This Is Where I Leave You

quick trip to the mall. “Good for you,” Mom says. “Any excuse to take care of yourself is a good one.”
    An ad hoc therapy session breaks out. Paul, Phillip, and I listen in 300amazement as the women speak of all the injustices they endure, the sacrifices they make to propagate our species. Mom eggs them on, offers suggestions, wisdom, and absolution, which, when you get right down to it, is what they’re really paying for. Among Mom’s gems:
    “Children crave discipline.”
    “Don’t shield your child from anger; this business of saying ‘Mommy is sad’ when you’re angry is just a bunch of new age crap. If he pissed you off, let him know it.”
    “One way or another, start having orgasms again. Restore your balance as a woman.”
    “Love them to pieces, but demand their respect.”
    The Sad Mommies share stories and offer harried grins, looking tired and put-upon as they discuss their marriages. One of them, bone-thin with the sad eyes of a puppy, says, “Having kids changes everything.”
    “Not having kids changes everything too,” I say. The mommies look at me with guarded respect, as if I’ve just said something complex and profound. Mom beams and nods, proud of her emotionally damaged son. A blond mommy with dark roots and a floral skirt casually unbuttons her blouse and unsheathes a large, pendulous breast to feed her baby. Her belligerent gaze darts around the room like sonar, daring anyone to have a problem with it. I’ve never fully understood the agenda of angry breast-feeders.
    “That was once a tit,” Phillip mutters.
    Wendy smacks the back of his head, but without any real conviction. 11:30 a.m.
    Say what you will about the Sad Mommies, but they don’t overstay their welcome. They have schedules to keep, nap times and feedings to coordinate, manicure/pedicure appointments, and grocery shopping to get done. They rise as one, pulling up the low-riding jeans they really shouldn’t be wearing at this particular juncture, offering harried condolences as they shoulder their designer diaper bags, fumbling for minivan keys, thoughtlessly slipping orthodontic pacifiers like corks into the mouths of their restive babies. Their heels click down the hall like jazz rim shots, leaving a palpable silence in their perfumed wake. A number of the regulars are back, women mostly, friends and neighbors who have to have their morning coffee somewhere anyway, and those husbands who are retired. Peter Applebaum is back again, and you have to admire his tenacity. He’s playing it a bit cooler this time, but he watches Mom intently, waiting for the right moment to pounce. I feel a surge of empathy for him. You can do everything right and still end up alone, watching time run off the clock.
    Horry comes by to bring Paul some papers he requested. He shows no ill effects from this morning’s seizure, taking a seat in front of Wendy to talk to her. They run out of conversation pretty quickly, self-conscious around the rest of us, but he makes no move to leave, and she seems happy to have him there.
    The women are talking about a dangerous intersection in town. There’s a short light and no left-turn lane, and there was another crash there just last week. Someone should do something about it. This leads to car crash stories, to speeding tickets, to the Paleys’ lawsuit against the city over the maple tree that fell through their roof in the last rainstorm, to the new, ostentatious houses that are being built around the neighborhood in defiance of the zoning laws, to the Elmsbrook courthouse, to the mall they were building behind the courthouse but the project stalled when the bottom fell out of the real estate market and now it’s a hangout for skateboarders and drug dealers, and someone should do something about it. The conversation unfurls through endless random associations, never lingering for very long on any one subject. No one asks questions or really even listens to anyone else, but just waits for them to finish so they can jump in with their own entry to the canon. And it is right in the middle of this conversational jamboree that Mom suddenly stands up and looks over the crowd of visitors toward the front hall. We follow her gaze to see Linda closing the front door behind her, rubbing her shoes vigorously on the mat. Mom’s smile is small and tentative, completely out of character for her. Linda looks up at Mom and grins a wry apology. Mom moves through the chairs, picking up speed as she