They Can't Take That Away

I know this is probably my imagination, but sometimes my brain just feels tired--like I'm squeezing it too hard. Does your brain ever feel this way? I mean, my brain actually hurts. Not a headache. My brain. Like it's pumping iron and not doing very well.

I was so tired after work yesterday that I forgot where I was in the grocery store. Lilly and I went grocery shopping and in the candle aisle, Lilly showed me an article in one of the celebrity glossies about Glee--a show we've both become addicted to (I have to say--I don't really check men out physically--other than butts--I kind of notice butts--BUT!--other than that, I'm really a smell and snuggle girl--but what's his face in Glee--the teacher guy has a really awesome body. Not that I'm buying into this whole celebrity culture thing, but, you know, the truth's the truth!)--we were there late after work buying milk and lightbulbs, in the freezing rain. With the dog--and when I looked up from the magazine, I suddenly couldn't remember which direction the cash registers were. It was so scary. I had to close my eyes and re-orient myself. I think I'm going to start making myself play chess online.

I worry about my brain a lot. I think I'm just doing too much. This happened to me when I was getting a divorce, 15 years ago. I had everyone's phone number memorized and I just forgot them one day. Every single one. I went to a doctor about it, who told me I was just stressed and that when my life improved, the phone numbers would come back. She was right. They did. I just think about my grandfather and all his little post-it notes all over the house--sort of a flowchart on how to conduct a daily existence ('the faucet turns to the right'--that sort of thing) and I get worried. Of course, he was almost 90, so maybe that's ok.

Some of the things I'm forgetting worry me. For example, on my 18th birthday, my friend Evan Marquit took me to New York for the first time. It was really a beautiful night. First we went to Cafe Un Deux Trois with his older brother, a stockbroker, and his wife. They were prototypical screaming 80's successes. Both stockbrokers, both funny and sharp and kind and unapologetically capitalist. They had a little machine with an antennae that they put on the table during drinks that showed them the world markets, and they kept an eye on it. The table cloths were paper and you could draw on them. Which was really cool, then. (Now it's everywhere, I know) We had some sort of clear, awful tasting liqueur with coffee beans floating in it. About half-way through, Evan's brother noticed I wasn't drinking, smiled and ordered me vodka tonic. My first one. "Trust me." He said. Then we went to his apartment for dinner. I don't remember what we had, but I do remember that it was all black and white and had a Baldwin baby grand. Which is the best piano. Screw Steinway. And there were two godiva chocolates at each plate. And I'd never had those either. Then we went to see La Cage--and I recognized someone from my high school in the chorus line--so we went backstage and talked to him. Evan tried to argue me out of it. "No, you don't recognize anyone--you don't know anyone in this show." But I did! Dennis Callahan. He was dressed all in leather--some sort of jumpsuit with lots of zippers. Oh, New York! What it does to county boys.....ok. So then we went to Rick's on 86th (after a stop at a fortune teller who told me I would have three children, die at 82, and marry Evan), a piano bar, and Evan told the pianist that I could sing. So they called me up there. And I sang. I was wearing a green velvet drop waist dress that my mother had made for me.

It was my birthday a few days ago, and I was thinking all about this evening. Because I was Lilly's age. But then I got to the song part--and I couldn't remember what I sang! I could remember that the chocolates at my dinner plate had rasberry liqueur in them and the beans floating on the clear liqueur--I can remember Evan's sister-in-law's beautiful red suit--but I couldn't remember the song. I went through all the songs I would have known at that time--God Bless the Child? No. Ghost of yesterday? No. Cry me a River? probably not. And a funny thing happened with that memory, every time I thought of a song, I could almost convince myself that that was the song I'd sung. Ok. I'd think. That's it. And I could almost see and hear myself, sitting next to the pianist with my eyes clenched shut, facing away from the audience, singing into the mike.

So--the present. My birthday. I go to the alumni club with my parents and Lilly. It's raining. I've been at clinicals all day. I decided to invite Jay at the last minute, because I figured then he'd get the hint to refuse and he wouldn't have to deal with my mother at some interminable, horrible family event. Which unfolds predictably, with my mother saying, "Where's Jay? Couldn't be bothered to celebrate your birthday after 4 years?" And then I'm mad at Jay and at them all--my parents for being too crazy to introduce to boys and my boyfriend for not EVER sucking it up and dealing with them, and my mother for being mean. "She's on High Crazy Mean--"Lilly mutters to me as we edge up to the buffet. We're put in an almost empty dining room--the bar, actually, which has been converted into tables to handle the overflow from the main room--it's homecoming. There is one other couple--a romantic couple--mixed--sitting in a corner by the window. This compels my mother to make comments about black people throughout the meal which Lilly and I and my father ignore. It's just pretty much unabated awful.
"Do you want a brick?" my mother asks me. "We bought a commemorative brick." After dinner, she shows me the brick on the walkway outside the center. "We'll buy you one after you get your Masters--and even if you don't. I really don't see how you're going to do it. I didn't get through law school--there's no shame in not finishing."
We're waiting under the awning for my father to bring the van so he can drive me to where I've parked--all the way in East Jesus behind the hospital. About a 20 minute walk.
"Let's walk," Lilly suddenly suggests.
"You don't want to walk. You're anorexic. You can't afford the calories." Mom says.
"Let's walk." I concur. I kiss everyone. My father arrives. "Bye!"
And off we go.
Thank god.
No one's out. The rain's falling softly, and it's really not that cold. Lilly and I walk with our arms around each other under the umbrella, smelling the sweet rain smells of the gardens on campus and the turning trees. Even at night, you can still see the trees are golden as you walk under them.
Dinner disappears.
"Do you want your present?" Lilly asks.
"Sure! You have it with you?"
"I do." She pulls out a little box.
"Little boxes always have the best presents." I say. I open it up. It's a tiny little cloissonne elephant box. "It's beautiful!"
"thank you. See you can put your fuzzies in it."
"Thank you."
We're standing under a gingko tree. The wet leaves are all over the steps. We start to walk and Lilly starts to hum a song, then sing softly, "The way you hold your hat...the way you sip your tea..."
I join in..."the memory of all that.."and it suddenly floods back to me. That was the song I sang at Rick's on 86th. 25 years ago. We sing it all the way back to the car. No one's around, just my red-haired daughter and me, walking across the dark campus, arm and arm.