On The Verge. Ariella Papa
you or your sister. Your father and I give you everything. Everything. We would never charge you rent. We don’t beat you. I cook all your meals. Maybe I should have breast-fed.” I can see my mother slipping into hysteria so I turn to my father who is on his third cigarette.
“Everything, you get everything. It’s like a vacation for you two. It’s like…” He’s struggling here to think of a place. “It’s like the Rivieria.” Ick. I think I understand now why my father lets my mother do all the talking. She may be emotional, but she puts a much better spin on things.
“Dad!” I start to say that the closest he has ever been to the Rivieria is Epcot, but I have vowed to be calm. I look at both of them. Desperate situations call for desperate measures. I take their hands. In my mind I hear the triumphant score of a million made-for-TV movies. I take a deep breath and try to blink up a tear.
“You know, I love you guys, I do. You’ve given me everything. You are the best parents ever.” I make eye contact with both of them. Parents love this stuff. “Monica and I (well, not really me) have been draining money off you for years. Dad, you went out on your own at sixteen, don’t you always tell us that? Mom, it wasn’t easy for you with two screaming kids but you made ends meet, didn’t you? Now, I want to give you guys a break. I also want you to be proud of me. I want to support myself. It’s important for me. I promise I’ll get the safest best apartment I possibly can. I just need your love and support. And I need your help.”
Have I pushed it too far? Did I lay it on too thick? Have they seen through me? I look back and forth to each of them and then…my mother starts to cry. At first, I’m not sure if she’s crying because she’s genuinely moved by the whole thing or because I’ve just given her the biggest pile of bullshit she’s ever heard. I look to my father who seems really uncomfortable with all the emotion, fingering his pack of cigarettes and contemplating another smoke. My mother squeezes my hand and wipes a tear. What a scene!
“Honey, of course we will help you. I’m so proud of you.” She gets up to hug me. I hug my dad. What a happy family.
“I guess I’ll get the daybed out of the garage,” says my father, pushing his chair away from the table, poised for escape.
When my mom finishes gushing I head upstairs and call Roseanne to tell her we are all set.
I spend the rest of the night in the bathroom making ugly faces.
October
To be fair to my parents, I spend all of Friday cleaning the house in anticipation of Roseanne’s arrival. Tabitha was really annoyed that I didn’t go to this chi-chi West Village gallery opening with her. She also didn’t appreciate it when I said I’d offer her a twenty for every straight guy she encountered. She got off the phone all huffy.
Rosie got to my place around eleven on Saturday morning with her rented Ryder truck. Sometimes I forget how blond she is. She looks like a cross between Reese Witherspoon and a country and western singer. She had a little too much lipstick on for the hour, but I wasn’t going to be catty. She noticed my hair right away. I was pleased.
“Eve, you cut your hair. You look so…”
“Urban?”
“Well, I guess.” I could barely hide my delight. My dad and I helped Roseanne move her stuff in. Four hours later, my mom insisted we come in for risotto. She was trying to outdo herself for Roseanne.
I think I’ve forgotten to mention what an amazing cook Roseanne is. I guess this tidbit is not as sensational as the blow job in the bathroom. When we were in college she would make elaborate meals in our toaster oven. When we moved out of the dorms, she would organize dinners and throw themed cocktail parties. She used to craft little place cards for everyone and make pastries. We’d tease her about having her own brand of linens to sell to a major department store. My mom loves to pump her for little cooking tips.
“You know, Roseanne, my risotto never comes out the way it tastes in the restaurants.”
“Well, Mrs. Vitali, I think it’s delicious. It’s all in the stirring. You have to stir constantly.”
“I know, I did, but it still tastes blah.” Aggh, my ever descriptive mother.
“Well,” says Rosie, obviously scanning the recipe file of her mind. “For a cheese risotto like this one, you might want to throw in a few golden raisins just for a little sweetness.” Who would think of that? Golden raisins? Only Roseanne.
“Would that be good? I mean I’m sure you know best.” My mother is practically drooling over the happy homemaker Rosie has the potential to be.
“Just a few would do the trick. Remember risotto really is just sexy Rice-a-Roni, so play with it.” My father clears his throat. The last time “sex” was spoken at the dinner table was when Monica was getting her master’s in Social Thought and dating that guy who said he was an anarchist. It wasn’t pretty. My father excuses himself and makes his way to the garage to look at the lawn mower.
“Thanks, for all your help today, Mr. Vitali,” Rosie says sweet as pie. My dad nods and heads out to the garage.
I had made plans to go into the city and hit a downtown bar with Tab, you know give Rosie a little taste of the city, but by the time Rosie and I get finished organizing my (now, our) room, we are ready to collapse. Tabitha is not happy.
“Again?”
“Tabitha, we’re tired.”
“Isn’t she a marathon runner or something?” God! I’ve really said too much.
“Not exactly. I’m really tired. Call Adrian.”
“I can’t deal with another night of the unbridled lust of a bunch of gay men.”
“Luis?”
“That’s an in-person story. I don’t see how you can stand to spend an entire weekend out there in dump land.”
“Okay, we’ll meet you for brunch tomorrow. Okay?”
“I wouldn’t want to pull you away from the hairspray.”
“Tabitha!”
“Fine, fine. Let’s go to the place on Spring with the nice mimosas. Around one. Will that be enough beauty sleep for you?”
“I’m going now.” When I get off the phone, Rosie is painting her nails red. This is definitely going to be culture shock.
What an understatement. The next day, we arrive at the place and order mimosas. Tabitha is late as usual. Rosie is taking it all in.
“Wow, it’s amazing.”
“Yes, they do a lot of photo shoots here. It’s a real beautiful people crowd.” Everyone is kind of giving Roseanne a dirty look because she is not wearing black.
“Is your friend Tabitha like that?”
“Yeah, she’s very glam.” Rosie nods, mulling this over.
“She sounds a little snobby to me.” I will never learn to keep my mouth shut.
“No, she’s great. She’s not like anyone we went to school with.”
“Can we go to FAO Schwartz?” I pretend I don’t hear her.
Forty-five minutes pass and Tabitha still hasn’t arrived. She isn’t trying very hard to make a good impression on someone she’s hopefully going to be spending a lot of time with. Rosie checks her watch, but we keep ordering more mimosas. “Doesn’t this girl know about the half hour rule?”
“I know, Ro, but it takes a while to get down from the Upper East Side.”
“She might have accounted for it when she left the house.” Not a good sign. But, before I can defend Tabitha’s honor, Herself shows up. She’s a vision in brown this morning—and where did she get that leather jacket?
“Sorry,