Published Spring 2006
 
Weiderbundt Standard Time
"Oh, Jen," blew in the wind at exactly 3:01 WST. "Natasha told
me Deb told her she's invited to come over to your house today.
Isn't that precious?"
My name's Jennifer. My friends, including my husband Johnny, call
me "Jenny." My children, eleven-year-old Debby and seven-year-old
Rudy, call me "Mommy." And yet, Anastasia Weiderbundt, matriarch
of a parallel universe encompassing eleven-year-old Natasha (whom
I've never called "Nat"), seven-year-old Siegfried, and thirty-eight-year-old
Weiderbundt Standard Time, is the only person in thirty-eight time
zones who's latched onto "Jen."
"Just so you'll know, Jen," expanded the rotund being whom I've
never called "Taz," "I've got a pedicure at 3:08 and the country
club at 3:29 and the Junior League at 4:07 and a rendezvous with
Horst—we're newlyweds twelve years running—at 4:32 to go over new
window treatments, so we'll be by for Natasha at exactly 4:49."
One might assume Anastasia meant 4:49 p.m. on this one of many
such school eves, although, as someone once observed, everything's
relative. In Weiderbundt Standard Time, for instance, your day doesn't
begin at sunrise. If, in the school board's relative wisdom (in
spite of relatively horrendous tax levies), you're unlucky enough
to live either too near or (as in my case) too far from your assigned
institution of lower learning to justify the services of a school
bus, your day begins where another day of wild, disimprisoned children
ends at the relatively merciless flagpole at Albert Einstein Elementary
School.
"I ain't going to no shoe store! I ain't going to no shoe store!
I ain't going to no shoe store!"
I stuck my neck out to see around Anastasia to confirm her son
was voicing this sentiment, although the grammatically awry, nasal
whine piercing through Siegfried's blonde #2 pencil physique (every
bit a chip off the ole Horst) made the exercise pointless. In absolute
terms, it was also impossible. While Anastasia is the type of woman
other women say must have once been beautiful—with neck-clutching
blonde locks, bouncy blue eyes, well-caked lips, and fluffy round
cheeks filling out her face like a pair of treats from a Whitman's
Sampler—somehow, somewhere along the way, an additional 250 pounds
of buttercream has been brought to bear in such a way as to render
any attempt to see around the bearer fruitless.
Okay, so I'm not the type of woman other women say must have once
been beautiful. In keeping with my plain brown hair and eyes, my
lipstick is nonexistent, not neotangerine. My build, too, is average,
falling comfortably in the middle of the bell-shaped curve between
anorexia and blubber, fitting comfortably into blue jeans, not blue
whales. Despite appearances, these comparisons give political correctness
its due. Anastasia is metabolically challenged, not fat. Her laziness,
lethargy, gluttony, and glutei fulfill but unfairly reinforce oinkoinkomorphic
stereotypes.
To put it another way, Anastasia Weiderbundt's derriere is a whole
different animal. You see, not only is it impossible to see around
it, it's impossible to get around her.
"Oh, and Jen," added Anastasia with a wide smile, "Natasha told
me Deb told her the girls need new shoes for the cross-country team.
Would you mind stopping by the store on your way home? You know
I'm good for it."
She's as good for it as an Enron executive.
"I ain't going to no shoe store! I ain't going to no shoe store!
I ain't going to no shoe store!"
"Once you're done with the fittings," relayed Anastasia, "you'll
have just enough time to drop off Siegfried at his ballet lesson."
Even though there was no such thing as cross-country and seventy-dollar
footwear when I was in fifth grade, I almost didn't mind the shoe
store. After all, all that running around has helped keep Debby
and even Natasha in shape. Heck, given Debby's brown and Natasha's
dirty blonde hair, the girls almost look alike (a little).
Yes, I almost didn't mind the shoe store, except for the part where
I had to buy the ladies two pairs apiece because Natasha said she
didn't have any Oxfords and the part where I had to buy the gentlemen
their own unforeseen pair apiece because Siegfried said he didn't
have any with lightbulbs.
"Look," said Natasha on the road again from her fare-free view
in the backseat of my Mommy Taxi, "there's Mr. Twistee. He's got
the best cones."
"I wanna Mr. Twistee," squawked Siegfried.
"Me too," said Rudy.
"Mommy," confided Debby, "Mr. Twistee's got the best cones."
We drove through Mr. Twistee.
"Hey, Siegfried," said Rudy, "watch it. I said watch it. Oh, no."
"Wow," said Siegfried, "that's way cool."
"What's wrong?" I said through the rearview mirror.
"Jen I mean Mommy I mean Mrs. Hamilton," said Siegfried, "did you
know if you spill Mr. Twistee just right, he can electrocute sneakers?"
After Siegfried, Natasha, and Debby, in that order, started to
laugh, Rudy started to cry. Good. I didn't know what I'd do if Siegfried
and Rudy got along. In celebration, I turned on the Classic Rock
station. More good. An oasis of peace and quiet.
Purple haze was in my brain.
"Jen!" shouted Natasha.
Lately things don't seem the same.
"Jen!" shouted Debby.
"What did you say?" I shouted. "And why are you shouting?"
"Mommy," shouted Debby, "Natasha has something she wants to say."
How did Deb I mean Debby get the idea I needed a new name?
"Jen," shouted Natasha, "would you mind changing the station?"
"What's wrong with this one?" I shouted.
"It's too loud," shouted Natasha.
"How can Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison be too
loud?" I shouted.
"Hello?" shouted Natasha. "They're all probably prematurely deaf."
I changed the station, volume, and subject. "Say, is everyone looking
forward to Camp Baldy this year?"
"Yay," vouched Rudy.
"Uh-uh," said Natasha. "Babies aren't allowed."
"Are too," said Rudy. "And I'm not a baby."
"You know," said Debby, "we did see some Rudy's age last summer."
"Big whoop," said Natasha. "They can't ride horses or shoot BBs
or go canoeing or climb Mt. Eaglet. The only thing they can do is
barf baked oatmeal."
While Natasha and Debby resumed their snickers and Siegfried remained
strangely mum, Rudy was re-relegated to woe. Good. Whoa, not so
good. This wasn't Siegfried's doing. I could see (without looking)
leaden eyes.
"Wait a minute," I said. "My husband took Rudy through every activity
on open house weekend, and the counselors said they could hardly
wait to do it again with him, that is, Rudy this summer."
"Your dad did that for you?" said Siegfried.
I caught Rudy's upbeat nod in the mirror.
"Whatever," said Natasha in a loud whisper. "Deb, your mother is
such a control freak."
And to think I thought I was ordinary. In yet another confounding
corollary of Murphy's Law, my ordinary daughter had been plucked
from the galaxy of all available cosmic candidates to be the friend-for-all-time
with the indefatigable daughter of the most undeniable mother in
the universe.
Don't get me wrong. I'm no victim. I've stood up to my share of
tough nuts, particularly in my career, over time. And yet, none
of these encounters comes close to the complexity of navigating
within another mother's time zone.
What's a mother to do? If I suggested to my preteen that she branch
out, it would only renew her resolve to grow tighter with her friend-for-all-time.
If I forced her to disassociate from Natasha, Debby would never
forgive me.
Funny, but I had a friend-for-all-time who was light-years ahead
of me in fifth grade. Because her father had strayed and her mother
Cat had to work nights and other odd hours, Natalie came home all
the time with my mother and me instead. My friend-for-all time with
dirty blonde hair taught me all about eye shadow, Led Zeppelin,
and divorce. Then, at the dawn of junior high school, Natalie wouldn't
give me the time of day. I cried and cried and cried, but Mommy,
that is, my mother had time.
"When will it stop hurting?" I asked.
"When it's time," said my mother as her eyes filled. "When it's
time."
Last I heard, by the end of junior high, my ex-friend-for-all-time
had picked up (with or without Cat) and gone.
Still, Weiderbundt Standard Time never goes away. The day of the
shoe store excursion turned into a weeknight special at the Hotel
Hamilton featuring a complimentary breakfast and return trip to
school the following day, with more frequent flyer rewards to follow.
After she dropped off Natasha at exactly 6:49 WST the following
sleep-interrupted Saturday morning "because it was on the way,"
Anastasia assured me that she and Horst would come for their daughter
after Siegfried's tuba recital at exactly 4:49. As of 5:49 (with
the sun setting), I had no choice but to dash out with Natasha,
Debby, and Rudy on fast food/video rental rounds, circling back
just before our babysitter could pursue other avenues.
For a time, all that scrambling was worth it. In the midst of mashing
his baked potato, my hubby got to complain about his boss making
unreasonable demands at the last minute without having any idea
what a dedicated server really is, even as his boss is incapable
of being satisfied especially since he's unaware he's incapable
of being satisfied. In the midst of dissecting my orange roughy,
I got to complain how my station as a self-employed software developer
at home leads a lot of women who work to conclude I don't and a
lot of women who don't to conclude I don't and a lot of women, of
whom it only takes one, to conclude I don't have anything but time
on my hands.
By the time we killed the bottle of wine, Johnny and I were getting
pretty hot. We hotfooted home.
Now, I like—no, I need—a little romance as much as the next gal,
and I know Johnny likes—no, needs—a little romance as much as the
next guy (whomever that is), but if there's such a thing as the
Antichrist, then there's such a thing as the Antiaphrodisiac.
There, in the bosom of our three-bedroom piece of suburban pie,
stood a page out of House Unbeautiful smeared with eye shadow; serenaded
by The Black Eyed Peas; peopled with Teen People, Glamour, and Divorce
Magazine; littered with curlers; mussed with mousse; scented with
gels, lotions, potions, perfumes, herbs, and essences; re-sprayed
by our confused cat; re-tinkled by our undoghoused dog; flooded
with televised, video, flash, and fluorescent light; and overrun
by two shrieking eleven-year-old Brides of Frankenstein chasing
one howling seven-year-old Teenage Werewolf as one twenty-two-year-old
normally good babysitter with a normally good do shouted, "Shut
up, goddamnit, shut up!"
Natasha was in the building. It was way after exactly 4:49 Weiderbundt
Standard Time and Natasha was in the building.
"By the way," threw in Heather as she picked up her pay and a piece
of her perm on her way out, "Mrs. Weiderbundt called and said she'd
pick up Natasha at exactly 4:49 tomorrow."
Heather. How I cultivated Heather. Before Heather, a babysitter
from junior high spilled a Leininkugel on my linoleum. Before Heather,
a babysitter from church bookmarked 69 porn sites on my computer.
Before Heather, a babysitter from high school smoked a hole through
my brassiere. Before Heather, Johnny had to drive all those young
ladies home.
Finally, when I was ready to throw in the brassiere, I found Heather.
She was majoring in elementary education at the college. She had
her own car. She was attending summer school, not to prop up her
grades but to push up her degree. She said she really needed the
money.
So what if she was blonde with blue eyes? Nobody's perfect.
The first Saturday Heather came to our abode, she was right on
time: exactly 6:00 p.m. Daylight Savings Time. By the time Johnny
and I returned from our date, Heather had served dinner, cleaned
the kitchen, taught Rudy how to beat Bowser, turned Debby on to
Anne of Green Gables, put both kids to bed, bid goodnight to the
animals in their respective lairs, and, with a minimal amount of
small talk (albeit with a more-than-minimal amount of big bucks),
bid adieu.
Every time we were able to say "see you next time" to Heather,
Johnny and I were able to make the smoothest transition from breathing
room to bedroom since our honeymoon. Then, at the end of that glorious
summer, at the beginning of a new school year, the honeymoon ended.
Natasha's desk was next to Debby's.
"What I Did On My Summer Vacation" must have been the first assignment
of that fourth grade homeroom a quality-of-lifetime ago. After a
fourth grade's worth of scant Heather availability followed by a
nanosecond's worth of settling into a beach cottage, time still
found time to march in.
"Oh, hi, Jen."
She was a vision of white Coppertone radiating from a torso of
Day-Glo orange Michelin tires. "Uh, uh, hello."
"Gosh," said Anastasia, "I was just knocking on any old door looking
for directions. Fancy meeting you here."
I tried to remember what I read about the relaxation response.
"The representative at the travel agency said this is a very family-oriented
spot," noted Anastasia.
I tried to look on the bright side. I did, after all, fit into
the same one-piece.
"But Jen, do you think we should be worried about sharks?"
"Hi, Deb!"
"Hi, Natasha!"
Two little mermaids surfaced underneath the ceiling fan.
"Say, Anastasia?" I could make out the stick figure of Horst in
the Weiderbundts' rental Miata, but Siegfried went unseen. "About
those directions."
"Aw, forget about it," she said. "After all, what are friends for?
Now Deb will have a buddy at the shore. You've heard of the buddy
system, haven't you?"
"But … "
"We'll be back for Natasha at exactly 4:49."
"What about Siegfried?" I don't know why, but I had to ask.
"How sweet of you to ask. We brought a girl to look after him,
er, him and her."
The two little mermaids were still shaking their tail fins. "What
kind of girl?"
"A Heather."
"Heather?"
"Yes. She's marvelous. Do you know her?"
Seven days later, at the conclusion of the family vacations, Anastasia,
Horst, Siegfried, and the Heather I once knew fished Natasha out
of our cottage via not one but two rental Miatas two hours past
standard checkout time.
So much for fourth and most of fifth grade (the mermaids', that
is). Finally, one Sunday morning I got down on my knees with what
must have been more than the usual fervor. I prayed, as always,
to see the light to guide the way to sustain Heather as my babysitter,
albeit rarely, once I saved up half a year's salary to match Heather's
current salary, which matched one one-thousandth of the income thrown
off from one of Horst Weiderbundt's defense contracts. As luck or,
more likely, a higher power would have it, just as She always had
it, my prayer was interrupted at exactly 10:29 Weiderbundt Standard
Time by the spectacle one pew ahead.
Like most congregants, I prefer to combine forces with the Holy
Eucharist as discreetly as possible. Anastasia, on the other hand,
is a whole different kettle of fish. First she rolled the Host forward
like a tumbler doing a somersault or a hamster doing a treadmill,
take your pick. Then Anastasia's gargantuan tongue reversed direction,
whirling the Lamb of God like the gymnast or rodent performing backflips.
Lord, if it were that simple. I realize that for some people Mass
is a long time to go between between-meal snacks or, for that matter,
between between-snack meals, but if anyone ever needed special dispensation
in the form of a second wafer, Anastasia's the one. By 10:39 WST,
the Son of Man had morphed into an all-you-can-eat buffet. Well,
He hadn't really transmuted into a smorgasbord, but He had definitely
evolved into the main course. In other words, if Jesus were a Christmas
turkey, Anastasia was now devouring white meat, masticating dark
meat, grinding gizzards, gnashing drumsticks, noshing sinew, sucking
marrow, inhaling stuffing, and picking gristle out of God knows
where.
It's as if it were the most important meal of the day.
By 10:49 WST, not only was I nauseated, I had forgotten my reason
for being wherever the hell I was.
Then again, at least I fought off the specter of a certain parishioner's
buns becoming one with some other embodiment of the blessed victuals.
I'd hate to be downwind from Anastasia after she'd downed a heaping
bowl of beef chili.
Chocolate distracted me from further thoughts of sacrilege later
that day. Given that most seven-year-olds know little about time,
secret Nazi bank accounts, and neutrality, Rudy's second grade teacher
had assigned me Switzerland for a social studies report. Ergo, while
Johnny did battle with suspected backyard moles, Rudy, Debby, and
I snuck to the mall to seek something for show-and-tell.
At first, all we did was stand and stare. It wasn't at the massive
selection. Rather, it was at the massive body rattling off a massive
order from Sybil's Sweets' massive selection.
"Let's see," said Anastasia, "I'll take a half-pound of buttercreams
and a pound of caramels and hurry up with that taste of nougat."
"Yes, Mrs. Weiderbundt," said two salesladies at once.
God, they knew her by name! And it took more than one to serve
her! I covered my mouth and signaled the children to speak no evil,
too, as we saw and heard Anastasia bark and bite at the business
end of the store.
"Would you like a napkin, Mrs. Weiderbundt?"
"Nah. Hey, I thought I said to make it snappy with that toffee."
By the time Anastasia barreled toward the exit, she had polished
off a large shopping bag's worth of samples and topped off a humongous
shopping bag's worth of purchases.
"Out of my way, bitch," said Anastasia as her shoulder nearly dislocated
mine as I shielded Debby and Rudy from worse.
"Excuse me," I said.
The polite Junior Leaguer peered up with a fierce glucose flush
until her fiery red eyes faded to blue. "G-golly, Jen. What are
you doing here?"
"I've, that is, Rudy's got a social studies report on Switzerland."
"What does Sybil's Sweets have to do with Switzerland?" said Anastasia
as she swiped at the chocolatey touches recently added to her buttercreamy
cheeks.
"I think they make some there," I said. Still, for some reason,
I decided to forego chocolate for show-and-tell in favor of a more
economical Rolex.
Anastasia picked a peanut off her chin, inspected, approved, ushered,
chewed, swallowed, and smiled. "Guess what?"
"What?"
"Natasha told me Deb told her she's invited to come over to your
house today."
Deb, that is, Debby never tells Natasha what to do.
"Isn't that precious?"
What exactly is precious?
"She's in the car. I'll go tell her to meet you here."
"But..."
"I'll fetch her at exactly 4:49," added Anastasia as she hoisted
her bag of goodies and squeezed out the door. "I've got important
business to attend to."
My awestruck children and I watched the one who took more than
one to serve her lumber down the mall.
"Don't worry about Siegfried," she called. "Horst took him to a
ball bearing exhibition. Aren't father-son outings precious?"
I almost felt sorry for her. Then I remembered the times: the times
Natasha and Debby greeted me at the flagpole with their tongues
hanging out like thirsty bloodhounds with the inescapable momentum
of Anastasia's antecedent blessing that it was okay for Natasha
to come over to our house to be regathered at exactly 4:49 if it
was okay with me; the times I wished Anastasia had done things right
and responded to the bloodthirsty hounds' initial foray by pulling
me diplomatically aside from the hunt and simply asking if the whole
thing, including really retrieving at an agreed-upon Non-Cockamamy
Standard Time, would fit my schedule; the times I saw Anastasia
berating the school principal beside the flagpole, demanding Natasha
and Siegfried be assigned new teachers, only to badger the principal
later about switching Natasha and Siegfried back; the times I saw
Anastasia walk into the health club in her catsup-colored, super-sized
leotard, point to a case of bottled water, six fashion headbands,
twelve designer sweatsocks, and a baker's dozen nutrition bars,
exercise her checkbook, turn around, and walk out; the times Natasha
took home Debby's pants and pajamas and panties, to name a few,
for which I shelled out inflation-ravaged replacement costs after
Natasha and Anastasia claimed to have conducted an exhaustive search
of the Weiderbundt compound, even as they hinted the lost articles
were bound to turn up in the Hamilton hovel sometime; the times
enduring the open-mouthed din of Natasha's table manners as she
ruminated radishes, Tater Tots, and ice; the times Natasha, while
drooling through preliminary, intermediate, and perpetual braces,
informed Debby and the rest of my brood that Brad Pitt is hot and
Ben Affleck is hot and Somebody Iglesias—whom I thought was dead—is
hot; the times Natasha explained to Debby that sex is like a wedding,
except it's gross, something to be done once or however many times
equals the number of kids in your family, but no more; the times
Natasha hugged me; the times I hugged Natasha; the times Natasha
giggled and gasped and gawked like any other little girl, when she
seemed salvageable, when she seemed halfway normal, when I wondered
if she was innately halfway normal or on her way to becoming halfway
normal because she was spending half her time with Debby or (if
I set aside half my modesty) me.
I almost felt sorry for her. Then I remembered the times since
Anastasia co-opted Heather, the times since Johnny and I reverted
to lesser babysitters, the times since Natasha's estimate of the
frequency of conjugal intimacy threatened to zero in. And in my
frustration, my anger, I remembered the times the thought of Anastasia
copulating with anybody of either gender led to the thought she
could turn a straight male into a homosexual or a lesbian into a
heterosexual or the entire idea of sex on its head on its way to
becoming exactly what Natasha says it is.
At exactly 11:49 WST, a wee seven hours late on the Sunday without
end in this world without end, a teary-eyed, chocolate-spattered
Anastasia appeared on my moonlit stoop.
"May I come in?" she said as she trudged through in her old khaki
tent with the new cocoa splotches.
"Y-yes." Once again Murphy and his Law didn't give one whit I had
just done the laundry, including my spotless T-shirt and jeans,
as well as dusted the house, including the expendable chair (in
which I was now sitting) better suited to a certain sullied somebody,
especially since a certain sullied somebody's daughter had previously
employed a pair of toenail clippers to poke holes in the Naugahyde,
as well as other nearby material, ad nauseam.
"Thanks," said Anastasia. She flopped down, nougatted blonde hair
and shredded nylon footings included, on my newly reupholstered
white couch.
"So," I said, "did you get a chance to attend to your important
business?"
"It's Horst," she cried. "He's leaving me."
I did my best to hide my lack of disappointment. For that matter,
I doubted Horst was spilling big gooey tears, in addition to remnants
of chocolate, caramel, and toffee, on anybody's newly reupholstered
white couch. Then again, Anastasia was crying. And she was lying
on my couch. "Go on," I said.
"Horst said he listened to a psychiatrist on the radio on the way
home from the ball bearing exhibition and I'm too controlling."
I found it hard to control my less-than-nonjudgmental, arguably
Freudian urge to laugh.
"Betcha can't catch me!"
"Yes I can!" called Debby, following Natasha through.
"At least our daughters still have each other," said Anastasia
between sniffles.
Damn. I felt sorry for her.
"Do you think you could keep Natasha until exactly 4:49 until I
get things straightened out?"
Damn.
"Don't worry about Siegfried. Heather's observing him for her thesis
on child development."
A week later, at exactly four hours and forty-nine minutes after
4:49 WST, a bright clean Anastasia appeared at my door.
"Guess what?"
"What?"
"I'm here to see Natasha."
"That's nice," I said. Natasha's relative even waited to be shown
in, after which she passed up the opportunity to make a queenbeeline
for my newly soiled white couch. "How are things?"
"Great!" said Anastasia, practically bursting out of her white
blouse, plaid jumper, and blonde ponytails like a giant Heidi. "Horst
is like a new man!"
"I thought you said he left."
"I begged I mean I convinced him to give it one more fair shake."
"And?"
New Improved Heidi giggled. "It's the funniest thing. I accidentally
shook one of my Prozacs—they're great for weight control, you know—into
Horst's coffee one morning, and he's been following me around like
a little lamb ever since."
The Lord is my Shepherd.
"I had to ask my doctor for a refill earlier than usual, but when
I told him all the symptoms I've been having, he doubled my dose,
so there's been more than enough to go around."
I shall not want.
"Anyway," went on Anastasia, "I'll be back to pick up Natasha at
exactly 4:49."
Even after all this time, my mandible dropped. "I thought you were
here to pick her up."
"Gosh, Jen, you don't look so good. You should try a Prozac."
"What?"
"All I said is that I'm here to see her. Horst and I are off to
the airport and a second honeymoon in Vegas."
My jaw fell into a black hole.
"In the meantime, Heather needs to observe Siegfried for another
week, at least."
I teetered as Anastasia trampled the black hole on her way out.
"And to think Horst said I was too controlling."
Or was it too good to be true? Shortly after Anastasia and Horst
got back from their fortnight of getting back together and got around
to reclaiming their daughter, Natasha and Debby became a thing of
the past. It wasn't one of those things that sneaks up on you either.
Not only had I acquired an unobstructed view of the after-school
flagpole, I gained access to itineraries in which Debby and other
mothers' daughters arrived at and departed from respective after-school
homes on time instead of exactly 4:49 aka 11:49 WST or worse. As
I silently applauded these changes, something told me it wasn't
time to ask why.
One day, while implementing the easiest itinerary of all, with
just Debby and Rudy and me heading home, with the radio off, with
no reason or request to turn anything on, with a clear picture through
the Mommy Taxi's rearview mirror, with the beautiful sound of silence
all around, I couldn't believe my ears.
"Mommy?" asked Debby.
"Yes?"
"When did you start to like boys?"
"Ha! Debby likes boys. Wait till I tell Grover."
Debby flashed Rudy the hairy eyeball. "I do not like boys. Except
dead ones, should the one named Rudy be stupid enough to tell the
one goofy enough to be named Grover."
"Excuse me," I said. "Rudy, your sister asked a question. And what
we say here stays here. Got it?"
"Oh, all right." Rudy's lips formed a cute pout. "Girls get to
have all the fun."
Maybe that's because girls just want to have fun. "Anyway, Debby,
in answer to your question, I don't remember when I first started
to be interested in boys."
"But Mommy, that's just it. Billy Lancaster asked me to go steady
and I had no idea what he was talking about and I'm still just in
the fifth grade and Natasha overheard and I don't even like Billy
Lancaster and I don't even like boys, at least not yet, and Natasha
was my friend-for-all-time and now she won't have anything to do
with me."
No sooner had Debby caught her breath than all those condensed
molecules had no place left to go. She cried and cried and cried.
Rudy offered her a used napkin from his lunchbox, which helped for
a time, but then Debby's vaporizer overflowed again and in no time
at all I was all tears and even Rudy couldn't contain himself.
I pulled over by a 24-hour dry cleaner and tried to blot my eyes
on my seat belt before turning myself around.
"Debby," I said. "I'm here."
"When will it stop hurting, Mommy?"
"When it's time," I said as my mother's memory slid down my face.
"When it's time."
Over the coming weeks, the crying ceased, the giggles resumed,
and the painless proceedings at the flagpole continued with the
mothers of daughters whose universe Debby entered on her own. And
as Debby's universe expanded, I met mothers who understood my own.
"Oh, Jen."
Some things take time. On the day the flagpole and sun were once
again eclipsed, Debby was already in another mother's car, Natasha
was nowhere in sight, and Anastasia Weiderbundt's luminous cheeks
were in full ascent. "Yes?"
"Guess what?"
"When?"
"Siegfried told me Rud told him he's invited to come over to your
house today. Isn't that precious?"
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