Unexpected Gifts (8 page)

Mike snorted. “I told you already I think the people in that group are a waste of space.”

“You probably wouldn't want to go, anyway.”

“Why's that?”

“His friend's in a wheelchair with cerebral palsy.”

Zipping up his fly he paused. “So
that's
why you were asking me about this last night! Well, you can count me out.” He finished getting dressed, but at the door he leaned back in, saying, “Tonight, at the club?”

“Mike! The party?” The door slammed on his way out.

The tiny twinkling lights draping the small house in Brooklyn reminded Sonia of Lily's protest rally's lit candles. Lush trees, bushes, and potted flowers faced her as she approached a veritable English cottage in an ocean of New York City concrete and in spite of Mike's anger, she felt more peaceful than she had felt in a very long time.

Inside it was balloon-infested, noisy, and packed. Britney Spears, Backstreet Boys, 98°, Alana Morisette, Mandy Moore, and The Spice Girls echoed throughout, along with the clink of punch glasses. Little giggly kids played a slow version of touch-tag while teenagers lounged around in corners, bobbing their heads to the music and trying their best to look cool.

Sonia couldn't see Harry anywhere, and she was about to give up when a hand at her elbow gave her a start.

“You made it! I didn't think you would. Where's Mike? Performing?” Harry's full hair looked sweaty-wet.

“Where's the birthday girl? I got a present for her.”

Smiling, he took her hand and led her to a back room, where a small group of people were surrounding a youngish looking woman, nestled in a high-tech wheelchair. Her body constantly moving, Martha managed to look up at Sonia and stretch an even broader grin than before.

“Martha, this is Sonia, the one I was telling you about. Sonia, this is Martha.”

Martha exploded with laughter, making odd, gurgling sounds as she tried to maneuver her hand out to her new guest. “Wel–come, Son—ia…to…my…ho—me!” Her voice was like one of those first recordings by Edison, warbled and choked, but her eyes remained bright.

Sonia tried to grasp her hand, but its jerkiness made it almost impossible so instead, she reached forward to stroke Martha's shoulder and place the present on her lap. That caused the birthday girl to turn towards Harry, who picked up the present and unwrapping it, displayed a glass snow globe. He immediately showed her how shaking it made the miniature winter scene come alive. Martha tried to clap her hands, but missed and one of her hands slapped hard against the wheelchair arm railing.

“Ow—ow—ow!” she cried out, then laughed. “So.…pret…ty, Son…ia! Tha…nks!”

Martha kept shaking the globe over and over again as people oohed and aahed and Harry beamed. “Your present sure hit the spot, Sonia. Thanks. You want something to eat or drink?”

Nodding, she followed his lead and the two of them engineered a path over to the kitchen. People kept patting him on his back or giving him a hugs and kisses, which he accepted with graciousness and good cheer. Even the kitchen was spilling over with food and guests, and when they finally were standing over the buffet table, she had to laugh.

“Geesh, how many people are there here tonight?”

“I don't know, maybe a hundred?” he laughed. “Come on, let's go outside with our plates so we can get some fresh air, all right?”

She nodded gratefully, and following him outside, they settled down on two lawn chairs on the porch, plates balanced on their laps, drinks at their sides.

“Martha seems so nice. What a shame. You told me you grew up with her and that her parents were like your second parents?”

For the first time he looked distant. “Yes, they were great. I needed that, you know, my dad was great, caring for everyone else but himself, but my mother…”

So he didn't have a perfect upbringing Sonia thought as she leaned back in her chair and lowered her eyelids.

“Hey, Harry, we're going to cut the cake, open presents, and see some home movies. Come back in, will ya?” came from an older man with a white goatee.

The living room, bursting at the seams, had Martha as its centerpiece. A portable, hospital bed-like table, much larger than Sam's, was placed in front of her, as well as a large sheet cake topped by frosted flowers,
Happy 25th Birthday
, and twenty-six lit candles. People stayed hushed as the birthday girl drew a long, ragged breath and blew as hard as she could, but when only five candles were extinguished, the front row chimed in and blasted away.

Cheers and “Atta girl!” thickened the air as the cake was whisked out to the kitchen to be cut up in small, equal pieces. The doorway where Sonia had stationed herself turned out to be a perfect position for overseeing everything—Martha's parents hugging their girl, Harry by her side, more handsome than she had originally thought, and gift after gift presented, opened, and well-appreciated.

The lights dimmed and in less than a minute, the only noise was the eight millimeter projector clacking as it cast image after image across a large, cleared-off wall.

There was Martha and her family, at family picnics, backyard birthday parties, ocean scenes at Jones Beach. Adorable as she was at such an early age, with each new film, you could see the gradual descent into her illness. More and more her face twisted in awkward positions; more and more her movements intensified. But through it all, Sonia noticed one constant. Harry was in every scene as well, holding his friend's hand, hugging her so tightly she looked as if she were about to explode from happiness, and in a later clip, there he was, dressed to kill in a white jacket and black pants, extending a corsage to a regularly dressed Martha. Obviously, he was going to the senior prom, but had stopped by to give his friend her own corsage first before he went on his way. Suddenly, Sonia pictured the poor boy Lily talked to at Woodstock, unaware of his fate, just grateful at the time to have a supportive talk.

Without warning, Sonia could feel tears rolling down and quickly wiping them away, glanced over at Harry, who was staring back at her, his head cocked to one side. After that, more rounds of applause and heart-felt Happy Birthdays, good nights, and see you laters, followed by a massive exodus. Once again, Harry was at its core, playing gracious host alongside Martha's parents, and as she made her way up slowly in the goodbye line to bid him good night, from out of nowhere, her heart started beating a little harder.

“Hope you had a good time, Sonia,” Harry said, searching her eyes.

“Yes, I did. I really did. Thank you so much for asking me. And Harry?”

He leaned in. “What?”

“Thank you. Just—well, thank you.” She kissed him on the cheek and kept going.

At home, she wasted no time. She pulled out her mom's second diary, plopped down on the sofa, switched on a light, and didn't put it down until six in the morning when the phone rang.

“Mom? Everything okay?”

“Sure, just starting my day with a simple hello and goodbye, that's all.”

“Oh, Mom, I had such an amazing time last night with a girl who has cerebral palsy. I'll tell you all about it later…and Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I love your diaries. I just finished the second one.”

“I'm so glad. Just keep going, honey…”

“…We're more popular than Jesus now…” -
John Lennon

“If we are arrested every day, if we are trampled over every day, don't ever let anyone pull you so low as to hate. There is an element of God in every man. ” -
Martin Luther King, Jr.

Most people grow up having one, maybe two mothers. All things considered, I suppose I was fortunate. I had three. Rose, my biological mother, was picture perfect: baby blue eyes, long limbed, and light brown hair tapering slowly down to the nape of her neck. If she chatted, it was done with finesse, and if she was annoyed at me, she could manipulate the room temperature down a good five degrees. Either way, I learned how my otherwise calm stomach might suddenly turn on a dime, churning and gurgling enough to send me packing to the back bathroom.

During the day, she wore dresses that flounced at her hips, just like Harriet in
The Ozzie and Harriet Show
. I even mentioned that point to her, and the look of pleasure it gave her flooded me with so much happiness, I forgot how she had made me feel the night before. But on Saturday nights, when she and my father, Peter, went to cocktail parties, she would wear black, either her sack dress with her Mamie Eisenhower charm bracelet, or her simple shift accessorized by pearl pop-beads, guaranteed to look like the real thing.

Organized to a T, on those rare occasions when she decided to cook, she had a half-apron ready to go—neatly ironed and pressed in the third drawer down, next to the stove. But mostly, she left that area of expertise to one of my other moms, Bimmy Robinson. That was okay by me. Bimmy was a far superior cook and besides, just watching my mother purse her lips while trying to execute her recipes, made me head for my room, away from the cloud of tension brewing in the kitchen.

Bimmy was her polar opposite. Calm, gentle, patient with me in all respects, even when I would misbehave. She didn't have to wear a uniform and had been told to call us all by our first names. My mother even announced titles and maid attire were a bit too bourgeois, but later in the hallway, when Rose told her stunned maid that she should keep her Negroid hair straightened no matter the cost, even at seven years old, a protectiveness washed over me before I could even think. I charged into our kitchen and started banging pots with the backside of a large soup ladle, anything to interrupt any further instructions from my mother. It worked, because as soon as Rose scurried in, her voice morphed into a high-pitched screech.

“Lily! What in the world are you doing?”

I didn't care if I was in trouble. I had saved Bimmy from something, even if I didn't quite know what. All I knew was that when I found her holed up in her tiny room that night mending one of Mom's church sweaters, I swear her eyes registered more love towards me than usual.

My third mom was our neighbor Sadie Moskovitz. She, too, was completely different from Rose. Somewhat Reubenesque, her body reminded me of a soft, warm fire hydrant, and her frizzy hair surrounded soulful brown eyes that could size you up in a quarter second. She was my favorite and in fact, I cherished her as much as I did my teddy bear, Cassandra, and that said a lot.

During the ‘50’s, my parents and I lived in White Plains, New York, where our Open Plan living room was the first thing you saw after stepping through the vestibule, with a stacked stone fireplace, a shelving divider housing a Hoffman television set, and knick-knacks, all kept at a minimum so as not to interfere with a view of the adjacent dining room area with its brand new credenza. The wall-to-wall carpeting was Rose's pride and joy, along with the strawberry-brown colored Herculon sofa that had cost them a small fortune. Completing the ensemble, was a low Scandinavian coffee table, complimented by two side tables of the same ilk, each topped with Eames table lamps.

When it came to cleaning her model home, Rose was maniacal. During the week, Bimmy did the brunt of it, of course, but when she was back in Harlem on the weekends, my mother would go to town. If my father or I would traipse through the kitchen, she would follow us with a mop in one hand, muttering, “Footprints, footprints!” and if we left a modicum of dirt on the living room carpet, there was always hell to pay.

When I was about four or five, I remember having my friend Debbie over for a play date. We were playing my favorite song
Got a Whale of a Tale
from
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
, then, because Mom wanted us outside, we pretended to be Bambi and her mother, roaming around the yard on our tippy-toed hooves, arching our backs and looking as deer-like as possible. When we re-entered the house, flushed and happy, we made the colossal mistake of walking through the living room on route to my bedroom.

We were playing quietly when my world fell apart. “Lily! Come here this
minute!
” my mother screamed from the living room.

My friend stared at me, paralyzed with fear. Knowing full well what might come next, I slowly made my way towards my mother, a sudden queasiness gripping my stomach. She was on her hands and knees in our spotless living room, scrubbing her treasured carpet. Catching sight of me she stopped, pulled me over to her, and with a well-practiced hand, swatted me hard across my backside. The loud smack catapulted my friend over to the telephone to dial up her mom, quavering, “I wanna go home
now
, Mommy!”

She never returned.

Summers were my salvation, a time when I was allowed to stay outside until almost dark, crouching down in hiding places and spying through open windows on Rose, Sadie, or Bimmy as they did their household routines. They never knew this about me, which made it all the more enticing, and in time I came to believe that it was at those moments that I got my true education.

Like the time I was stationed behind the large Sugar Maple in our front yard, perfect for getting a glimpse of both Sadie's and our house simultaneously. Nat King Cole's mega hit
L.O.V.E
was playing on the radio that evening, and both Sadie and Mom happened to be on the same channel as they were preparing their respective dinners. As the music drifted through each window, I leaned out from behind the tree just far enough to check out both women.

Mom, in a pink dress, frilly apron, dark red heels, and pearls, looked stiff, unaffected by his mellow tones as she put the finishing touches on a strawberry tart that Dad had requested. Nothing moved from the waist down except for one quick dip at the end of Nat's chorus line. Sadie, on the other hand, dressed in black tights, a dark purple tunic, and silver earrings, swayed gently to the music at first, then started twirling around in time to each chorus. As the music swelled, she abandoned her dinner, dancing through the kitchen like a woman possessed, singing at the top of her lungs. Before I knew it,
Please make Sadie my mother, please make Sadie my mother
,” rushed through my brain like a New York express subway train hurtling through moldy tunnels.

Still, Rose did have her good moments. Whenever she Put On Her Face, to me, it was magical. We didn't really talk much—that would have broken her concentration—but she would usually beckon me to her side and I'd follow like an abandoned puppy.

The dressing table itself was mirror topped, with a floor length pink pleated satin rose edged skirt. Mom adored pink, “Just like Mamie E,” she would add. There was a three-tiered Chinese jewelry box, a porcelain make-up jar, an antique silver hair brush inherited from her Great Aunt Adriana, and a wide display of perfume bottles in various shapes and sizes.

I could sit next to her for hours, soaking up her makeup application techniques: tweezers to pluck any unwanted eyebrow hair, thick Peaches and Cream pancake powder from Max Factor, and how she flipped her powder brush like a master calligrapher. Quick, sure strokes that covered her entire face in less than eight seconds. Red Snow Ball of Fire lipstick was next, to match her freshly painted nails. When she stared at her own reflection, I was no longer beside her, just those perfect lips, retracting and pursing, soon to be blotted by a nearby Kleenex tissue.

Another thing that taught me a lot about my three mothers was The Park Experience.

The park itself was close to our house, with pathways that wound gently down grassy slopes in the spring, summer, and fall, and snow-clotted hills in the winter. The sandy playground area had a swing set and a jungle gym, but the iron benches were the real key. It was there that mothers, grandmothers, aunties, and housekeepers sat, watching the children romp as they chatted, read, or just stared at their charges.

Bimmy always brought a black pen and a part of the newspaper with her, but never took them out of her purse for very long. She was too busy peering over at me. Whenever I waved at her, she would wave back, her big pearl white teeth flashing in the sunlight. I could safely venture anywhere.

Rose, on the other hand, hovered over me like a hawk. “Lily, look out!” she would command every ten minutes, clutching her purse and scanning the sand. She chatted with the other women, but never actually looked over at them. That would detract her from her real purpose, to safeguard her daughter, and so I learned early on that when Mom took me to the park, I would not have a good time.

Sadie was another story. Forget the other ladies, she was on that jungle gym
with
me, laughing, cavorting, and pretending to be an explorer covering the North Pole. The other adults tried to engage her in talk, but she would have none of that. She preferred to be with me, and that fact kept me going for days.

I particularly remember a time when the four of us were watching
The Wizard of Oz
on TV, a special presentation sponsored by NBC. It was bound to be a fun evening. As usual, Dad was nowhere in sight, but Bimmy had prepared her southern fried chicken along with string beans, Sadie had brought over potato latkas, while Mom provided martinis for the grownups and chocolate milk for me.

I had never seen Rose so talkative. Sadie often brought out the best in her, and even Bimmy was smiling and chuckling as the other two sipped their cocktails. The movie started and we all applauded in anticipation. I loved every minute, but the euphoria didn't last. As the movie progressed, we came to the part where the wicked witch signaled her monkeys, like Trojans, to fly after Dorothy and I suddenly panicked.

Terror gripped me from deep inside my chest. I shrieked and ran behind the couch, clutching my teddy Cassandra, convinced the entire world was heading for disaster.

Rose held up her martini glass and laughed. “Oh, Lily, don't be such a scaredy-cat! It's just a movie…”

Bimmy took a sudden interest in her hands, fanned out across her TV table placemat, but it was Sadie who came to my rescue. She scooped me up and cradled me onto her lap, rocking and cooing, “I know, it's scary. I would be scared, too. But you're okay, you're okay.”

The fun was over, the rest of the movie watched in silence, and an invaluable lesson learned. My mother's concern stretched only so far.

Meanwhile, Rose and Sadie's child rearing clashes were becoming more evident. Case in point: the day all three of us went into New York City for a delicious lunch at Lord & Taylor's restaurant, The Birdcage. All morning, I had been busy getting my clothes together in high anticipation of the lunch and maybe
Singin’ In the Rain
afterward. I was high on girlish adrenaline.

As soon as we entered The Birdcage, we were steered over to a table by a pretty young woman and the ladies soon chatted away, flying high in the big city atmosphere. That was their biggest mistake. By ignoring me completely, in time I got bored and searched for some form of distraction. I found it in a small basket of sealed-tight creamers in the center of the table, just waiting for young exploring hands.

Rose's steely eyes caught me head on. “Don't try to open those up, Lily.”

I didn't even slow down.

“Lily…”

Sadie jumped in. “Rose, let the girl be…”

Another dispute was about to begin, but I didn't care. This was going to be fun. Pull, pull, pull—oh my God!

The beautiful wallpaper next to our table now had a light film of cream descending in large droplets down to the floor, and without looking, my sixth sense told me Rose was already standing up, pocketing all her decorum.

While a red-faced Sadie spasmed with laughter, I was padlocked to my chair, my body pinpricked with fear. God help me filtered through my brain fog, just in time to feel the twisting pinch on my arm of a mad woman out of control.

“Get up and apologize to every waitress and bus boy in the restaurant this instant!” Rose snarled, her lovely blue eyes resembling a wolf, in the midst of an attack frenzy.

“Rose, get a hold of yourself!” Sadie rasped, but Rose was on a roll. She grabbed me by my armpits and would have dragged me over to every employee in the place had it not been for the manager barreling over.

Obviously a gentle man, his face registered absolute horror as he and Sadie both attempted to calm Rose down. They managed to get her outside the main dining room, where she made a beeline for the bathroom before anyone could witness her tears. Meanwhile, Sadie quickly gathered up all our things, paid the bill, and entered the restroom, warning me, “Stay here, honey. Don't go in, okay?”