It was absolutely thrilling.
I went back to sleep and woke again at about eleven. There was a bit of a fuss going on in the shower room. Apparently, Helen had discovered a lump in her breast and was screaming bloody murder. Mum came running up the stairs and after a consultation I heard her telling Helen angrily, "Helen, that's not a lump on your breast, that is your breast."
Mum thumped back down the stairs muttering to herself. "Frightening the life out of me...I'll kill her."
Helen got dressed and left for college.
And I had a shower.
I even washed my hair.
And then I tidied my room.
I fished the two empty vodka bottles out from under the bed. Next I rounded up all the glasses I had used over the past couple of weeks and assembled them in military formation to be brought downstairs to the dishwasher. I picked up the pieces of the glass I had broken by flinging it at the wall one
88
particularly upset and drunken night and wrapped the shards in an old newspaper.
And most symbolic of all, I threw out every magazine in the room. I felt cleansed and purified.
I no longer wanted to read crappy magazines. I would put myself on a strict diet of Time, the Economist and the Financial Times from now on.
And just once in a while I would glance at the copy of Marie Claire that Dad bought every month, ostensibly for Helen and Anna, but which he really bought for himself. He absolutely loved it. Although he dismissed it as womanly rubbish. Frequently we would stumble upon him surrepti- tiously reading it. While he neglected his household chores, I might add. Often he would be found engrossed in some article, maybe about female circumcision or compulsive sexual behavior or the best methods of remov- ing the hair from one's legs, while the carpets remained unvaccumed.
Finally, after having mulled it over for about a month, I decided that I would get dressed.
And would you believe it, when I tried on the pair of James's jeans that I had worn over on the plane from London they no longer fit me.
What I mean is they were far too big.
That's what living on a diet of vodka and orange juice for a month does for you. (But don't try this at home.)
So I went into Helen's room to raid her wardrobe. Because, by God, she owed me. She'd bled me dry over the past two weeks or so with her extor- tionate demands for "expenses" for going to the store for me. And fond as I was of Anna, I didn't want to wear one of her long shapeless dresses, all bells and mirrors and tassles.
In Helen's room, on her chair--along with a huge mound of pristine, totally untouched, very expensive textbooks--I found a lovely pair of leg- gings.
Very flattering. They made my legs look long and slim.
In her wardrobe I found a beautiful blue silk shirt.
And would you believe that was very flattering also. It made my skin look very clear and my eyes look very blue.
I looked at myself in the mirror and got a shock of recognition.
89
"Hey, I know her," I thought. "It's me. I'm back."
For the first time in months my reflection looked normal. I didn't look like a watermelon with legs because I was no longer either great with child or as fat as a fool. And I didn't look like some kind of escapee from a mental institution, all uncombed hair and voluminous nightgown and de- ranged face.
It was just me, the way I remembered myself.
I drenched myself in Helen's Obsession, even though I hated it, and after satisfying myself that there was nothing else of hers that I could help myself to, I went back to my room.
I even put on some makeup. Just a little bit. I didn't want Mum calling the police to report a strange woman intruder on the premises.
Then I leaned over Kate's bassinet and introduced the new me (or rather the old me) to her.
"Hello, darling," I cooed. "Say hello to Mummy."
Before I could apologize to her for looking like such a mess for the first month of her life, she started crying.
She obviously had no idea who I was. I didn't look or smell anything like the person she was used to.
I shushed her and calmed her down. I explained to her that this was ac- tually the real me and the other woman who had been looking after her for the past month was an evil impersonation of her mother.
She seemed to find this a reasonable enough explanation.
And then I went downstairs to see Mum, who was watching television.
"Hi, Mum," I said as I came into the sitting room.
"Hello, love," she said, glancing up from the TV. Then she swiveled around, doing a double take that nearly gave her whiplash.
"Claire!" she exclaimed. "You're up! You're dressed! You look beautiful. Isn't this great!" And she got up from the couch and came over to me and gave me a huge hug. She looked so happy. I hugged her back and the two of us stood there like idiots, grinning, with tears in our eyes.
"I think I'm getting over it," I said shakily to her. "At least I think I'm starting to get over it. And I'm sorry for being such a bitch. And I'm sorry for worrying you all so much."
"You know you don't have to apologize," she said gently,
90
still holding me by the arms and smiling into my eyes. "We know it's been awful for you. And we just want you to be happy."
"Thanks, Mum," I whispered.
"So what are you going to do today then?" she asked cheerfully.
"Well, I think I'll watch the end of this with you," I said, indicating the television. "And then I'm going to cook dinner for all of us this evening."
"That's very nice of you, Claire," said Mum a bit doubtfully. "But we all know how to work the microwave."
"No, no," I protested, laughing. "I mean I'm going to actually cook a real dinner for you all. As in, you know, go to the supermarket and buy fresh ingredients and make something from scratch."
"Oh really," said my mother, and a faraway look came into her eyes. "It's a long time since a real dinner was cooked in that kitchen."
She said it in the manner that some wise ancient old crone from a legend might say, "Oh, it be many a long and luckless year since a tall strong young man from the McQuilty clan broke bread under the same roof as a young man from the McBrandawn clan that we didn't hear the clash of steel on steel, and the streets didn't run with the blood of brave young warriors"--or something similar.