Joyce Oates - Sourland

That day, I met my “estranged” mother in the lobby of the Carlyle Hotel on Madison Avenue, New York City. It was a few weeks following the last in a series of surgeries to correct a congenital malformation in my spine, and one of the first days when I could walk unassisted for any distance and didn’t tire too quickly. This would be the first time I’d seen my mother since Fall Fashion Week nearly two years ago. Since she’d divorced my father when I was eight years old my mother — whose professional name was Adelina — spent most of her time in Paris. At thirty she’d retired from modeling and was now a consultant for one of the couture houses — a much more civilized and rewarding occupation than modeling, she said. For the world is “pitiless” to aging women, even former Vogue models.

As soon as I entered the Carlyle Hotel lobby, I recognized Adelina waiting for me on a velvet settee. Quickly she rose to greet me and I was struck another time by the fact that my mother was so tall . To say that Adelina was a striking woman is an understatement. The curvature of my spine had stunted my growth and even now, after my last surgery, I more resembled a girl of eleven than thirteen. On the way to the hotel I’d become anxious that my beautiful mother might wince at the sight of me, as sometimes she’d done in the past, but she was smiling happily at me — joyously — her arms opened for an embrace. I felt a jolt of love for her like a kick in the belly that took my breath away and left me faint-headed. Is that my mother? My — mother?

Typical of Adelina, for this casual luncheon engagement with her thirteen-year-old daughter she was dressed in such a way — cream-colored coarse-knit coat, very short very tight sheath in a material like silver vinyl, on her long sword-like legs patterned stockings, and on her feet elegantly impractical high-heeled shoes — to cause strangers to glance at her, if not to stare. Her ash-blond hair fell in sculpted layers about her angular face. Hiding her eyes were stylish dark glasses in oversized frames. Bracelets clattered on both her wrists and her long thin fingers glittered with rings. In a hotel like the Carlyle it was not unreasonable for patrons to assume that this glamorous woman was someone , though no one outside the fashion world would have recalled her name.

My father too was “famous” in a similar way — he was a painter/sculptor whose work sold in the “high six figures” — famous in contemporary Manhattan art circles but little-known elsewhere.

“Darling! Look at you — such a tall girl — ”

My mother’s arms were thin but unexpectedly strong. This I recalled from previous embraces, when Adelina’s strength caught me by surprise. Surprising too was the flatness of Adelina’s chest, her breasts small and resilient as knobs of hard rubber. I loved her special fragrance — a mixture of flowery perfume, luxury soap, something drier and more acrid like hair bleach and cigarette smoke. When she leaned back to look at me her mouth worked as if she were trying not to cry. Adelina had not been able to visit me in the hospital at the time of my most recent operation though she’d sent cards and gifts to my room at the Hospital for Special Surgery overlooking the East River: flowers, candies, luxurious stuffed animals and books more appropriate for a younger girl. It had been her plan to fly to New York to see me except an unexpected project had sent her to Milan instead.

“Your back, darling! — you are all mended, are you? — yet so thin. ”

Before I could draw away Adelina unzipped my jacket, slipped her hands inside and ran her fingers down my spine in a way that made me giggle for it was ticklish, and I was embarrassed, and people were watching us. Over the rims of her designer sunglasses she peered at me with pearl-colored eyes that seemed dilated, the lashes sticky-black with mascara. “But — you are very pretty. Or would be if — ”

Playfully seizing my lank limp no-color brown hair in both her beringed hands, pulling my hair out beside my face and releasing it. Her fleshy lips pouted in a way I knew to be distinctly French.

“A haircut, cherie ! This very day.”

Later I would remember that a man had moved away from Adelina when I’d first entered the lobby. As I’d pushed through the revolving door and stepped inside I’d had a vague impression of a man in a dark suit seated beside the striking blond woman on the settee and as this woman quickly rose to greet me he’d eased away, and was gone.

Afterward I would think There might be no connection. Much is accident.

“You’re hungry for lunch, I hope? I am famished — très petit dejeuner this morning — ‘jet lag’ — come!”

We were going to eat in the sumptuous hotel restaurant. Adelina had made a “special reservation.”

So many rings on Adelina’s fingers, including a large glittery emerald on the third finger of her left hand, there was no room for a wedding band and so there was no clear sign if Adelina had remarried. My father did not speak of my “estranged” mother, and I would not have risked upsetting him with childish inquiries. On the phone with me, in her infrequent calls, my mother was exclamatory and vague about her personal life and lapsed into breathless French phrases if I dared to ask prying questions.

Not that I was an aggressive child. Even in my desperation I was wary, hesitant. With my Sshaped spine that had caused me to walk oddly, and to hold my head at an awkward angle, and would have coiled back upon itself in ever-tighter contortions except for the corrective surgery, I had always been shy and uncertain. Other girls my age hoped to be perceived as beautiful, sexy, “hot” — I was grateful not to be stared at.

As the maître d’ was seating us in the restaurant, it appeared that something was amiss. In a sharp voice Adelina said, “No. I don’t like this table. This is not a good table.”

It was one of the small tables, for two, a banquette seat against a mirrored wall, close by other diners; one of us would be seated on the banquette seat and the other on the outside, facing in. Adelina didn’t want to sit with her back to the room nor did Adelina want to sit facing the room. Nor did Adelina like a table so close to other tables.

The maître d’ showed us to another table, also small, but set a little apart from the main dining room; now Adelina objected that the table was too close to the restrooms: “I hate this table!”

By this time other diners were observing us. Embarrassed and unhappy, I stood a few feet away. In her throaty aggrieved voice Adelina was telling the maître d’ that she’d made a reservation for a “quiet” table — her daughter had had “major surgery” just recently — what was required was a table for four, that we would not be “cramped.” With an expression of strained courtesy the maître d’ showed my mother to a table for four, also at the rear of the restaurant, but this table too had something fatally wrong with it, or by now the attention of the other diners had become offensive to Adelina, who seized my hand and huffily pulled me away. In a voice heavy with sarcasm she said, “We will go elsewhere, monsieur! Merci beaucoup!”

Outside on Fifth Avenue, traffic was thunderous. My indignant mother pulled me to the curb, to wait for a break in the stream of vehicles before crossing over into the park. She was too impatient to walk to the intersection, to cross at the light. When a taxi passed too slowly, blocking our way, Adelina struck its yellow hood with her fist. “Go on! Allez!”

In the park, Adelina lit a cigarette and exhaled bluish smoke in luxurious sighs as if only now could she breathe deeply. Her mood was incensed, invigorated. Her wide dark nostrils widened further, with feeling. Snugly she linked her arm through mine. I was having trouble keeping pace with her but I managed not to wince in pain for I knew how it would annoy her. On the catwalk — catwalk had been a word in my vocabulary for as long as I could remember — Adelina had learned to walk in a brisk assured stride no matter how exquisitely impractical her shoes.