shaking. I could barely keep from tearing the paper, they shook so hard. Because the second date was one I knew as well as the beating of my own heart. December 26th—
My birth date!
Yes, your birth date. It was a birth record of some kind. My hands were trembling, as I said, shaking uncontrollably. Until that moment, you see, I had known nothing about you except a birth date, and that you were German—
German? You didn’t say German. Only from Europe.
Didn’t I? Well, yes. Germany. Father had told me you were brought over from Germany. So I knew that you were German, Catholic, and needed a home. And of course, after being your mother for two months, that you were darling, energetic, bright, and adorable. Here suddenly was the fact—maybe it wasn’t a fact; I made myself hold certainty away for a minute—that you weren’t just someone else’s child before I knew you, but the child of one woman, a specific woman, a woman in particular.
You saw her name?
No, dear. Not her full name. Just a first name and initial. Maria G. That was it. That was all. And now: Did I want to turn the page? As I said, I wanted to believe you started with me. Ah, denial. The great glory of denial. But denial must be whole, entire, untouched. It was already touched.
My mother’s name was Maria! said the patient.
See? said her mother. See how quickly denial evaporates? Already she’s your mother, not me.
Oh, God. I didn’t mean—
Oh, don’t worry, dear. Of course. What else can you call her? Your womb? Your egg incubator? Your—
Birth mother, supplied the patient.
Yes, birth mother. Her mother clicked her tongue. That’s what all those adoption groups call it. But what an awkward nomenclature, darling. Don’t you think it’s rather brutal—this concentration on the bloody act of birth? Why don’t we simply call her Madame G.
The patient laughed. I’ve studied a little German, Mother. I believe that should be Frau G.
Said her mother: I told you not to smile like that. It’s disgusting. Your gums are so low. You shouldn’t show those disgusting gums when you smile.
29.
A knock on the doctor’s door startled us all. Dr. Schussler and the patient jumped in their seats, and it was all I could do to keep still myself. I looked at my watch in amazement: In all my years of therapy, I had never known a single one of the therapeutic breed to proceed past the very tick of the fifty-minute hour. Yet here it was noon, full noon, two hands on the twelve.
Dr. Schussler went to the door, opened it. Two minutes, she said very softly out into the corridor. The door closed, and her next client’s footsteps pounded down the hall.
Ah! We cannot stop here for an entire week! the doctor said.
(No, indeed! I thought. We cannot stop here!)
Oh, God, said the patient. Is the hour already up?
Ach. I am afraid so.
There came the sound of pages turning.
I had a cancellation for tonight, the doctor went on. Eight o’clock. Can you come back then?
The footsteps came pounding back, then stamped outside the door.
Yes, said the patient, rising to her feet. I’ll come back then.
30.
Your mother had just insulted you once again, said Dr. Schussler as they resumed at eight.
Oh, yes indeed, said the patient. She thinks my gums are disgusting. Can you imagine how impossible it is to be a happy person if your mother thinks your smile is disgusting? Anyway. Never mind this for now. Getting back to where we were.
There was a pause. Then she resumed as if the many hours had not intervened:
Mother asked me to make her another martini. No, didn’t ask. It was the usual command: You know, you’ll make one for me, sweetheart, dry and very cold, just like the last.
So I made yet another martini, circling the vermouth around the glass then tossing it, shaking the vodka until it was ice cold—the whole routine of Mother’s perfect martini. All the while, I was aware of wanting to prolong each step—perform the ritual exquisitely well, be the world’s most perfect bartender. Because I knew we’d go back to the story about the ruins of Europe, defeated Germany—all its horror. I knew what was waiting for me. How could I not know what was waiting for me?
I put the drink on the tray and looked at it for a moment: It was clear and icy, something immaculate in it, unclouded. This may seem silly but I suddenly wanted