A. Homes - In A Country Of Mothers

“Don’t mind Harry. He’s impressed by women who say no — it fascinates him.” Heberton looked at Jody carefully. “You remind me of myself when I was young, but at my age I guess everyone does.” Heberton took a long, sad movie-star breath. Jody noticed the driver staring into the rearview mirror.

“This movie gives me nightmares,” Heberton said. “It’s so frightening. I’ve never played a working-class person before. Maybe I should have my face done again. What do you think?” Again she looked at Jody. She put her bony-beyond-belief hand on Jody’s knee and squeezed it hard. “I’ve been approached to do a commercial. Laundry detergent. I haven’t done my own laundry since I was nineteen.”

The cab pulled up in front of the Carlyle and a uniformed doorman hurried over. Heberton fumbled through her jacket pocket for money.

“I’ve got it,” Jody said.

“You’re a pal. Would you like to come in for breakfast?” And before Jody could answer, Heberton climbed out. “No, I guess not. You’re young, you have a life.” The doorman took her by the elbow and led her toward the hotel.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

Jody checked her pockets. All she had was a ten and some tokens. Two paychecks were waiting at the office, but she’d been too busy to put in a personal appearance. “Broadway and Forty-fourth,” she said.

When she arrived, she flicked on the fluorescents, stuffed the checks into her back pocket, and sat at Michael’s desk, looking out over New York. Then she picked up Michael’s Lego phone and dialed home.

“Hi, Ma, it’s me.”

“Is something wrong?” her mother asked. “It’s seven-forty-five in the morning.”

“I know. I just had a minute and thought I’d say hi.”

“I called you last night, you weren’t home.”

“We worked all night. I’m at the office now.”

“You were out on the streets all night? I don’t like that. That’s not a good idea.”

“It’s fine. There were plenty of people around. I rode home with Carol Heberton.”

“Oh, I like her. She used to make such nice films.”

Jody heard the office door opening. “Hello?” a man’s voice called. “Who’s in here?”

“Got to go,” Jody said. “Talk to you later.”

“Call me tonight,” her mother said.

Jody hung up and stepped out into the hall. Raymond — one of Michael’s protégés — was standing there, brandishing a thick wooden coat hanger.

“It’s all I could find,” he said sheepishly, throwing the hanger into a closet. “Why are you here so early? You look terrible. Did something happen?”

Jody realized she hadn’t seen herself in twenty-four hours, hadn’t brushed her hair or washed her face or changed her clothing. She probably smelled. And now her ear was hurting too.

“Night shoot,” Jody said, her voice cracking, the sore throat finally breaking into something real.

Raymond nodded.

“I rode back with Carol Heberton.”

He nodded again. “Be careful,” he said.

“Why?”

“She competes with Harry for all the sweet young things.”

“Really?” Jody asked.

“‘Really?’” Raymond said, mocking her. “ Please. Let’s try and live in the real world, shall we?”

T he first time Claire thought Jody might be her daughter, she threw up. She had the thought and instantly her stomach rose to her throat and she ran for the bathroom.

“Are you all right?” Sam asked. “Do you need help?”

“No,” Claire said, grateful to be alone. She sat on the edge of the tub, afraid to move.

Jody reminded her of herself, but that didn’t necessarily mean they were related. They’d both grown up in and around Washington, which could explain certain sensibilities and ways of speaking. The resemblance was cultural, Claire told herself, not familial. Clearly, her own upbringing had been radically different from Jody’s. The similarity was their shared determination to overcome a family, an accident, to somehow make a life even though the essential ingredients seemed to be missing. The problem Jody posed was a countertransference complicated by the mutual adoption experience and Claire’s temptation to mother. It was not to be taken literally.

A couple of weeks later, after Jody had mentioned her curiosity about her biological father, Claire dreamt about Mark Ein. They were back in college, at the English department, Mark sitting at his desk and Claire, too frightened to sit, standing at the door. She was very pregnant.

“I want you to give me the child,” Mark said. “You’re completely incompetent. Give her to me and when she’s grown I’ll have her call you.”

He looked the same as when Claire had first met him: intense, his hair and clothing thrown off balance by his energy. Seeing him again after twenty-four years, she found the familiarity of his features comforting, until she placed Jody beside him. They were identical; the same clear eyes, wavy hair, sweet lips, the same urgent nature that compelled Claire to offer herself up as if she could save them. And in the dream, when Jody appeared next to Mark, Claire could swear that his face changed to accommodate her, to become her. Hysterical, Claire began flailing at Mark, and Jody disappeared. Claire him him again and again as hard as she could on his chest, his head, his face. His nose started to bleed but he did nothing, offered no resistance. Blood dripped down onto the desk. Finally, still screaming, still waving her fists, she ran out into the hall. Her mother and father were there, waiting to take her away.

The bedroom was dark. Next to her Sam snored steadily. Using the top sheet, she wiped sweat from her neck and chest. She curled against Sam and tried to put together what she remembered. Bits and pieces, fragments, not enough. It was never enough. She wanted to make sure Jody wasn’t her daughter; simultaneously, she wanted Jody to be her daughter. Sam shifted in his sleep, rolling away from her, and Claire got up to make herself a cup of tea.

In the kitchen at three in the morning, she decided that Barbara knew Jody was her child. Barbara had conducted a search when Jody was her patient. She’d done it because she was curious, and because she had to stay home half-days, pregnant with her complicated first child. She had time on her hands and, on the verge of motherhood herself, was obsessed by the psychological arid genetic nature of things. She did it because she thought it would help her help Jody. All the people who’d held back on Jody, who’d refused to give her information, offered it freely and willingly to Barbara. After all, she was a professional. She knew best. And ultimately, giving away the goods relieved the guilt associated with having kept a secret for so long — a secret that didn’t belong to them in the first place. First thing in the morning, Claire would call Barbara. She watched her tea whirling around in the microwave. She looked out the kitchen window at the dark building across the way.

She wouldn’t call Barbara in the morning, or ever. If she was wrong, if she was making this whole thing up, Barbara would think she’d gone over the edge. Not quite sure what to do, she’d call Sam at the office. Together they’d decide that Barbara should call Jody and tell her to get out while there was still time. She’d refer Jody to someone else. If Barbara found out, she’d take Jody away. She’d ruin everything.

J-O-D-Y. Claire wrote her name across a legal pad in the good script she used for important letters to her children’s teachers, to patients who’d moved many miles away, to sign Chanukah and Easter cards. J-O-D-Y R-O-T-H. J-O-D-Y S-T-E-V-E-N-S — Claire’s maiden name. J-O-D-Y E-I-N. What the hell was her name? Jody Goodman. She wrote it over and over a million times, in every possible combination.