Like a Love Story(19)

I turn back to the fabric. I’ve pretty much decided the yellow is it. I’ve been saving it too long. My parents were given this crazy expensive bottle of wine once by Art’s parents—it was an anniversary gift or something. They told me they were going to save it for a truly special day. That was six years ago. I can’t be like that. I wonder if all children want to be the opposite of their parents. Art does. I do. I guess if you had a really cool parent, maybe you’d want to be just like them. But the thing is, most parents are uncool.

I think of Reza. What does he like? Who does he want me to be? And as soon as I think that, I hate myself for it. If Uncle Stephen has taught me anything, it’s that you shouldn’t be who anyone else wants you to be. “People can smell inauthenticity,” he said. “Better to just be yourself, and easier. I was a queen when I met José, and he didn’t seem to mind.” I wish I could feel like that, like a queen. And Reza could be my king. Maybe we could go back to Iran and bring monarchy back to his country. Imagine all the amazing fabrics I’d have at my disposal there. I could probably make gowns out of peacock feathers and diamonds.

I have drifted so far away from figuring out what to do with this fabric, and there’s only one thing that helps me when I’m blocked. I head out toward the freezer, toward ice cream. On my way, I pass the ladies. They’ve moved on to habit number five now.

“Personally, number five is my favorite,” red pastel says. “I always try to understand first, and then be understood.”

“I started to get a little bored by this point,” pink pastel says. “Isn’t he just saying something we’ve known a long time? To listen. To have empathy.”

“There was a point at which I started to think that this is just a version of the Bible,” my mom says. Oh God, no. My mom brings the Bible into every book club conversation, like it makes her smart or something. She’s not even religious. She just read it in college. “Oh, hi, Judy!”

They all turn to me with way too much excitement, like Central Park pigeons that just spotted an almond croissant. Judy! Judy! Judy! They’re really friendly.

“Hi, everyone. Hi, Mrs. Wood. Hi, Mrs. Fontaine. Hi, Mrs. Foley.” I smile.

“You know, I’ve asked Judy to join our book club. I think the kind of literature . . .”

Literature. Mom refers to self-help as literature.

“. . . we read would be so useful for teenagers . . . ,” she continues.

Don’t you mean terrorists? I want to say. I have so many issues with her, but I try to be diplomatic. “I’d love to,” I say. “It’s just that Uncle Stephen and I always do our movie nights on Sundays, and you guys always meet for Sunday brunch, so . . .”

“How is Stephen?” pink pastel asks, her face suddenly contorted into something resembling an attempt at concern.

“He’s hanging in there,” my mom says, with a sad glance my way.

“Cancer is just so sad,” blue pastel says. I feel a surge of anger. I want to correct her, but I stop myself.

My mom just shrugs and says nothing. She doesn’t say the word AIDS, and neither do her friends. And she’s not alone. For almost a decade now, families have been lying about why their sons and brothers have been dying. Just go through the obituary section. Lots of pneumonia. Lots of cancer. I guess they’re not totally lies, but the reason these men could die of pneumonia or rare cancers is because of AIDS. I told Uncle Stephen how much I hated that my mom won’t say the word. But he told me to let it go. “Those are your mother’s friends. That’s her community. Let her have her process.”

“Well, Judy, if you’re watching a movie tonight, I highly recommend The Naked Gun. To finish my story about Jim and me fighting over what to see. We made the night a win-win by not going out to the movies, and renting The Naked Gun. We stayed in, ordered Chinese, and laughed and laughed.”

“Oh, thanks for the recommendation,” I say. “The thing is that Uncle Stephen doesn’t really screen movies made after the death of Judy Garland, unless they are somehow relevant to movies made before her death. Like we watched Beyond the Valley of the Dolls ’cause it was a sequel to the original, and Mommie Dearest is a frequent choice ’cause it’s about Joan Crawford.”

My mom grimaces a little. I think I’m being too weird for her. I probably shouldn’t speak around her friends.

“Mommie Dearest!” pink pastel says. “That movie was so scary. I still have nightmares about it.”

“Oh, we think it’s a comedy,” I say.

Shut up, Judy.

“A comedy?” pink pastel says. “It was about child abuse. What’s funny about child abuse?”

“Um . . .” I don’t have the answer. I know Uncle Stephen would be able to explain this. If he did, he would end up telling this woman that everything can be laughed at. Including child abuse. Including AIDS. Including them. And they wouldn’t like that. “I don’t know,” I finally say. “I guess it’s just so over-the-top.”

“Well, I had an alcoholic father,” pink pastel says. “And that kind of rage is over-the-top.” Her tone is sharp. She’s miffed. Not quite angry though. These ladies, like my mom, just get miffed. Anger is too hot for them.

I choose to end this unfortunate exchange by heading to the freezer. Before I can even open the door, my mom calls out to me in her most benign tone, “I made a delicious beet salad and some poached salmon. It’s in the Tupperware in the fridge.”