Ask Again Later Part 3

"Oh. Okay," I said. I didn't want him to go to bed. I wanted to stay up all night and talk. I can remember the sound of my own disappointment-Oh, okay. I was embarra.s.sed by it. I was having a lot of fun while his marriage was falling apart.

"Hey, we can keep talking. I have to get my foot elevated, though. I can lie here on the couch. I probably wouldn't be able to fall asleep anyway," Sam said.

There are five bedrooms in the house. He fell asleep on the couch with his ankle raised. I fell asleep on a chair with a robe draped over me.

Onboard Navigation ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON I drive us back to the city in his car. I turn onto Route 27 and think about things I am grateful for...at the top of the list is a broken ankle and women who make bad decisions. Why did my good luck have to come from someone else's bad luck? There must be a finite supply of luck, I decide.

Sam starts to punch our destination into the onboard navigation system. Happiness? Contentment? New York City, actually. The navigation system speaks. It has a British accent. I distrust it immediately. It sounds too smooth. Like a player.

"I know where I'm going," I say. "I don't need that."

"If there's traffic, we might need an alternate route," Sam says.

"I'm surprised you'd trust a computer to get you from point A to point B," I say.

"Ah, the lady has trust issues," Sam says.

"Not really," I say. Trust issues doesn't do my extreme phobia justice.

"A computer has no motivation to send me down the wrong path," Sam says.

I've made a rather large error here, I realize. Without meaning to I've revealed one of my more unattractive traits.

"Why are my hands hot?" I say.

"I think the steering wheel heater is on," Sam says. He pushes a b.u.t.ton that turns off the heat on the steering wheel.

"Does that mean that the rest of the car was so perfect that they had time to tinker with the small stuff? Or did they spend way too much time on novelty items and now I have to worry that a tire might pop off?" I say.

"You watched a lot of cartoons as a kid, didn't you? Tires don't pop off," Sam says.

We hit traffic on 27, and I request an alternate route. The British voice starts spewing commands. My peripheral vision tells me Sam is engrossed in a contract markup. The navigational voice precedes nearly everything he says with an "if possible." If possible, make a U-turn ahead. If possible, take the next left. If possible? Where was this voice when I needed it? Where was this voice when I was making all those wrong turns in my twenties?

"Take the next turn on your left in two hundred yards." I ignore the command. It makes no sense. That can't possibly be correct. But the voice is unbending. "If possible, make a U-turn ahead." I ignore it again. Hoping it'll go away or a.s.sume I made the turn already. But no, this Brit is determined. "If possible, make a U-turn ahead. If possible, make a U-turn ahead. If possible, make a U-turn ahead."

We are in dirt-road territory at this point. We're venturing into the uncharted areas of Long Island. We are literally off the map. The voice gave up a few minutes ago. The navigation screen reads "Return to public road. Do not proceed. Make U-turn."

"Okay!" I say.

"Are you looking for a place to turn around?" Sam asks, looking up from his papers.

"No," I say. "I think I can squeeze between those trees."

"If I'd known we were going off-roading, I'd have worn a cup," Sam says.

I stop the car. I back up about sixty feet and turn the car around.

The voice returns. "Left turn ahead," it says.

"Is it me, or does the voice sound a little suspicious?" I ask. "Almost sounds like he's winging it and making stuff up as we go along."

"You're the one who landed us in the middle of the woods-not him," Sam says.

"So you were listening to that whole conversation we were having?" I say.

"Yes," Sam says.

I make a left turn. I follow the verbal commands of the navigation system. We're out of the woods in no time and back on 27. No more adventures in mistrust for me. Two hours later we're in Manhattan.

"You have arrived at your destination," the voice says.

Carlyle Hotel SAM IS STAYING at the Carlyle for two nights. Susanna says her clothing will be packed and she'll be in Chicago by Tuesday. Quick. Simple. Or quick, anyway.

"Thanks for driving. It was an interesting route. I've never been in the middle of the Pine Barrens," Sam said.

"What can I say, I'm fun to have around," I said.

"Yeah, you are. Want to have a quick dinner?" Sam asked.

"Sure," I said.

We're in the bar. We order red wine and burgers and water. Between the time we sit down and the time we order, something changed.

"You just realized you're getting divorced, didn't you?" I asked.

"Yeah," Sam said. "I was thinking that this is a lot of fun. I should come here more often. Then I remembered that I'm staying here for a few nights because my wife is moving out. Wow."

"I'm sorry. I really am," I said.

"Thanks," Sam said.

"Should I change the subject? Or should I try to trash-talk Susanna?" I asked.

"Change the subject," Sam said.

"Okay. Single greatest movie ever made?" I asked.

"No contest," Sam said.

"Lawrence of Arabia?" I said. "Wait. You're a guy. You'll say it's The G.o.dfather."

"You're s.e.xist, and you're not even close! Everyone knows Citizen Kane is the finest film ever made," Sam said.

"Completely forgot about that one," I said.

"'A fellow can remember a lot of things you wouldn't think he'd remember. You take me. One day back in 1896, I was crossing over to Jersey on the ferry. And as we pulled out, there was another ferry pulling in. And on it there was a girl waiting to get off. A white dress she had on,' he says. 'I saw her for only one second. She didn't see me at all. But I'll bet a month hasn't gone by since that I haven't thought of that girl,'" Sam said.

"How on earth do you remember that?" I said.

"How do you ever forget it?" Sam said.

It's what happens when loss is always there with you. When you see the antidote to the loss, the moment becomes palpable and illuminated. You can't avoid knowing it is in the room with you. The idea that a life's wound could be healed is exciting treachery. Too good to be true.

I'm Not a Waitress I'VE ACCOMPLISHED A LOT for one day. I trashed my career and left an amazing man in the lurch. If I put my mind to it, maybe I can cure Mom's cancer today, too. Tomorrow I'll pace myself.

Mom is still seated on the davenport with a photograph of an anonymous male model watching over her. It looks as though she has not moved since I left the apartment. But she must have. She's wearing another new outfit. Reading gla.s.ses rest on her nose. In her left hand is a gla.s.s of champagne; in her right hand is the phone. On her lap are several opened address books, including one dating back to the seventies.

"Maryanne, it's Joanie. I hope you're well. I have cancer. Give me a ring when you have a few minutes; I could use some cheering up. They say they caught it early, but I'm sure they say that to everyone," my mom says. She hangs up. She starts dialing another number using the eraser end of a pencil so she doesn't maul her recent manicure.

"Who's Maryanne?" I ask.

"She used to do my highlights until her arthritis got too bad. Now she's babysitting her grandchildren. For money," Mom says.

"Beats touching people's hair all day," I say.

On the upside, when my mom needs something, she doesn't hesitate to ask. On the downside, it's rare that she doesn't need something. She'll call friends to tell them she's lost her keys and ask if they have any ideas where she should look for them. In her game book, there's no such thing as too pa.s.sive-aggressive.

Mom gives me the international shut-up-I'm-on-the-phone sign. She holds the phone to her ear and covers her other ear with a pillow as if to drown out a shuttle launch.

"Richard! Joanie here. Bad news. I have cancer," Mom says. She nods a few times. Her face starts to smile.

"How sweet of you! Yes, I'd love company," Mom says. "What stage? I have no idea. Hold on, I have all the details written down somewhere. Honey, grab my papers for me." I hand her a notebook. She glances at the pages and speaks into the phone again. "Stage one. Okay, I'll see you soon." She hangs up the phone.

"How many people have you called?" I ask.

"I really couldn't guess. I've been at it a while. Would you like some champagne?" Mom says.

"Sure," I say. I walk to the kitchen to get a champagne gla.s.s.

"While you're in there, can you get the ladder and the mop?" Mom asks.

"Yes," I say. I find the ladder, the mop, and a gla.s.s and return to the living room.

"Stage one?" I say. "In this situation that's good news, right? Great news, even?"

"Yes, great news!" my mom says with zeal and annoyance. "Do you see that smudge up there? It's been driving me crazy since yesterday. Life is too short to have to look at dirty windows!"

"Life is too short to waste time cleaning windows or even to be thinking about windows," I say.

My mother climbs up the ladder to the fifth rung. She's wearing jeans, a blue cashmere sweater, and matching driving moccasins. Her hair is up. She's wearing lapis teardrop earrings and a lapis beaded necklace. Her nails are freshly painted with a shade of red called I'm-Not-A-Waitress. She's tipsy and climbing ladders.

I'm sitting on her couch, reading a magazine.

"Are you sure I can't do that for you?" I ask.

"I'm enjoying this," Mom says. "It's therapeutic."

"As much as I hate to steal your joy, it really doesn't seem safe," I say.

"Did I get them clean?" Mom asks. "Can you see any streaks from there? I can't stand the idea of strangers looking around the apartment and seeing dirt. I wouldn't want anyone to think I didn't care."

"What strangers are hypothetically judging you now?" I ask, not looking up.

"When I'm gone, you and your sister aren't going to want to keep this place. Are you? Maybe you do want this place. Well, if you girls decide to keep it, consider the clean windows to be an extra gift," Mom says.

"You aren't going to die. Strangers aren't going to be walking through your home. It sounds like they caught it very early. You should be thinking about renovating this place, not about selling it," I say. "No one has avocado-colored appliances anymore. It's like a KitchenAid museum in here. Seriously, who knew those appliances would last so long?"

"Longer than me, you mean?" Mom says.

"Your mantra should be Stage One Cancer Is Curable. You're more likely to die from making bad decisions like getting buzzed and climbing a ladder to clean windows," I say.

"So according to your mantra, I still die-just not of cancer?" Mom says.

The doorman buzzes. Mom dismounts the ladder and answers the intercom.

"Yes, send him up," Mom says.

My mother disappears from the room. She comes back wearing more lipstick, and climbs back up the ladder. Very casually, she turns toward me.

"Do I have lipstick on my teeth?" Mom asks.

"No," I say.

"Emily, I just want you to know that I've been in such a state. The oncologist told me not to make any important decisions for a few days. That's easy for him to say. He's not dying! I may have only a little while...am I supposed to sit on my hands and do nothing?" Mom says. "I'll say one thing about cancer. It's really grounded me."

There's a knock at the door.

"Who's here?" I ask.

"Can you be a good helper and grab the door?" Mom replies.

"I haven't been a good helper since I was five," I say.

I open the door. Initially, I am confused. I think he might have accidentally knocked on the wrong door. What are the chances of that happening, though?

The awkward stranger standing at the door is my father, Jim. I haven't seen Joanie and Jim in the same room since my high school graduation. They refused to make eye contact or speak or appear together in any photographs.

For a while after they split I saw him every other year, on Christmas Eve. We broke that awkward tradition when I left for college.

"Hi. What's going on?" I ask.

We shake hands. We're clumsy strangers.

"Your mother called me, said that she was very ill and that she needed to see me," Jim says. "Where is she? Is she still..."

"Alive? Yes, very much so. Come on in," I say.

My mother continues cleaning windows as if she hasn't called her ex-husband, as if the doorman hadn't told her my father was there to see her, as if she hadn't just put on fresh lipstick!