I hear the distinct ding of my phone on the kitchen table and snap at Zwena to grab it before my mom does. Lou and Coco are with Simon, and I have yet to tell Gloria any details about her son-in-law having returned to town.
I grab a bar of soap to wash the mask residue off my face, and Gloria knocks it right out of my hand. “Only water,” she admonishes me. “Let nature’s product do the work.” My mother is enjoying showing off her experience and bossing me around a little extra.
With my hair pulled up in a terry cloth towel, face mask mud splatters on my white T-shirt. Specks of cacao still sit in the crevices of my nose and ears, and I splash my face with clean water once more. It’s Zwena’s turn at the sink. I gesture for my phone, but Zwena ignores me, busy reading my texts. As a broad smile grows across her face, her mask cracks from ear to ear and pieces of chocolate bark crumble onto my kitchen floor.
I pluck my phone out of Zwena’s hand, hoping to God Simon has not taken to sexting or forwarding pics of pierced body parts.
6:22 p.m. (Ash)
My grandmother has been asking for you.
MONDAY, APRIL 22
Arriving for my visit, I am buzzed in through a set of wrought iron gates that open onto a rose bush–lined driveway that seems as long as an airport runway. Without someone to thank for entry, nor to ask where to park, I decide it’s best to hide my car under an ancient redwood tree. Two marble elephants flank the black-lacquered double front doors, and I can’t help but reach out and pat one of them on the head. Ash answers the doorbell that rings with the dynamism of Vatican church bells, no doubt having to echo loud enough to be heard throughout the enormous house. Unlike his usual tailored suit, Ash’s outfit this afternoon is more understated than I would have expected, though no less fitted. He’s wearing a collared shirt open at the neck that hugs his broad shoulders and looks woven for his specific frame. Ash invites me in and motions me through a gaping doorway as I enter the foyer. As I pass, I notice Ash has a fresh shave and that he smells of sandalwood and some other cloying spice that tickles my nose and makes me sneak another glance at him.
I know Mrs. Eisenberg has dough, but I had no idea sweet Eddie, may he rest in peace, had been such a mogul. This house whispers wealth. It shouts refinement. And though, in all our time riding side by side, Mrs. Eisenberg has never been one to hold back on an anecdote, it now occurs to me that her stories are almost always about other people.Mrs. Eisenberg rarely shares about her own past, and she certainly never shared with me what Eddie did for a living. Walking through the rooms decorated in soft neutrals punctuated by mixed and matched patterned pastels, I’m curious as hell.
“No fucking way! Is this Steve Jobs?” I squawk in surprise, pointing to a framed picture on the fireplace mantel of the young Apple founder with his arm around a middle-aged Mrs. Eisenberg wearing the hell out of a suit with eighties shoulder pads. Too late, I cover my mouth realizing the f-bomb I let slip as a guest in the stateliest house I have ever set foot in.
“It sure as shit is,” Mrs. Eisenberg articulates slowly, determined to speak as clearly as possible out of the right side of her mouth, her left still recovering from the stroke.
I love an old lady who can curse, and I’m pleased Mrs. Eisenberg hasn’t lost her candor. Cross fingers, when I’m eighty-eight I will have embraced my tempered vices. I’m planning on smoking cigarettes, hydrating with Diet Coke, and cursing like a car mechanic.
“Bring that over to me.” Mrs. Eisenberg waves with her right hand. Before I can pick it up, Ash swoops in to grab the photo and deliver it to his grandmother, who is tucked tightly into the couch under several Easter egg–colored cashmere throws. When I tell Zwena about these digs and the type of people and circles Mrs. Eisenberg runs with, she’s going to suggest I appoint our desert dame in charge of finding me a new man. Zwena was not impressed I almost slept with my old one.
“He was a good businessman.” Mrs. Eisenberg taps the frame. “Not too proud to listen to my ideas in the early decades of his company.” On the coffee table within arm’s reach of Mrs. Eisenberg is a menagerie of medicine bottles. She’s clearly a little high off her pill cocktail, so I’m not going to step on the tall tales Mrs. Eisenberg is lost in telling.
“Terrible father, though, that Steve Jobs,” Mrs. Eisenberg concludes, handing the photo back to Ash. “It is possible to be a good CEO and a good parent at the same time, he just never figured that one out.” Ah, so she read his eldest daughter’s tell-all too. I take note thatif Mrs. Eisenberg is stuck at home for several more weeks, I will bring some of my favorite memoirs for her to read, and then we can discuss.I wouldn’t mind spending more time in this house.
“Hope the traffic wasn’t too bad getting here and you found your way without a problem,” Ash chimes in, probably to cut his grandmother off from any more prescription-induced anecdotes that may prove embarrassing.Please, Ash, check yourself.I have Google Maps and a brain, and while I may not know anyone who lives along the monied streets of Atherton, I can certainly figure out how to get here from my side of the highway.
Ignoring Ash’s attempt at small talk bordering on insult, I tell Mrs. Eisenberg, “I brought something just for you. Hold on a minute while I grab my bag from the foyer.” I know better than to call the entry into Mrs. Eisenberg’s house ahallway. My whole house could fit in her foyer.
I clink my way back into the sun-soaked living room, the multiple jars banging around in my tote bag. I’m glad to see Mrs. Eisenberg’s eyes light up with a familiar twinkle of curiosity that I feared would be lost forever.
“Ash, could you please get us drinks,” Mrs. Eisenberg instructs her grandson, not taking her eyes off me.
“Of course. What would you like?” I spy Mrs. Eisenberg rolling her eyes at Ash’s question.
“How about finding out first what our guest would like,” Mrs. Eisenberg admonishes him like she’s talking to a toddler. “We have everything, Antonia. Except wine. Even though it’s after five o’clock, no one in this house will let me have my chardonnay with two ice cubes. Simply barbaric,” Mrs. Eisenberg declares while pointing her index finger toward Ash, apparently the accused barbarian.
“What are you allowed to have?” I ask, content to join Mrs. Eisenberg in whatever will bring her a little cheer.
“Club soda with lime,” Ash answers before Mrs. Eisenberg can suggest another option.
“Boring but true,” she accepts. Then she kindly offers, “But Antonia, honey, you can have whatever you would like. I’m sure Ash will join you in a cocktail.”
“None for me, thanks,” Ash replies, indicating there is no chance of him partaking, confirming my suspicion that there is not a fun bone in this man’s body.
“He’s being dull,” Mrs. Eisenberg concludes like she has just read my mind. Regardless of her assessment of her grandson, I can see, the way her eyes follow Ash around the room, that after Eddie, he is the absolute love of her life.
“Club soda with lime sounds great,” I agree to curtail any family bickering. “I like two limes and a lot of ice,” I tell Ash, enjoying him serving me.
“You heard her,” Mrs. Eisenberg says to move Ash along so we can get down to the business of examining my lotions.
I’m hopeful Mrs. Eisenberg will be proud of the progress I’ve made. At least I can provide her a few moments of entertainment outside the hours of daily speech and physical therapy she’s endured since coming home from the hospital.
When Ash finally texted to invite me over, I was, admittedly, relieved that my time with Mrs. Eisenberg had not come to an abrupt end. My father, Simon, Mrs. Eisenberg; too many people in my life had suddenly and unexpectedly disappeared. I was missing Mrs. Eisenberg’s check-ins on my product progress and her pushing me to figure out the next step, relentlessly urging me toward action, no matter how small. I know she is only one of many elderly women I help navigate the airport, but Mrs. Eisenberg, more than anyone else in my life, has demonstrated sincere interest in my capabilities. She has held me accountable to either moving forward fabulously or failing fantastically, persistent that I not be afraid of either direction.
