Magnetism Read online

  Mom comes out again. She puts on some underwear and pads heavily barefoot around her bed to stand next to me. ‘You should change the channel. Or at least turn it down.’

  I don’t move. ‘I’m watching this.’

  ‘Come on.’ She reaches over and tries to grab the remote from my left hand. I fixedly transfer it to my right hand, then to both hands. ‘I can’t hear myself think,’ she says. She is now standing directly in front of the screen, between me and the TV. She’s still just in her underwear. I can smell her skin, the soap she uses, her deodorant and her shampoo.

  I shift to try to see around her, but she’s like a bear – too big, too close to the TV. She is obliterating my view.

  ‘Move.’ Now I am shouting. ‘Move. Move. Let me see. Let me see.’

  She leans forward to grab the remote again. She says, ‘No. This is not good for you.’

  It’s the way that she says it that makes me look at her. Her face, like her voice, is blank, flat, like a stranger, someone who I don’t know, who doesn’t know me, let alone care about me, or for me.

  ‘Don’t,’ she says. ‘Stop.’

  We lock eyes for a couple of seconds – no more – then she turns around to do something to the TV, but then I drop the remote and she bends down and picks it up from the floor.

  She holds it with two hands, squints at it, and then she punches at the buttons with a thumb. She changes the channel. The sound of some drug ad for depression blares out at us, reciting numerous possible side effects of taking the drug to make you feel normal, and then she finally manages to mute the sound.

  ‘You should get changed,’ she says. ‘In that get-up you look like a bridesmaid or something. Why don’t they have a minibar in the rooms?’

  ‘The wig you were wearing makes you look like you’re on chemo. You looked like a dying person.’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ she says. ‘I’m not. I’m not dying here.’

  I shower and dress in shorts and a top. It’s too early to eat dinner, really, but at the diner they’re happy to accommodate us – because the place is empty. We both order burgers and fries, coleslaw and onion rings. They don’t serve alcohol except for beer, but that will do. The cold drink and air-conditioning helps a lot.

  Mom tells me stories about Patty’s previous husbands and why they got divorced. She had a kid once, who died as a baby. She’d wanted a big family because she was an only child but it didn’t happen. ‘Won’t happen now,’ Mom says. ‘Way, way too late.’

  The woman had a crappy life, I guess, and Mom is trying to be a good friend. I’m kind of glad we came to the wedding after all.

  Once back in the room we lie in bed to watch the ABC Movie of the Week and I fall asleep before the end.

  For some reason the airport looks even smaller than when we arrived. Mom’s plane is scheduled to leave a whole hour before mine departs and she’s got a much longer flight. After saying goodbye I read a newspaper for a bit, then I watch the people working – at the ticket desk, the two cleaners, the people waiting like me. Airports small and large are all alike: transitory places full of people on their way to becoming something different. I moved to Oklahoma City for a fresh start, in the same way that my mother persuaded my father to move to Arizona all those years ago. But I moved alone, whereas she dragged us with her, unwilling, halfway across the country on what seemed like a whim.

  I wonder about the thousands of people who will be displaced by the authorities now. Louisiana to Texas is quite a change.

  When we land, I am relieved. The trip is in the past. The airport in Oklahoma City is reassuringly more modern and bigger than the hokey one in Greenville and it’s even more of a relief to arrive back at my apartment. I unpack quickly, check the clock to see when Mom will get to her house, and then phone when I expect her to be back. She is. She sounds fine. Everything is as it should be.

  Work is busy the first week of September and for days I try not to listen to the news. When I do, it is still preoccupied with Katrina. Dick Cheney and his wife finally go to visit and to offer their support. Everyone’s been saying he stayed on vacation for too long because everyone wants someone to blame. Then there’s an announcement that Al-Qaeda say they’re planning attacks in California and Australia. Life is precarious, perpetually outside of individual control, so maybe it’s not a bad thing to make an effort to change the small things when you can. The only man I spend any time with lately, my boss, is a total jerk. I’ll buck the trend and grow my hair longer. I turn down an invitation to the movies from Linda and instead make plans to update my resume on the weekend. I should date more. I could join an agency. I even think that it’s not too late to try again to have a child. Maybe.

  On the phone Mom tells me that she’s had her hair colour done. She doesn’t want to wear the wig again. Not if people think she’s got cancer. I tell her to keep it. You never know what might happen. ‘You might get cancer,’ I say. ‘And then you’ll really regret it.’

  She doesn’t laugh.

  ‘I’m only joking,’ I say. ‘I just think it’s good to keep all options open. Guess you haven’t heard from Patty. How long is her honeymoon?’

  ‘It was a Caribbean cruise. It got cancelled. She’s going on a diet because she saw the wedding pictures. She’s got to drop fifty pounds and then she can have some lipo. I need you to tell me if I look ridiculous. I’ll tell you. We’ve got to look out for each other.’

  We live a thousand miles apart. ‘Yeah, well,’ I say. ‘I’m okay, Mom.’

  ‘And if I get sick?’

  ‘Sure, Mom,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell you if you get sick.’

  1999

  The Weasel

  It’s been a jam-packed flight and with a last-minute booking I got a bad seat assignment. I was positioned next to a woman with two rugrats that cried continually, and right in front of some fourth-grade monster who spent most of the journey kicking the back of my seat.

  Though I’m pre-menstrual, headachy and feeling grimy as we finally exit the plane, I walk along the concourse feeling freer with every step. I’m hoping that, because I was late checking in, my bag might be one of the first on to the conveyor belt, so it won’t be long to wait.

  It’s May, the beginning of the summer, and through the glass I sense the familiar dry Phoenix heat – it’ll be a good ten degrees hotter than Oklahoma out there – and I’m excited that I will see my mother soon and I know that this is a good thing to do. In fact, it’ll be a relief to see her and healthy for me to have some vacation time. A fresh start.

  And then something really does go right. It’s no wait at all. The tenth suitcase that drops through the flaps is mine, and when I come out of baggage collection there she is – waving madly and right in front of me.

  She looks different. When we hug, her body feels as though the stuffing has been removed, and her hair smells like a health food store. Since I last saw her she must have dropped thirty pounds. Her face is pale, gaunt and wrinkly. It’s always nearly impossible to get facts from her when we’re face to face but when it’s only her voice down a phone line I have no idea what’s happening and she’s been exceptionally evasive lately. She’s got too much insurance to be sick, and is too young to be senile, but I’ve worked out that once this guy Philip came on the scene she began giving up all her friends. A couple of months ago she explained that she felt she had to abandon some stuff. ‘It’s important to do things together and my friends bore him,’ she said. In fact, it sounds as if she doesn’t actually do anything any more and he’s there all the time. It’s as though my mother is fading away, or turning into someone else. Someone I don’t recognise. Seeing her appearance now doesn’t help.

  It’s not like I don’t know that he’s important in her life, but, when we walk out from the airport to the parking lot hand-in-hand and she points him out, I’m still shocked to see someone else sitting behind the wheel of Mom’s car.

  ‘Is that him? Is that Philip? He came with you? And you let him drive your car?
’

  ‘It’s nice to be the passenger. And there’s my toenail.’

  ‘The toenail is on the other foot. And since when are you the passenger?’

  ‘I’m thinking about getting one of those Subarus.’

  ‘You love your Malibu. We’ve always bought Chevrolet. Dad always liked Chevrolet.’

  ‘Your dad didn’t know a thing about cars and things change. We have to move on.’ Then, as we get close to the car, she tells me to deal with my face. ‘No one wants to look at your miserable expression, honey. Try to look happy. First impressions are important.’

  Aren’t they just? I think. How could she have neglected to tell me about all that facial hair? When this guy does his version of a smile you can only really tell because a dark pink hole opens up between the overgrown moustache and the grubby grey beard. His teeth look yellow.

  He doesn’t get out to help with loading my bag into the trunk, or even to open the door for Mom.

  I climb into the back seat. ‘Mom, I’ve always loved this car; why would you replace it? I don’t know why you’d think of changing it. It drives okay.’ I remember how we went together to buy it and the salesman helped us out with a good deal because Mom charmed him and played up the fact that she was recently widowed. She did that for a long time, telling everyone she met about the shocking tragedy of losing her husband. Adding flourishes to the story, reducing the truth with every telling, and expecting me to play along. We argued on the way home from the lot. Knowing that the car we were going to collect the next day was going to be a thousand bucks cheaper than the showroom price, that it would be specially cleaned, the tank filled and that she had an extended guarantee for exactly no cost but her appreciation, she explained that it wasn’t because she’d manipulated him, but it was because men always find vulnerable women appealing. ‘It brings out that knight in shining armour that they all want to be. And you might want to think about that yourself. You have no idea how to behave around men. You batter decent people with your nasty mouth and scare men away. You could learn something. Even your father wanted to save the day,’ she said.

  I was missing Dad, and still angry. I said, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He was what was he was. I held up my end of the deal. One hundred and fifty per cent.’

  I said that he’d have done anything to make her happy. He was always trying, but she was forever running off somewhere. What had he ever got out of the relationship but a lot of heartache? She shook her head and said she refused to dignify my question with an answer. ‘There’s lots you don’t know,’ she said. ‘And you wouldn’t understand what it was like.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Enough. My life, my marriage, is none of your business.’

  Now as we leave the parking lot Philip waits while Mom and I dig around in our purses to come up with payment. So, this guy is also a cheapskate. I’m quicker than Mom and pass forward the four bucks. The springs in the back seat beneath me ping as I shift my weight. They’re worn out and the engine doesn’t really sound great. The car, I guess, really is very old now, but she has always taken care of it. I wonder how that guy Randall, who used to deal with the car, is feeling now that this Philip is hanging around. If she has to replace the car she could get another Malibu. Randall would have recommended an updated Chevrolet, not some foreign car. I settle back again. ‘You know Americans have a duty to buy American, Mom.’

  ‘That’s a very narrow-minded view,’ Philip says, looking directly at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s a global economy and we need to think about the environment. Other manufacturers do a better job.’

  I mouth, ‘Fuck you,’ and he has the nerve to grin right back at me. I give him my meanest ‘don’t mess with me’ stare (the one that should have worked on the twelve-year-old on the plane) until he chooses to look at the road again rather than risk an accident.

  This is not a great start.

  When we get into the house, Philip gets out fast and strides on ahead of us. He’s wearing shorts as teeny as hot-pants and flip-flops on his feet. I wonder if this is his key or if he’s using Mom’s car keys. Has she given him a key to the car and the house? From this distance I can’t tell, but I am struck again by his appearance: his legs are sinewy, tanned and very hairy. It finally comes to me what he looks like: my mother has got herself tangled up with a weasel.

  She waits with me while I unload my bag and trundle it up the path.

  ‘When can I speak to you on your own?’

  ‘We’ll have plenty of time.’

  ‘How on earth did you meet him?’

  ‘Who?’ she asks. We’re at the door and she rushes on ahead before I can say we both know exactly who I mean.

  The house smells earthy, and it looks dusty and untidy. I go directly to my bedroom, only to discover that my childhood bed which was moved from our previous home has been pushed against one wall and my vanity unit, which should also be in there, is gone. There’s a desk now, with a big, expensive computer. I dump the bag on the bed and go to find her.

  Mom is sitting at the kitchen table, smiling. Philip has removed his T-shirt and replaced it with one of my mother’s pinafore aprons. It reaches down to his knees. He’s not only topless, he’s barefoot as well, and I can see his hairy, long toes. His arms are scrawny with muscle and his armpits dangle limp grey hair.

  ‘You’ve changed my room,’ is all I can say.

  ‘It’s the study now.’ Philip says.

  I will not look at him, or reply. I’m waiting for Mom to tell him to butt out but she doesn’t. Finally, she says, ‘I thought you’d like the computer, honey.’

  ‘There’s a password on it,’ Philip says from the stove. ‘Just tell me when you want to use it.’

  I address her. ‘When did you get a computer?’

  ‘I don’t use it. But I can, if I want. I think I’m going to take a class.’

  Suddenly the weasel becomes animated again and forces his way into our conversation. ‘The world is a small place now.’ He waves the chopping knife around emphasising his words. ‘It’s fantastic how you can find out all sorts of things with the Internet. I’m always telling your mother how it’s possible to see sights you could only imagine. Better than books ever were in that respect. Everything instant. It’s such a wonderful thing. You can shop, manage your money, talk to friends, do everything on line. I couldn’t live without it.’

  As he prattles on, I notice that the kitchen windows are grimy and I wonder what’s happened to Don who used to come and wash them weekly. I say, ‘The house smells different, Mom. Have you changed your laundry detergent or something?’

  She says, ‘I only use natural products now. Better for the environment.’

  I’m wondering when my mother started caring about the environment but that’ll have to wait until we can talk on our own. ‘I guess I can check my emails. That’s good.’

  ‘No problem,’ he says. ‘I’ll set you up a user account after dinner.’

  Mom never said that he had moved in – he’s never answered the phone when I’ve phoned – but right now he looks very comfortable and at home.

  ‘You sure look pretty handy in Mom’s kitchen.’

  ‘Philip is staying in the guest room. We don’t sleep together,’ Mom says.

  He says, ‘Of course not. Absolutely not.’ And then the skinny, furry, ugly bastard turns and winks at me.

  ‘So, where is your home?’ I ask.

  ‘Shall I say wherever I lay my hat?’

  Mom sort of giggles. She sounds ridiculous, like she’s thinks she’s a teenager, and the kind of girl who laughs at any stupid joke a boy might make, just because he’s a boy.

  ‘I’m surprised you wear one,’ I say. ‘Since you wear nothing else.’

  ‘Part of the reason I love Phoenix is the sunshine. I worship the sun and it does a body good. Hey, I hope you like mushrooms,’ he adds. ‘I’m making mushroom stroganoff for dinner.’

  ‘Philip loves t
o cook.’

  ‘Let me guess: vegetarian?’

  ‘I got in the habit many years ago when I was living in Asia.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Stop grilling him.’

  ‘I’m sure you want us to get to know each other.’

  ‘She wants to find out about the new man in her mother’s life,’ he says.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I say. ‘I was only being polite.’

  Now there’s only the smell of frying onions and the sizzle of the big mushrooms as he slides them into the pan. He wipes his hairy hands on the apron fabric and suddenly I remember. We were on a family vacation before Chip and I split and I bought this for her. Against the yellow background, the blue slogan reads Pour one for the cook and it’s an inspiration for this situation. ‘How about a glass of wine, or something?’

  Philip says, ‘We don’t drink alcohol.’

  She says, ‘I can get some from the market. We don’t mind you having a drink. I might find something in the garage.’

  ‘I’m sure she can go without for one night.’

  ‘I don’t know that I can. Give me the keys, Mom, I’ll go.’

  It is, however, Philip who tosses me the car keys after digging into the pocket of his shorts. If there’s only one set of keys this means that they do everything and go everywhere together, which means this situation is worse than I thought and I have arrived just in time.

  Things have changed at the Bond Street store. It’s all upmarket now, with a big delicatessen section. A sign blazes Everything for the Gourmet Chef. Prices have shot up, too. I spend fifteen bucks on a bottle of wine that would have cost me ten at most back home. I take my time getting back, and drive around the neighbourhood a bit. It’s a good area: there are kids playing on their bikes, and the neighbourhood tennis courts are all busy. House prices have been on the rise as well, no doubt. What a freeloader.