Kristina Riggle - Real Life & Liars

Homecoming

Mirabelle

Katya

Ivan

Irina

Mira

Katya

Ivan

Irina

Ivan

Mira

Katya

Ivan

Irina

Katya

Celebration

Mira

Ivan

Katya

Irina

Katya

Mira

Ivan

Katya

Irina

Mira

Katya

Ivan

Irina

Mira

Katya

Ivan

Irina

Mira

Katya

Ivan

Irina

Mira

Katya

Ivan

Irina

Mira

Katya

Ivan

Irina

Mira

Katya

Departure

Ivan

Irina

Mira

Katya

Ivan

Irina

Mira

Katya

Ivan

Irina

Mira

Katya

Ivan

Irina

Mira

MY TEA TASTES SO FRESH, AND THIS JOINT IS SO FINE, I MIGHT MELT right into the red-velvet cushion and run down the walls into a silvery pool on the floor.

Sure, Im a little old to be toking up. Five years north of sixty. So sue me. Its been a rough couple weeks around here.

The kidsactually, just my oldest, the other two are dragged along under the wheels of her trainare throwing us an anniversary party. By tomorrow night they will all be here, with spouse, children, suitcases, plus the usual petty arguments and festering resentments.

And I thought my being a hippie would free them of all that crap. The jokes on me.

Mira! calls my husband from the kitchen. Mira? he says a second time, maybe realizing how frantic he sounded.

In here! I know he will follow my voice and check on me, and ask me some ludicrous question like where the spatula is when he knows darn well. Lately, he cant let me out of his sight for very long. Its like living with a toddler again. Im surprised he doesnt come into the bathroom while Im taking a dump.

But then, didnt I long for this, his fervent attention? As they say, be careful what you wish for. Its like some sort of medieval fable, where a wish has been granted with a horrible catch in the bargain.

In the echo of all this deference rings that horrible fight, when he turned into someone else, something alien possessing him such that Ive never seen in forty years. I take a deep drag from the joint and shake my head a little, shaking away the memory.

Max pokes his head into the study, and I place my joint carefully in the ashtray on the seat next to me. Hes got Einstein hair this morning. His sandy-colored curly mop sticks up on each side, but hes bald in the middle. His spectacles are on top of his head, and his ratty red bathrobe hangs open over his boxers and T-shirt. He doesnt mention the marijuana smell or the joint smoldering next to me.

Honey, are you all right? Wheres the egg beater? he asks.

I turn my head to the side and blow out a stream of smoke, slowly. We dont have one. Use the whisk.

Max comes over and plants an urgent kiss on my cheek, and another on my lips, before heading back out to the kitchen.

The phone rings, and I unfold myself to answer it. Max is likely so involved in beating eggs or on a whisk reconnaissance that he doesnt even hear it. Ah, the absentminded artiste.

Hello?

Mom! Good, I caught you. Its not too early, is it? Great, listen I wanted to ask you about the flower arrangements, he said he doesnt have enough lilies if you can believe that nonsense so I wondered

And so on. I couldnt give a goddamn. I pick up the joint and breathe in again, smooth and deep. I preferred daisies for the party, but Katya said they were too common, practically weeds.

Heaven forbid I love a weed. I should make myself a bouquet of dandelions. No, a crown of dandelions, better yet.

Mom? Are you listening? I asked you about the freesia.

Exhale. Sure, sweetie. That sounds nice. So, are you sure you want to stay in a hotel? We can put sleeping bags on the floor, and the kids would be just fine.

No, I dont want to trouble you, she says, which I translate to mean, No, my kids hate staying at your house because you dont have cable.

If you insist. Love you, see you tonight.

How did my eldest daughter get so wrapped up in material things? Freesia, lilies, twinkle lights wrapped around fake trees, and crystal goblets. Why does she give a damn?

Myself, I shopped at thrift stores, wore clothes my best friend Patty sewed for me. The same for the kids, though Katya never let me forget the great torment she suffered as a result of wearing something that wasntoh, the humanitybrand-new.

Katya never saw me obsess about looks. She didnt see glossy fashion magazines with starved models languishing on sun-bleached beaches. I never competed with the neighbors for bigger, newer, best.

We all have the best-laid plans for our children, and they go and ruin it all by growing up any way they want to. What the hell was it all for, then?

At least shes healthy. They all are, thank goodness for that. My sweet, misunderstood Ivan, and Irina, my butterfly, flitting through life.

The morning sun slips over the houses across the street and pours into my study, setting my maple rolltop desk in a halo, glinting off the brass nameplate that Max bought me when I landed my teaching job at the college. I had it in my office at first, but it looked so grand and pretentious in my tiny cubbyhole that I brought it home to my rolltop, where its been ever since.

MIRABELLE ZIELINSKI , it says. I would have preferred to use my full, legal, hyphenated name, but Im sure Mirabelle Delouvois-Zielinski would never have fit.

When I started that job, full of vigor and bright-eyed with promise, I could not have reckoned that more than thirty years later theyd be trying to hustle me out the door like a drunken party guest who stayed too late.

The soft morning light illuminates my filing system of piles all over the place. Each pile has a specific purpose, mind you. Maybe I should start real files. Someone else, someday, maybe soon, will have to sort through all this. I should do it myself. Throw everything away thats unnecessary, which is to say, everything.

The sun brightens the wine-colored walls to a sassy red, like stripper lipstick. I sip some more of my tea and enjoy soaking in the memories locked in the framed photos. I hate studio portraits. I put those up in the hallway for strangers to admire: my grandson Taylor standing next to a big plastic number two in a miniature suit with a clip-on tie. Granddaughter Katherine with an Easter basket, wearing a dress that is so fussy I itch just looking at it. Visitors say, Oh, what a beautiful family you have, and I do, but their beauty is not in these created moments.

I much prefer that photo, there, of Taylor with his finger up his nose and his eyes crossed. It gives me a warm buzz to recall that moment when he did it, and I almost peed myself with laughter. And it suits him even now, because he cant quite get serious. I hope he never does. And theres my little Kit, up to her knees in mud in my backyard, mud on her hands, arms splayed out, missing a front tooth. Katya sits in a lawn chair nearby, knees pressed together primly.

Maybe I should get a portrait taken, before I die.

Max wont say the word die. As if hes terrified that speaking the word aloud would be some kind of totem and cause that fate to fall on me like an ax. But I know those ravenous cancer cells dont care what we say; they will do as they please.