Separation Anxiety - Laura Zigman Page 0,31
like me and my dog!”
The first of many birds appears on my head.
“Exactly!” Nick says. “See, I’m the llama and the llama is me. But who am I and who is the llama? Where does one end and the other begin?”
There’s a bird on Nick’s head.
Gary nods. “Not to be an asshole, but I have no idea what that means.”
“It’s okay. Most people don’t get it.”
Gary leans forward. “But you work with children. Isn’t it important that they get it?”
“Children do get it!” Nick says. “Because life is still full of mystery and magic for them!”
Gary snorts. I ignore him. “Teddy used to totally be into magic,” I blurt. “Back before he became a joyless teenager. We still have his black satin cape in the basement.”
Teddy turns sideways in the doorway, as if he’s trying to slip in between the molding and the wall. “See?” I point, and everyone turns. “He’s trying to make himself disappear right now!”
“Mom. Stopppp.”
Nick waves at Teddy. “Do you like puppets, dude?”
Teddy shrugs, smiles shyly. “They’re okay I guess.”
Nick turns to Gary. “Do you like puppets?”
Gary’s mouth actually drops open. He shoots me another desperate look. I know exactly what he is thinking: Seriously. We have to leave. But how can we leave early from our own house? Since he’s not answering Nick’s question, I decide to talk for him, thinking, ironically, that in doing so he’s like my puppet. “In theory, Gary likes puppets,” I say. “But in reality, Gary is terrified of puppets. He’s actually terrified of all costumed characters.”
“Judy—” He tries to stop me, but it’s too late—I’m already blurting the alleged origin story of his phobia: one of Gary’s first jobs in college, at a Chuck E. Cheese–style restaurant, as one of three costumed mice playing on a tiny stage in front of families eating shitty pizza.
“He told me that he got almost all the way through his first shift, but suddenly the music stopped and he pulled off his giant mouse costume head and started screaming: ‘I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!’”
There’s a bird on Gary’s head. “The air-tube-mouthpiece-thingy inside the head part was blocked.”
“With anxiety,” I whisper.
“I couldn’t breathe, man!” Gary erupts, before catching himself and looking around, embarrassed. “Sorry.”
I adjust the dog on my lap and pretend everything is fine. “So, how did you get into puppetry, Phoebe?”
“My moms were founding members of this puppet theater at Bennington College,” she explains. “They still perform—in fact, they just did a puppet adaptation of The Vagina Monologues. They wear these huge vagina costumes, made out of dark red velvet, and ohmygod it’s totally embarrassing.”
Nick turns to Gary, man-puppet to man. “Dude. You have no idea.”
I can see Gary doing the math in his head—dog sling, vagina costume, same thing. “I think I do.”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with vaginas, Teddy,” Nick explains, a sage in llama’s clothing. “They’re beautiful. I mean, I’m not sure how much you know about stuff like that.” He turns to me and covers his mouth with his hoof. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” I lie, as if I’m totally fine discussing vaginas in my living room with Teddy blushing in the doorway. I quickly change the subject. “Were your parents into puppets, Nick?”
“My father was. He loves everything to do with theater. Which is pretty much why my mother divorced him. Which was kind of a big deal. At the time.”
“Well, that’s something you two have in common!” I say, elbowing Gary. “Gary’s parents got divorced and he still hasn’t gotten over it!”
Nick points down at his costume shamefully. “Neither have I. Hence the career switch.”
“You weren’t always a puppet?” Gary asks.
“I went to law school because my mother wanted me to but I never practiced because I never took the bar. I hated it. It just wasn’t me.”
“It wasn’t me, either,” Gary says, softening. “I dropped out after my first year at Georgetown to play music.”
“I didn’t know you went to law school,” Teddy says. I watch as something—surprise? confusion? disappointment?—crosses his face. “Jackson’s dad is a lawyer.” It’s the first time I realize that Teddy is deep in the age of comparison—seeing himself and his family in relation to others, though what he thinks about those differences I have no idea, except that I’m sure I come up short compared to other moms who don’t wear the family dog.
“I thought I’d told you,” Gary says absently. He’s a terrible liar. “Sometimes you just know that something isn’t for you and law school wasn’t for me. I