She hangs up, and I flip my hair into a towel, drying off my body, moisturizing, and then folding into a giant terry-cloth robe.
I try not to look at myself too often naked. All the frecklesand scars and birthmarks expanding and contracting. I read in a magazine one time that every woman should spend five minutes a day staring at her naked body. I’d rather hurl myself off a balcony.
I run a brush through my hair and then add some product to it. It will still dry straight—it always does—but if I’m lucky, the right amount of air can give me a windswept look, like I’ve just been caught in some light convertible play.
There’s a vintage floral dress I bought recently at Decades on Melrose hanging on the door of my closet. It’s white, with tiny blue flowers and cap sleeves. I put it on, pulling a cream cable-knit cardigan over it and sliding into some brown loafers. I add minimal makeup and walk out the door.
The drive down Sunset is hit or miss with traffic on the weekends, but today I hit a glide, and I’m at my parents’ doorstep in half an hour, which is practically a record.
When I was growing up we lived on the border of Brentwood and the Pacific Palisades on a tree-lined street. My parents now live much deeper, past the Palisades Village, a Mickey Mouse shopping mall that looks like it belongs in Stepford Wives, California—the sequel. There is an Erewhon, which is the best upscale grocery store in all of California. The strawberries are twelve dollars, but they’re life-changing.
Their new home is modest. Three bedrooms, single level. It’s an old house, built in the seventies, with stone steps leading up to the front door. My dad greets me when I get there.
“Chicken,” he says. “You’re here.”
My father is a short and trim man, with a goatee and a full head of gray hair. He’s been calling me “chicken” since I was a baby, when he says I came out looking like a fresh piece of poultry.
“Hey, Papa,” I say. I present the doughnuts, and he takes them out of my hands.
“Your mother,” he says, shaking his head. “Come on.”
He carries the box in one hand and puts an arm around me with the other.
“How was your morning?” he asks me. “You feeling good?”
“Yep. Hugo and I went to the farmers market and had breakfast.”
My father eyes me and drops his voice. “You already ate?”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I won’t tell her. And there’s plenty of appetite where that came from.”
We enter the kitchen to reveal my mother, apron on, brown curls in a clip, her zaftig figure in black pants and a blue sweater, bustling around the kitchen like she’s hosting Thanksgiving.
“Oh, Daphne. Hi. Moshe, why are you holding them like that?”
She snatches the doughnut box from my father, where it has been tucked under his arm thoughtlessly, the insides, I’m sure, in crumbs.
She opens the box on the counter.
“Moshe,” she says. “They slid.”
“Call the authorities, Debra!” my father bellows. “They slid!”
My mother smiles. This is their thing. My mom sweats everything, and my father calls her out on it. It works, perhaps, most importantly, because she lets him.
“You look gorgeous,” my mother tells me. She puts her hands on the sides of my face. They’re warm. They’re always warm. “How is my love?”
“Good, Mom. Fine!”
She goes to the cabinet and gets a plate down and hands it to me, motioning to the doughnuts. I start lifting them out of their box and onto the plate.
The counter is cluttered with food. Bagels, a tray of lox, cut onions, tomatoes, capers, and cucumbers. There’s a fruit plate, and a basket of pastries, some of which I can tell my mother baked.
She taught me how to fry an egg, set a table, chop a scallion. Our taste buds are different—my mother prefers the traditional food she grew up with, and I like a little more spice—but whatever I know how to make, I learned from her.
“You’re hungry?” she asks.
I look at my father. He winks.
