May We Be Forgiven

them: “One per customer,” she says.
    After the cookies are distributed, I urge my mother to go and say hello to her boyfriend and his family.
    “No,” she says, shaking her head and making a face. “They don’t like me.”
    “Well, I’m going to introduce myself; if he’s someone you care about, we should be polite.”
    “I’ll stay here with Grandma,” Ashley says, and then she whispers to my mother, “They wouldn’t let him have a cookie.”

    H is family is not polite.
    “I thought I would just say hello,” I say, extending a hand. Only the man in question reaches for my hand.
    “Nice to see you, son,” he says.
    We exchange small talk until one of the daughters pulls me aside.
    “We’re not happy,” she says.
    “Why not?”
    “Your mother is a nursing-home slut. She persuaded him to cheat on our mother, who took care of him night and day for fifty-three years.”
    “I didn’t realize,” I say.
    “Of course you ‘didn’t realize.’ We know who you are. … I repeat, your mother seduced our father. We heard that happens in places like this—so few men, so many women.”
    “I think my mother knew your father from before,” I venture.
    “She tried to steal my father from my mother,” the girl says.
    “That was in junior high,” my mother calls across the room. “These new hearing aids are really good. At the time I didn’t think their relationship was so serious—excuse me, it was junior high.”
    “If I may ask, where is your mother now?”
    “She’s at Mount Sinai—that’s what landed him here. They went out for dinner, she fell, knocked him down—he broke a hip, she hit her head. She’s been in a coma, and we’re trying to make some decisions.”
    “I didn’t realize.”
    “Do us all a favor—keep your hooker mother away from our father.”
    “Look,” I say, “I don’t think name calling is useful here.”
    “There you go, being all ‘reasonable,’” his daughter says. “What part of ‘stay the fuck away’ are you not hearing?” she shouts at me.
    “I think everyone has heard you now,” one of the aides says, shooting the daughter a look.

    I excuse myself and go back to my mother and Ashley. “Did you know his wife is still alive?”
    “Of course,” my mother says. “I know her from before also—we used to play pinochle. He talks about her constantly. He tries to call the hospital. I dial the phone for him. She’s a vegetable,” my mother says. “The nurse holds the phone to her ear, or at least says that’s what she does, and he talks to her. He tells her stories about what they used to do. He remembers what they ate on their honeymoon.” She shrugs. “And then, when he hangs up, he sobs, he just wants to go home. And those girls, they’re the worst—you’d think they’d take him in, take care of him, take him to see his wife. Selfish little bitches they are, but I don’t say that to him, no, I tell him they have lives of their own, they must be so busy.” She shakes her head. “But look at you, you make time to see me. That’s the way it goes—if you were doing well, you’d have no time for your mother. You’re a shlep, you show up, you can be counted on—but you’re so boring.”
    “He’s actually very nice,” Ashley says, coming to my defense.
    “It’s fine,” I tell Ashley. “We’ve always had a complicated relationship.”
    “Grandma, could we take you out sometime?” Ashley asks. “Take you out somewhere?”
    “Like where?” my mother wants to know.
    “I don’t know, like maybe to our house for dinner?”
    She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve been to your house before—the food is lousy.”
    “Well,” Ashley says, not the least bit fazed, “I’ve been doing a lot of cooking; my whole science class is about the kitchen as a laboratory.”
    “Why don’t you come see me again sometime, sweetie,” my mother says. She stands up, blows us each a kiss, and heads off down the hall.
    Ashley and I just look at each other. “Our family isn’t like others,” Ashley says.
    “None of them are quite what they seem,” I say.
    We drive back to the house quietly, then take the dog for a long walk and talk about what we might make for dinner.
    “I’m thinking pizza,” she says.
    “There’s a pretty good place that delivers.”
    She shakes her head. “We’ll make it ourselves.”
    “From what?”
    “Dough, sauce, cheese,” she says.
    “You really do like to cook,” I say.
    “I