A. Homes: In A Country Of Mothers

Why? Everyone would ask. There had to be a beginning to this end. Los Angeles, when Claire had called for no good reason. That was the marker, the sign of crossing over. But now, it was like being woken up to see yourself spread out on an operating table, your guts warming the surgeon’s hands. “By the way,” he’d whisper as he fingered your liver, your kidneys, “you know, I’m not really a doctor.”

“Do you want us to come up there?” her mother asked. “I could take a day off work. Your father and I would be happy to bring you back. You could live here. We’ll fix up your old room. You seem so unhappy up there anyway. Why don’t you come home?”

“No thanks,” Jody said.

“We love you very much. Why isn’t that enough?”

She didn’t answer.

“Claire Roth called. She’s worried about you hurting yourself. Is that something we have to think about?”

“You shouldn’t even be talking to her. You should be protecting me from her, not acting like you’re on her side.”

“There are no sides.”

“There are now.”

“We want to help you. You’re not acting like yourself.” Her mother stopped for a minute. “I think you’re still angry with me for not racing out to California the second you said you didn’t feel well. You have to realize that I’ve done the best I could, the very best I know how.”

“I can’t talk to you,” Jody said.

“All right then, call me when you’re feeling better.”

“Mother.” What a word, what a concept. There were secretaries, doctors, nurses, and housekeepers, but Jody wasn’t really sure there was any such thing as a mother. She slipped the tape of Claire at Patisserie Lanciani into the VCR, hoping to figure out exactly what had happened that afternoon. A close-up of Claire’s face filled the screen; you could see the pores, the features distorted by nearness. She watched Claire’s eyes — dead-on, intent — the face that sometimes seemed more than familiar, as if it were her own.

Jody but not Jody. A stranger yet as familiar as anyone had ever been. Ellen was right: it was up to Jody; her life was her responsibility, no one else’s. She fast-forwarded. Claire went by, streaking blue lines across the TV screen.

The telephone rang again and the machine clicked on.

“Jody?” her mother’s voice said softly. “Are you there? It’s Mom, can you pick up? … Jody.” The voice that had taught her the sound of her own name, that had called her every night of her life. “I’ve been thinking. If you don’t want to come home, maybe you’d like me to come there for a few days. We could do some things — buy you a few new clothes. You’ve lost so much weight I’m sure nothing fits. Would you like that? I’m here. I’m home. Daddy and I only want what you want.”

This was the woman who had loved her to the best of her abilities, however limited they might have been. She’d loved Jody to the limits of her fear. She’d taken a stranger’s child and claimed it as her own. How could Jody hope that her mother would magically become someone else? If Jody wanted someone else, she’d have to become that person herself. She thought of what the doctor had said when she was sick — that she wouldn’t be able to carry a child to term. She was at term now. She was her own.

She picked up the phone. “Hi, Mom, it’s me. I’m here.”

“Sweetie, I’m climbing the walls. You know how much you mean to us, how important you are. We’re beside ourselves. Have you had dinner? Is there any food in your house?”

“Chinese,” Jody said, lying. “Chicken with broccoli and brown rice. Very healthy. Sauce on the side.”

“What am I supposed to think? What about Claire?”

“She’s overreacting,” Jody said. “I just need some rest. I’m very tired. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Well, take two aspirin and crawl into bed.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s good for you.”

“Mom, I’m fine. I don’t need to take anything. Go watch TV. Isn’t the ten o’clock news on?”

“If you need us, you’ll call?”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Sleep well. Sweet dreams,” Jody said, hanging up.

It was time to be reasonable. Forgive and forget. Jody did it in her head; she said thank you and goodbye. She had listened to her mother’s voice, looked at Claire’s image on the TV screen, and felt herself moving past them. Finished, Jody turned down the volume on the answering machine, aimed the remote at the television, and pressed the Off button. The room dropped into silent darkness.

I t began in Balducci’s. Claire bought crackers and cheese, sliced meats, cold vegetable salads, miniature éclairs and raspberry tarts. She envisioned a picnic, romantic and grand. She saw herself spreading a checkered tablecloth across the floor of her new living room, unpacking the green-and-white shopping bags, handing Jody a bottle of good wine and an opener, then leaning back against the wall and letting whatever was going to happen, happen.

Things had been going all wrong. What she’d hoped would pull Jody closer had actually pushed her further away. She would fix that now, once and for all. She would make everything all right. It would be the most wonderful moment, the moment she’d been waiting for.

Claire would pick Jody up at her apartment and they’d drive to Connecticut in the last light of a spring afternoon. They wouldn’t say much. The steadiness and calm of their silence would dissolve her own anxiety as well as Jody’s anger. Once they arrived at the house, they would be comfortable, pleased with themselves. Jody would think the house was great. She would realize there was still a place for her and that for Claire, Sam, and the boys the move was necessary. Soon she would understand that it was necessary for her as well.

Claire would carry in the supplies just before dark. The electricity had been turned on, but there were very few bulbs, so Claire would show Jody the house by candlelight. Then she would spread out the picnic as they talked — a conversation that didn’t lapse into accusations and failure. Night would come to Connecticut. They would be alone in the house. There would be no history outside the moment.

When Claire pulled up in front of 63 Perry Street, Jody was sitting on the front stoop, video camera in hand.

“Am I crazy to be getting in a car with you?” Jody asked as she pulled the door closed. “Why are you so dressed up?”

“Special occasion,” Claire said. “I’m taking you to see the house.”

“So, it’s like an S and M thing.”

In Claire’s fantasy Jody was less resistant, more willing to go along with things. “I’ve brought a picnic,” she said, looking at Jody. “Fasten your seat belt.”

“I didn’t know you had a car phone.”

“It was Sam’s idea. You know, guys and their gadgets.”

A steady rain started to fall as they headed up the West Side Highway. The tape deck was playing and they were mostly silent. Along the parkway the trees were green, thick with new leaves. Claire, not yet familiar with the route, turned on the headlights and drove slowly, leaning slightly forward in the seat. “What was the name of the street we just passed?” she asked.

“Thorn something,” Jody said. “You know, it’d be fine with me if we just went back now. This doesn’t exactly thrill me.”

“We’re here,” Claire said twenty minutes later, making one right turn and then another. She pulled close to the house and switched off the engine. “Can you get the bags out of the back?”

Claire fit her key into the lock. Besides the electricity, that was the one thing they’d done so far — changed the locks. The locksmith had insisted on dead bolts, a key on both sides. “Better with little kids,” he said. “You can control the traffic.”