She had her own car and she wasn’t too old to drive.
Finally I got the apartment superintendent on the phone. He said he hadn’t seen her lately.
I was worried. I thought maybe she’d had a heart attack or a stroke, it wasn’t out of the question, though she hadn’t been sick that I knew of. She was always so healthy. She still worked out at Nautilus and went swimming every two weeks. I used to tell my friends she was healthier than I was and maybe it was true.
Luke and I drove across into the city and Luke bullied the superintendent into opening up the apartment. She could be dead, on the floor, Luke said. The longer you leave it the worse it’ll be. You thought of the smell? The superintendent said something about needing a permit, but Luke could be persuasive. He made it clear we weren’t going to wait or go away. I started to cry. Maybe that was what finally did it.
When the man got the door open what we found was chaos. There was furniture overturned, the mattress was ripped open, bureau drawers upside-down on the floor, their contents strewn and mounded. But my mother wasn’t there.
I’m going to call the police, I said. I’d stopped crying; I felt cold from head to foot, my teeth were chattering.
Don’t, said Luke.
Why not? I said. I was glaring at him, I was angry now. He stood there in the wreck of the living room, just looking at me. He put his hands into his pockets, one of those aimless gestures people make when they don’t know what else to do.
Just don’t, is what he said.
Your mother’s neat, Moira would say, when we were at college.
Later: she’s got pizzazz. Later still: she’s cute.
She’s not cute, I would say. She’s my mother.
Jeez, said Moira, you ought to see mine.
I think of my mother, sweeping up deadly toxins; the way they used to use up old women, in Russia, sweeping dirt. Only this dirt will kill her. I can’t quite believe it. Surely her cockiness, her optimism and energy, her pizzazz, will get her out of this. She will think of something.
But I know this isn’t true. It is just passing the buck, as children do, to mothers.
I’ve mourned for her already. But I will do it again, and again.
I bring myself back, to the here, to the hotel. This is where I need to be. Now, in this ample mirror under the white light, I take a look at myself.
It’s a good look, slow and level. I’m a wreck. The mascara has smudged again, despite Moira’s repairs, the purplish lipstick has bled, hair trails aimlessly. The moulting pink feathers are tawdry as carnival dolls and some of the starry sequins have come off. Probably they were off to begin with and I didn’t notice. I am a travesty, in bad makeup and someone else’s clothes, used glitz.
I wish I had a toothbrush.
I could stand here and think about it, but time is passing.
I must be back at the house before midnight; otherwise I’ll turn into a pumpkin, or was that the coach? Tomorrow’s the Ceremony, according to the calendar, so tonight Serena wants me serviced, and if I’m not there she’ll find out why, and then what?
And the Commander, for a change, is waiting; I can hear him pacing in the main room. Now he pauses outside the bathroom door, clears his throat, a stagy ahem. I turn on the hot water tap, to signify readiness or something approaching it. I should get this over with. I wash my hands. I must beware of inertia.
When I come out he’s lying down on the king-sized bed, with, I note, his shoes off. I lie down beside him, I don’t have to be told. I would rather not; but it’s good to lie down, I am so tired.
Alone at last, I think. The fact is that I don’t want to be alone with him, not on a bed. I’d rather have Serena there too. I’d rather play Scrabble.
But my silence does not deter him. “Tomorrow, isn’t it?” he says softly. “I thought we could jump the gun.” He turns towards me.
“Why did you bring me here?” I say coldly.
He’s stroking my body now, from stem as they say to stern, cat-stroke along the left flank, down the left leg. He stops at the foot, his fingers encircling the ankle, briefly, like a bracelet, where the tattoo is, a Braille he can read,