The Gift Bag Chronicles (26 page)

“Better than well. The food was fabulous, we had a huge
crowd — Larry David even showed — and we got amazing coverage. Let’s just say, I’m a god in Koreatown.”

“Yes, but can you say it in Korean?”

“I’m telling you, watch your back. I’m gunning for your job.”

“Oh, take it, please,” I say, “just do it before the
C
Christmas party.”

“Speaking of that,” he says. “When does Charles get there?”

“Speaking of that, when does Charles get here?” I say, not following him.

“Sorry,” he says, “when you mentioned the magazine, I just flashed on Charles, since he’s called me every day about their event since you left.”

“Well, he’s conscientious,” I say, reaching out to finger the curtain. “Give him a break. Actually, he’s not coming. Or he said he would fly up if I needed him, but since Helen’s on the road to recovery and it’s really better if it’s just us here now, just the family — anyway, he’s not.”

Steven says nothing for a second, and I can tell he’s trying to decide if I’m lying about that or if I really am okay with Charles not flying up.

“Anyway, let’s not talk about Charles,” I say, letting the curtain drop. “What’s up with Oscar? Is Charles harassing him too, or is there blood on the floor?”

“Ah, blood, no, because Oscar’s quietly taking care of it,” Steven says. “Which between you and me means we’re going with the Hancock Park site.”

“Serves them all right,” I say, catching sight of the alarm clock on the bedside table. Pushing 5:30, and I need to get going on dinner. I’ve never been much of a cook, but given that I’m better than either Amy or Jack and nature abhors a vacuum, I’ve become the designated hitter.

And actually, I’m kind of enjoying it. Much nicer coda to the day than working until 7:00, racing across town to some screening,
and then falling into bed with whatever’s in the refrigerator. For the past week, it’s been a glass of wine, NPR on the radio, Jack offering to chop anything that needs chopping. So far I’ve made chicken twice and roast salmon and everything with mashed Yukon golds, Helen’s favorite. For tonight, I got Jack to pick up a local bluefish at the fish market. All those omega-3 oils.

“Yes, it does,” Steven says. “And it also goes to prove, if you let others do their jobs, things still get done.”

“Is that a jab?”

“Honey, I’m just saying you’re taking care of your mother. You got enough on your plate there. We can set up a stupid party without you.”

“Okay, but I’m back Monday,” I say.

We’re just finishing up when there’s a knock at the bedroom door. “Yeah, I’m coming,” I yell, expecting Jack wondering about dinner. But Amy sticks her head in.

“Something came for you,” she says. “Or actually, they came for Helen, but there’s a card for you.”

I hold up my hand and nod at her. “Did you send Helen something?” I say to Steven.

“Only my very best wishes. Why, should I have? Should I have sent a card? I should have sent a card to Helen. I’m hanging up now and sending a card to Helen. Goodbye.”

He clicks off, and I push up from the bed.

“Dad said you got a bluefish for dinner,” Amy says, eyeing me.

“Yeah, is that something you can eat?” I say, heading for the dresser mirror and looping my hair, which hasn’t seen a blow-dryer in days, into a ponytail. This whole being civil to the sis is actually not as weird as it seems. Right up there with no makeup and not washing my hair every day. Certainly takes a lot less energy, which is a relief in itself.

“Umm, yeah, that sounds great,” she says, holding the door open for me. “If there’s something I can do to help. Except maybe not skin the fish.”

Something I can do to help
. Now there are six words I never thought I’d hear Amy say. Not in my lifetime. But then these are strange days. This whole week has been like a CBS Sunday night movie. Brittle mother gets sick and everyone’s personality changes. Hurt feelings scab over. Feuds, too old to remember why they started, are dropped. Next thing you know, I’ll be quitting my job, moving to the Cape, opening a diner, and marrying an old high school sweetheart with 2.5 kids just around the corner.

“Yeah,” I say, following Amy out the door, “I’m sure we can find you something to do.”

“So the flowers were a really nice gesture,” I say. “Even if Helen had no idea who sent them.”

“Well, didn’t you enlighten the woman?”

“Yeah, after I got done explaining that they weren’t from Charles.”

“Hey, you know I didn’t send them to upstage her future son-in-law,” Oscar says.

I sigh, lean back in the chaise, and gaze up at the stars. “He’s not her future son-in-law, and I know you didn’t send them to upstage anybody.”

Frankly, other than Helen’s bridge club and a couple of their neighbors back in Philly, no one had sent flowers. Several people sent cards, but Oscar is the only one of my friends who did, and none of Amy’s friends sent anything. Charles sent a card. Express Mail. Actually, it was a note written in fountain pen on his embossed stationery. Very Upper East Side. Very Emily Post. Helen was both touched and impressed. “What a nice man,” she said, rubbing her fingers over the embossing.

“Yes, he is,” I said, my voice nothing but cheerful. “And he’s sorry he couldn’t get up here,” I add.

“Yes, he said so in his note,” Helen said, dropping her head back on the pillow. “But now, tell me who this Oscar is. He seems very gallant.”

Now I’m outside on the patio, trying to pick out Cassiopeia, my favorite constellation, which I can never find in L.A., debating whether to tell Oscar my mother’s impression of him. It’s easy to think someone’s gallant if you don’t know his weaknesses. His predilection for treating women like changes of clothes. “You know, my mother thinks you’re very gallant,” I say, throwing caution to the wind. “Plus, you hit it on the head. French tulips. I mean, what woman doesn’t love them? They’re like looking at a Vermeer painting. You just feel so still, so tasteful.”

“Alex, I do this for a living. Believe me, I know what French tulips ‘say’ after all these years,” he says. “Anyway, what did you tell her? That I
was
one of the most gallant men you’d ever met?”

“Actually, yes, you are gallant,” I say, suddenly deciding to forgo my usual rant about Elsa et al. And actually, he hasn’t mentioned her lately. Or any of his usual girls for that matter. Maybe people do change. Or maybe I just want them to. “You’re also bald, love the Dodgers, and chomp cigars.”

“The cigar’s an act. To distract everyone from the baldness. Clearly, it’s working terribly well.”

I laugh and reach for the glass of wine I’ve brought outside. Jack and Amy are in the kitchen finishing the dishes. As the cook, I got sprung and have retreated to the patio, my jeans jacket buttoned against the night air, to check the stars. And my messages. Actually, I called Oscar first, to thank him for the flowers, and — I check my watch — that was almost an hour ago. Actually, I need to wrap this up. It’s pushing 8:00, and there’s some PBS documentary about Roman engineering techniques Jack wants to watch, and Helen’s asked us to watch it with her in their bedroom, which we are all taking as a good sign. Besides, you can never know too much about Hadrian’s Wall and anything to do with aqueducts.

“So you’re back Sunday?” Oscar says.

“Yeah,” I say, and realize, suddenly, how uneager I am to leave here. I know this little entr’acte can’t, won’t, last. Bevan and Barkley are coming up Saturday, and in a couple of weeks, when
she’s up for the drive, Helen and Jack will close up the house and head back to Philly, and this little Shangri-la will recede into the winter mists. “Yeah, late Sunday,” I add. “I’ll be in the office Monday.”

“And you sound so excited about that.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say, pushing to my feet, the wind colder now.

“Look,” he says, “why don’t I pick you up at the airport? That’ll ease your reentry into the real world.”

“Thanks, but I’ll just get a car,” I say, not taking this offer seriously. Nobody picks anybody up at the airport in L.A. Except the limo drivers.

“Hey, your mom said I was gallant. Let me live up to my billing. I’m picking you up.”

“Alex?” Jack, at the back door, peering out into the dark.

“Yeah, I’m just finishing up this call.”

“It’s starting, honey,” he says. “And Amy’s making hot chocolate.”

“Okay, I’m coming,” I say again, surprised at the sudden surge of happiness I feel at spending the evening watching TV with my family. In life’s time line, I’m drifting backward, finding pleasure in all the things I once took for granted. Never even noticed. Next thing you know, I’ll be in a fuzzy one-piece, sitting in a high chair banging my spoon for rice pudding.

“Did you hear all that?” I say to Oscar.

“Yeah,” he says, laughing. “Fuck. Hot chocolate on a cold fall night? I’d show up. Just make sure she makes it with whole milk and an unsweetened chocolate with at least a sixty percent cocoa content. That way you get a good mouth feel and don’t have to use too much sugar.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s exactly what little Amy is whipping up right now. I’m expecting Nestlé’s and hot tap water.”

“Well, it’s the thought that counts.”

“Yes, it is,” I say, adding almost without thinking, “So, I’ll see you Sunday.”

“So you’re a publicist?”

“Sort of.”

“In Hollywood?”

“Los Angeles.”

“So do you know any stars? I mean, real stars. Like Paris Hilton. My kids love Paris Hilton.”

The guy in 5A has me cornered. Usually I’m pretty good at fending them off. The talkers. Doesn’t take much. Game face, headphones, pile of work. But this guy’s tone-deaf to the nuances of life at thirty thousand feet. Already I know his whole story. Divorced. Two kids. Never sees them now that his wife has moved back east with her new husband, his kids’ stepdad,
Craig
. Where he just was. Back east. A business trip he extended a couple days. Took his kids, Jason and Sara Beth, named for
his
mother, thank you, up to New Hampshire to see the colors. Not that they cared
much about dying leaves. Six and nine. Like kids that age know from dying. Like they care about anything but their friends and what’s on TV. Besides, all his ex-wife did was bitch that they were missing two days of school. Six and nine? Like kids that age can’t miss a day of school.

“So how’d you get to be a publicist?” he says, pouring the last of his scotch into his glass.

“Took a wrong turn after grad school,” I say, never taking my eyes from the TV monitor overhead. Some big-budget action thing that tanked. The same movie that was playing on my flight out. When did this happen? That the only movies you see on planes are the losers? Not that I’m really watching. I can’t even be bothered to put the headphones on. My big mistake. The chink in my armor that let Mr. 5A in.

I mean, he might be kicking back after a business trip and a couple days with the kids to assuage his guilt over the divorce, but not me. I’m just coming back to earth after a near-death experience, and leaves had nothing to do with it. You can’t spend time in a hospital — not with a parent looking pale and thin and so uncertain in that tissuey hospital gown, like she was pleading with you to get her out — and not have it affect you.

And we did. Get her out. Out and on the mend. Still, the memory of it sticks with you. No matter how many documentaries we watched, the lights dimmed, sipping our cocoa. I left her with Bevan and Barkley to distract her. Her energy finally back enough that she could enjoy her grandson, the sun pooling on the bedclothes as they played together after her nap. She’ll be fine, Jack said, giving me a hug when he dropped me back at the Hyannis airport. Ten days, a lifetime, later.

“I know,” I said, reaching down to fuss with my bag. Not trusting myself to look at him. “I know. The doctor said she could live another fifteen years without a problem. Not even a flutter.”

Now, up in 5B, it’s my pulse that’s racing. Like whatever dam
had been holding back all the adrenaline in my veins had finally been breached. And my heart can hardly keep up.

“You sound like you could use a change,” Mr. 5A says, and I can feel his whiskeyish breath on my cheek. I know what’s coming. He’ll ask me where I live in L.A. and if I ever get to whatever neighborhood he calls home. Marina del Rey, I’m betting. Some condo with a view of the ocean. Where even the furniture’s rented.

I turn toward him. His eyes are bleary with fatigue and alcohol. God, how are we ever to make it in this world? Connect. Find someone to love. To trust. Maybe if I had just spent the week in New York dealing with Patrice and Charles. Arguments over sites, sponsors, flowers. The interminable gift bag. MAC versus Stila. Gran Centarino versus Absolut. Lancôme versus Z. Bigatti. All the pretty, pointless party favors we kill ourselves over. Maybe if I was coming off that, I could play along. Sure, call me, I might say. Call me and we’ll catch a drink. A screening. See some real stars.

But not now. “You’re right,” I say, turning away. “I do need a change.”

“Hey, I see you up ahead. You don’t look too bad after ten days playing nursemaid.”