like to start my relocation paperwork, please. I’ll be moving to Washington as quickly as I can get there.” Within 45 minutes she had the name and location of the extended stay suite hotel that she would be using during the transition, an airline ticket and hotel room for three days of apartment hunting, a real estate rental agent, and an appointment for the movers to come a week from Tuesday. After tonight, the move could not happen fast enough for her liking. Enough was enough.

Her father knocked softly on her bedroom door. She knew it was him because her mother showed no respect for her privacy and would often walk right in, regardless of whether the door was open or closed. Her father was the only one in the family who seemed capable of knocking.

“Hey,” he said, softly, looking over his shoulder to see if Kathy was within earshot.

“Hey,” Sarah replied.

“I. Uh. Well, I just… uh.” He leaned forward and gave her a hug. “Go get ‘em, kid,” he said, giving her a playful little punch on the arm. “It’ll be tough starting over, but no tougher than this.”

“No kidding,” she said. “I just don’t see why….” She stopped, choked up with pent-up emotion from the evening’s events. “I always thought that I was doing the right thing. I never meant to disappoint anyone.”

“Shhhh.” He cut her off. “It is what it is. Let it go.” He leaned in again for a kiss on the forehead. “They don’t realize what a good kid you’ve always been. They could have done a lot worse than having you for a daughter or granddaughter. They can only focus on the negative that someone else might possibly see, rather than the positive that’s right in front of their eyes. You’ve been right there all along, and neither of them ever realized just how good they’ve got it.” He paused, took a breath like he was about to say something more, and then stopped. “Goodnight, baby. Sleep well. I’ll get that headboard out from the workshop and ready for when the movers get here.”

He closed the door behind him. Sarah sat on the edge of the bed and wept quietly for what seemed like an eternity, until she had no tears left to shed. It was a cathartic cry, the kind that leaves you refreshingly drained and slightly helpless. For the first time in hours, she relaxed enough that she could even begin to consider sleep. She curled up under the covers with a large novel that she had been struggling with for weeks. She read the same paragraph three times, and fell asleep with the light on.

Three

One of the great mysteries of Sarah’s life was present in her house every day: why did he just tolerate all the weirdness that went on between Kathy and Dottie? Did he think it was normal to live one block from his mother-in-law? Did he think it was normal that they talked on the phone more than a dozen times each day? Did he care what other people thought, too? She was in her early twenties when she finally got the nerve to ask.

“It’s hard to explain,” he said, his face impassive. She couldn’t tell if he’d given it lots of thought and didn’t really have a defined answer, or if her question was one that had never occurred to him.

“How hard can it be?” Sarah asked.

“There’s an easy way and a hard way,” he explained. “Convincing your mother that we should live in a better town with better schools, a town that’s not within walking distance of her mother… that’s the hard way. Agreeing to buy this house because she wanted it... that’s the easy way.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” she asked. “You seriously think that it’s better to let her walk all over you and get her way than having to sometimes make compromises that are good for someone other than her?”

He shrugged. “It’s just a house, Sarah. It’s not worth fighting about.”

“I don’t get it. Not at all.”

“There’s enough stress in the world without fighting at home. I just think it’s better to keep the peace wherever possible.” He patted her on the back and headed out to the garage. He occupied most of his free time with woodworking projects, the likes of which you would see at craft fairs or church markets. He made simple wooden cars for kids, napkin holders and key racks, even small coat racks. It had started with a handful of items for around their house, but had grown to be much more than their small house could accommodate. He started with a single table at the local Presbyterian craft and jumble sale, and had sold out before lunchtime. Now he had a following, and people would call to see if he would be selling at the county fair or the school’s Christmas craft show. His cars were always a big hit: Volkswagen Beetle-shaped cars in light-colored wood with four dark wooden wheels attached with dowels. Kids loved them. Sarah remembered playing with hers even when she was much too old for “little kid” toys like that. Seeing one always brought back fond memories of snow days or other unexpectedly delightful bonus days off.

She could watch him work for hours as he cut, sanded and stained the wood. She grew up with a fondness for the smell of sawdust, and even as an adult she would catch herself taking a deep whiff as she walked through the lumber section of Home Depot.

When she graduated from college, he presented her with a beautiful queen-sized headboard and footboard, hand carved with beautiful multi-colored wood. She certainly didn’t have room for a bed of that size in her childhood bedroom, and much to her dismay her entry level research assistant position didn’t pay enough to allow her to move out of her parents’ home (not that this sort of thing would have been permitted anyway). Steve had set up the bed frame in the living room while she was on her way back from college, and Sarah marveled at its handiwork.

“I know that you won’t need it right away,” he said, “but I’ll keep it in the shop until you’re ready. I hope you like it.”

“Wow, Dad! I really love it! This must have taken forever to make. Mom, isn’t it beautiful?”

Kathy stood to the side of the room with her arms crossed. “When did you bring this in here?” she asked.

“This morning,” Steve said.

Kathy looked furious. “Steve! Don’t you know that someone might have seen you?”

“Someone did. Wayne Davis was over at his mother’s place and helped me to move it inside. It was pretty heavy.”

“Oh! That’s just great!” Kathy looked distraught. “Old Mrs. Davis has probably been on the phone with half the neighborhood by now.”

“About what?” Sarah asked.

“Sarah, do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Obviously so.”

“Your father made you a queen-sized headboard.” There was a pause, and Kathy could tell that it wasn’t sinking in. “For a queen-sized bed! Do you know who has a queen-sized bed?”

“The… uh… queen?” Sarah asked, knowing that it would incur her mother’s wrath.

“Couples!” her mother bellowed. “No doubt Mrs. Davis has told all of her friends that we are condoning sex in our house.”

“What?” Steve and Sarah exclaimed in unison.

“I have to make some calls and fix this mess.”

“Why would someone automatically assume that? Just because it’s a bed that can fit two people doesn’t mean that two people are sleeping in it. I mean, you can just as easily have sex in a twin….” Sarah began.

“I do NOT want to know what can or cannot be done in a twin bed, and I don’t know why you know these things. Just what were they teaching you at that college?”

The telephone rang, and all three knew who was on the other end of the line, even before answering. “You get it,” said Sarah to her mother. “I’m sure that she doesn’t want to talk to the neighborhood whore or her enabling father.”

“Sweet jesus, I’ll never hear the end of this,” Kathy muttered on her way to the phone. “This is all your fault!” she said, pointing at Steve. “Hello?” she said sweetly. The prolonged silence told them everything they needed to know about the phone call. “No, mother, the bed isn’t for now. It’s a wedding present, for when Sarah gets married.” Pause. “No, I don’t know why he felt it necessary to show her now. He must have just finished. Maybe he was excited about the project.” She listened for a long time, looking panicked. “No, Mother. I don’t think that any of this will be a reflection on you.” Another long pause. “Mother, I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Anyone who knows our family will know that this is not the case. Mother?” She replaced the receiver with a bang. “Great job, Steve. My mother hung up on me. I hope you’re happy now.” She stormed off to her room and slammed the door.

Steve turned to Sarah. “So, uh, welcome home.”

“Yeah, thanks Dad.” She paused to run her hand over the smooth wood one more time. “It really is beautiful.”

“Yeah, well… back to the workshop it goes. You’d better get married and move out of here soon. You don’t want it to sit around and warp.”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to rush into something in order to give it a safe home.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks.”

“It’s what I do.” He carefully wrapped the parts in blankets to protect it during transit. “I wonder if there’s anyone else in the neighborhood that I can drag into this sordid little tale. Maybe I’ll go see if Mark is home. That would annoy your mother even more.”

“Oh god, Dad. Not Mark. I think Mom’s still having one of her fights with Diane.”

“Yes, but Diane doesn’t know that,” Steve pointed out. “That’s the thing with Mom’s fights: they’re all one-sided. None of the rivals know that they’re engaged in battle.”

“How does anyone ever know if they won or lost these battles?” Sarah asked.

“I think that your grandmother might be the ultimate arbiter of these things. It’s over when she tells your mother that it’s over. But you know the truth as well as I do. Nobody wins. Well, someday there will be a shrink who will make a killing off of all this, but no normal, everyday people will win. Don’t be silly.” He headed for the front door. “I’m going to go see if Mark is home. Keep your fingers crossed that he is.”

“Not too passive-aggressive, are you?” Sarah asked with a laugh.

“Who? Me?” Steve gave her a smile and headed out the door.

Sarah headed for the fridge to find some iced tea. She was rummaging through old Tupperware containers, looking for a snack, when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Oh, Sarah. I’d heard you were coming home today.” It was Mrs. Davis. “Wayne says that your new bed is just beautiful. Your father does such beautiful work.”

“Yes, he does,” Sarah agreed. “But it’s not my bed yet. There’s not nearly enough space in my bedroom for a bed of that size.”

“No matter,” said Mrs. Davis. “It’s better to have furniture that you grow into than out of.”

“At this point in my life, I suppose that’s true. My childhood bedroom furniture certainly won’t be anything I’ll take with me when I can afford to move out.”

“Oh, I envy young people today,” said Mrs. Davis. “I always wished that I could have lived on my own for a little while. Just to see what it was like. You know, when I was young enough to appreciate it.”

“Well I hope you’ll be able to live vicariously through me soon,” said Sarah. “Although I can’t see my mother ever allowing that to happen. People might talk.”

Mrs. Davis laughed hard enough to start a coughing fit. When she recovered, she told Sarah, “Your mother worries too much about other people’s opinions. You’re good people. Everyone knows it. Sometimes you need to just let loose and live a little.” Mrs. Davis had a good chuckle.

“Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep that in mind. Did you call to speak to my mother?”

“No, dear, I called to welcome you home. I know it’s not exactly what you wanted, but all of us here in the neighborhood are happy to have you back.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Davis. I appreciate that. I’ll see you soon.”

She hung up the phone and wondered what her mother would have thought of that conversation. She decided not to find out.

Two

“I just don’t understand why that woman can’t park in front of her own house.”

Sarah kept her eyes on the television and pretended not to hear her. Kathy stood in the doorway, arms folded, staring out at the street. “It’s not like there isn’t plenty of room in front of her own house. Why does she have to park here?”

Sarah heard this conversation approximately three times a week for the last 12 years that Jean had owned the house next door. True, it was somewhat odd that this woman chose to park in front of their house instead of her own, but Sarah didn’t see what the harm was. And yet, her mother would become irate at this transgression, one of many that made Jean the Worst Neighbor Ever, but only to Kathy.

“Steve? Steve, did you see this?” Sarah noticed that her father was also staring at the television, as if hoping that the football game would somehow grant him immunity from involvement in his wife’s rant against the neighbors. “That woman,” Kathy practically spat, “is parked in front of our house again.”

“Hmmm,” Steve said noncommittally. He hoped that this would be interpreted in whatever way would get him into the least trouble.

“Steve!”

“What?”

“Do you even hear me?” Kathy’s hands were now on her hip.

“We can all hear you,” Sarah muttered under her breath.

“You think this is funny, don’t you?” Kathy practically shouted. “You don’t care that her old clunker of a car makes this house look like a disgrace.”

“Everyone in the neighborhood knows it’s not our car,” Sarah noted. “I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.”

“Oh jesus,” her father muttered. “Here we go….”

“Not a big deal? Not a big deal! I can’t believe you!” Kathy stomped into the house and stood between Sarah and the television. “Don’t you realize that someone might drive down the street, maybe visiting one of our neighbors, and they might think that her horrible car belongs to us?”

“What would people think?” Sarah and her mother said in unison. Sarah started to giggle.

“This is not funny! You had better keep this in mind when you’re old enough to drive, young lady.” Her mother turned and abruptly headed for the kitchen. Sarah could hear the familiar cadence of her grandmother’s phone number on the rotary dial. Wshhhh. Wssssshhhhh. Wssh. Wssh. Wsssshhhhh. Wssh. Wssssssshhhhhhhhh. Without introduction, her mother launched into the tale that had been told a thousand times before. “That woman has parked her car in front of our house again.” Sarah could practically recite both parts of the conversation in her head. “I know; it’s a disgrace. What must people think?”

Sarah made eye contact with her father, who rolled his eyes as they both mouthed the familiar refrain: “what must people think?” They knew better than to risk being overheard.

It always amazed Sarah that her mother could get so upset about things that were completely beyond her control. To Sarah at 14, it was one thing to be concerned with your own life, or even that of your own family. It was something entirely different to spend your time and energy dwelling on things that you couldn’t control if you tried.

Once, Sarah caught her mother making notes in a large notebook that she forever referred to as the Journal of Infractions. In it, her mother would make lengthy notations about perceived wrongs that would somehow (in her mind) affect the world’s perception of her as a wife, mother, daughter and homeowner. In it were “encoded” entries like, “October 10. Failure to rake leaves at 1252 results in leaves blown into our yard. Must rake again for the second time today.”

Why she had to refer to the houses by number was another great mystery. Anyone who read the Journal of Infractions would quickly realize that she was referring to the home of the elderly Eleanor Davis, and that her middle-aged son Wayne, who came to visit and mow her lawn on weekends, wasn’t around midweek to keep up with the onslaught of brown leaves falling from the enormous oak in their front yard. No one would have thought twice about it, or even expected that Kathy and Steve’s lawn would be pristine and leaf-free in the height of foliage season, but Kathy remained convinced that neighbors discussed these things behind her back. Worse still, she was even more convinced that they believed it to be a sign of failure in her upbringing, and that word might reach Dottie’s neighbors one block away. No, she jut couldn’t let that happen. So while Steve was at work, Kathy would make a point of dragging the leaf bags out onto the lawn, and casually mentioning to each passer-by that she had just raked the leaves that morning, and she was having such a terrible time keeping up with the leaves from that enormous oak tree on Mrs. Davis’s front lawn.

The problem was genetic. Sarah knew that her grandmother—while not nearly as methodical about it—had her own mental list of grievances. She was still holding grudges against people for things that had happened when they first bought the house in the 1960s. Ironically, though, Dottie had always had a hard time remembering names. She knew the people when she saw them, but when she discussed the grievances with Kathy, it was always, “Well, what do you expect from Mrs. Whatsit? You remember the trash can incident, don’t you?” Mrs. Whatsit was actually Mrs. Randolph two doors down, and the “incident” stemmed from a particularly stormy day in 1974 when Mrs. Randolph’s recently emptied metal garbage can became airborne on a strong gust of wind, hitting and denting another neighbor’s Oldsmobile (the long-gone neighbor’s name and specific model of car having been long since forgotten). Most of the neighbors took pity on Mrs. Randolph, who had been having a string of bad luck; her oldest son had died in Vietnam just months before. Nonetheless, Sarah’s family quickly forgot the mitigating details, and Mrs. Randolph lived in infamy for that careless incident. In fact, it was often cited by her grandmother as one of those Important Lessons to Live By: Never, ever leave an empty garbage can at the curb for more than a few minutes, because you just never know when those Nor’easter winds will suddenly kick up. Both Dottie and Kathy would watch for the garbage truck, and as soon as it turned the corner—not a minute before, because you didn’t want the garbage men to think that you were watching them—they scurried to the curb to remove all signs of the can and any wrappers or packaging that had somehow managed to escape the grip of the compactor and find their way into the gutter.

Kathy finished with her phone call and returned to the living room. She stood, arms crossed, pretending to watch the football game for approximately three nanoseconds before giving the recap of the conversation with Dottie. “Mother says that it’s completely ridiculous for that woman to be parking in front of our house.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Steve and Sarah said in unison, still feigning interest in the fact that Michigan had lost yardage and was now at 3rd and 12 with less than three minutes left to go in the game. “Field goal won’t do them any good now,” Steve said to no one in particular.

Kathy stepped forward and turned the television off. “That’s it,” she commanded. “No more football.”

“Why?” asked Sarah.

“Because I said so. Now go clean your room.”

“I already did!” Sarah protested.

“I’ve seen the layer of dust on that dresser. The dust cloths and mop are in the closet. I want that room spotless, otherwise you can’t have any friends over this week. I’d hate to think of what they must tell their mothers about the condition of this house.”

Sarah looked pleadingly at her father, but his face remained expressionless. He had completely tuned out and heard none of this. “This isn’t fair!” Sarah cried.

“Life isn’t fair. Get used to it.”

One

“I’m heading out to the mall to return those shoes I bought,” Sarah said to her mother as she headed for the hall closet for her coat. “Do you want to come with me?”

“No, there’s something I want to watch on television,” came the reply. “Call your grandmother and see if she wants to go with you.”

Sarah sighed. “Mom, I just want to go return the shoes. It’s not a big shopping excursion.”

Her mother looked up from the TV Guide and peered at her over the tops of her reading glasses. “How do you think she’ll feel if she finds out that you went out and didn’t invite her to come along?”

“I don’t know,” Sarah replied briskly. “Let’s be wild and crazy for a change and find out.”

Her mother raised an eyebrow. “Nice attitude. This is your grandmother. Who knows how much longer she’ll be around to go shopping with you.” This was the standard line of guilt issued whenever Sarah tried to leave the house without intergenerational involvement.

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Knowing Grandma, she’ll outlive all of us.”

“Call her. Now.” The look in her mother’s eyes told her that this was not negotiable.

Grumbling, Sarah went to the old black rotary phone and dialed. “When are we going to enter the 19th century and get touch tones?” she yelled to her mother.

“When hell freezes over,” her mother said, adamantly. “Phones today are such crap. These are well made. You can’t beat quality.”

Sarah shook her head in defeat and finished dialing. Her grandmother picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi Grandma. I was heading out to the store to return a pair of shoes and wondered if you needed anything.”

“That’s not what I told you to ask her!” shouted her mother from the next room. “Ask her to go with you!”

“Oh, no, I don’t need anything. But I haven’t gone to the mall in a few days. Is your mother going?”

“No, she’s watching something on TV.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose that if Kathy isn’t going, then I’ll just stay home.”

“Are you sure, Grandma?” asked Sarah. She knew that the process involved having to ask no less than three times to ensure confirmation.

“No, you go ahead. I think I’ll just stay home and watch... wait, are you going to the MacArthur Mall or the Ruby Hill Mall?”

Sarah took a deep breath. “MacArthur.”

“Oh, well, in that case. Yes, I will go with you. I want to stop by and see if those black pants are finally on sale at Winslow’s. I’ve had my eye on them for weeks. They thought I’d buy them at 30% off, but I’m smarter than that. This week, I have a coupon.”

Sarah’s shoulders drooped. “Uh-huh. A coupon. So you need to go today?”

“The coupon expires tomorrow. You can’t just let a coupon for an additional 15% expire. That would be wasteful.”

“Right. Ok, I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting. Bye now.”

She pretended to beat herself in the head with the receiver before replacing it in the cradle. She knew what was coming next. She walked into the living room to gather her purse, car keys and shopping bag with her shoes.

“Is she going with you?” asked her mother.

“Yes.”

She closed the TV Guide and sat the recliner upright. “Well, in that case, I guess I should go, too.”

“Why not?” asked Sarah rhetorically. “Make it a party.”

It had been this way all of her life. Nothing at all could be done without the involvement and consent of her grandmother. And god forbid that you wanted to do something—anything—alone. This was not how the system worked.

Sarah was the only child of an only child of an only child. This meant that four generations of meddling and expectation funneled down through the ages and rested squarely on Sarah’s shoulders. Nothing could be done without the consent of the elders, like some sort of strange middle class suburban tribe. When she was a little girl, she could clearly remember her mother and grandmother consulting with her great-grandmother about ridiculous minutiae. A memorable conversation involved her mother being extremely pleased with her choice of an Easter dress for 4-year-old Sarah. Her grandmother smiled and nodded in quiet approval until her great grandmother spoke.

“Where,” she began, leaving dramatic emphasis in her pause. “Where is her Easter bonnet?”

“I… I didn’t think she needed one,” said her mother, now uncertain about the whole outfit.

Her grandmother immediately sided with her great grandmother. “Didn’t need one? Of course she needs one, Kathy. What would people think?”

Sarah, sensing the tension that always happened when her mother was criticized, began to cry. “I don’t want a bonnet,” she whimpered, not entirely sure what a bonnet was, but knowing enough to want to take her mother’s side.”

“Not now, Sarie-bearie,” her mother said, shushing her.

Her great grandmother leaned forward on her cane, hunched with age and smelling of Jean Nate powder and eau de toilette. Her face was etched with a permanent scowl. “No crying, little miss. Your face is going to freeze like that.” This admonition only made Sarah cry harder, because she believed that this is what had happened to her great grandmother as a child. Maybe no one had warned her.

“Kathy, control her. Dottie, I think it’s a sign of a poor upbringing that Kathy thinks that bonnets are unnecessary on Easter Sunday. Really. What an absolute disgrace.” Great grandmother poked Kathy with her cane and walked towards the kitchen. “And don’t think for a moment that people won’t notice if she shows up for church without a bonnet.”

Sarah’s next memory was of the following Sunday, being the only girl in Sunday school wearing a hat. The other kids made fun of her, and her humiliation flushed her cheeks red. Her mother saw her face and checked for fever. “Sarah, honey. What’s wrong?”

“I hate my hat,” Sarah said, pouting.

“No no, don’t say that,” said Kathy. “Mrs. Berger said that your hat was beautiful!”

“But I hate it. The kids make fun of me.”

Kathy grabbed Sarah by the wrist and pulled her to the side of the hallway, speaking sharply. “Listen to me: I’ve heard just about enough about this hat from all directions. You’ll wear it and like it. That’s final. Now perk up, little girl.” She pinched her leg in what was supposed to be an affectionate manner, but one that always made Sarah indescribably angry. She didn’t want to perk up. She wanted to throw the hat into oncoming traffic. But she knew that she would never hear the end of it, so she sat quietly in the pew and tried not to fidget. The rest of her life had been a repeat of the bonnet incident. Everything had been about appearances and what the neighbors must have thought.

Sarah snapped out of her memory as soon as her grandmother climbed into the backseat of the car. As they pulled down the block, her grandmother started. “Will you look at Mabel’s yard? When was the last time that woman pulled a weed?”

“At least it looks better than Mr. Stevens’ sidewalk,” Kathy said. “Those tree roots have made it completely uneven.”

“It’s a hazard,” agreed Dottie. “Why, I don’t see why the city hasn’t forced him to repair it.”

“Well, I hear that his daughter is involved with the city manager.”

“His married daughter? Oh, I’d expect as much from a Stevens girl,” said Dottie. “You know, their mother wasn’t much of a parent. Why, I even heard that she liked to drink wine.”

“Well wouldn’t that just explain all?” asked Kathy.

Sarah did her best to tune out the conversation. She never cared about sidewalks or weeds or who was seeing whom or who dared to take a drink, and had become even less interested since she had gone away to college. This was why it was particularly difficult to be home for the summer, living with inane rules designed to create a façade of perfection, made more irritating by the fact that no one was actually looking.

Sarah had been working at a paid internship all summer, making surprisingly good money at a local office of a major pharmaceutical company. She had hopes of spending time with friends after work, but her mother’s house rules clearly stated that she had to be home each night by 5:30 to eat dinner with her parents. “After all,” Kathy said, “your Grandma might drop by, and what would I tell her if you weren’t home?”

“You could tell her that I have a life,” Sarah ventured. Her mother was not amused.

“Sarah, there are certain things that aren’t acceptable. Number one is not having dinner as a family. As long as you live in our house, you will obey this rule. And number two is that it’s not acceptable to go out and socialize on a weeknight. My god, you might come home after other people have gone to bed. Do you know what a scandal it would be if Mrs. Davis heard the garage door open after her bedtime? The whole neighborhood would know that you were out whoring around.”

“Oh for god’s sake, Mom. Having dinner at Chili’s with some coworkers—female coworkers at that—is not whoring around. You act as though we’re Amish. We can live large and do crazy things like use electricity and wear clothes with zippers.”

“Don’t be fresh, young lady.”

“Come on! It’s not unreasonable to want to hang out with friends!” Sarah couldn’t believe that at 21, she was having this argument.

“You heard me,” her mother said, putting her reading glasses back on to finish the paper. “This conversation is over.”

Just recalling the conversation was enough to make Sarah’s blood boil. Who cared what the meddling old woman next door thought about her comings and goings? Why were they always so obsessed with other people’s opinions?

“Sarah!” her mother shouted. “Where on earth do you think you’re going?”

“Uhhh… the mall?”

“You were supposed to turn back there,” Dottie noted from the back seat.

“I don’t take the main entrance. I like to park around back.”

There was a moment of silence before her mother spoke. “You park in the back of the mall?” She paused to wait for Sarah’s response. “You do know who parks back there, don’t you?” Sarah bit her tongue to refrain from replying, “Customers.” She knew that being a wiseass wasn’t going to help.

“Rapists,” her grandmother said matter-of-factly.

“What?!” Sarah exclaimed with exasperation.

Her mother nodded. “While you were away at school, a high school girl parked back there and was beaten and raped.”

“I read about that in the paper,” Sarah said. “She wasn’t parked near the building. She was parked all the way out by the wooded area, and if I remember correctly, it was after midnight, the mall was closed, she was with other people and they had been smoking pot.”

“Young people today have no moral fiber,” Dottie lamented.

Sarah tried to ignore her. “So what does this have to do with parking five spots from the door on a sunny Saturday afternoon?”

Her mother and grandmother exchanged looks. “I don’t think this is normal,” Dottie said. “You need to do something before this gets out of hand.”

“Sarah,” her mother asked cautiously. “Are you taking drugs?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sarah shouted.

“Don’t use that kind of language. People will think you’re not a lady.” Dottie was shaking her head in disgust.

“You seem to know a lot about this ‘smoking pot’ thing. This is clearly erratic and irrational risk-taking behavior,” Kathy said, watching Dottie out of the corner of her eye, looking for approval.

“What is?” asked Sarah.

“Parking in dangerous places,” her mother said. “Trying to justify being risky.”

Sarah stopped at the red light and put her head down on the steering wheel. She was convinced that a summer at home with her family was going to lead to an aneurysm, and she swore that she could feel the headache forming. Maybe if she was really lucky, she could hemorrhage in the next 30 seconds and they could avoid the parking topic altogether. But as the light turned green, she realized that she would live long enough to go shopping.

With both her mother and grandmother barking at her, she pulled into the parking lot, drove to the side of the mall—surely no one had issue with the side entrance—and parked. The car fell silent.

“I would never park over here,” her grandmother began. “There aren’t enough lights.”

“Good thing it’s mid-day and sunny,” Sarah said as she hastily exited the car, grabbed her shopping bag from the trunk and walked towards the entrance. She could hear them talking behind her, but she put enough distance between them that it was just a faraway drone of conversation.