“You, too, mi amor,” she replies, which is her agreement to stand down. In fact, I don’t look great, having forgone a shower for braids, a baseball cap, and swipe of deodorant so I could have time to read the fine print on the application forInnovation Nation.I also had torun Lou and Coco to buy glue sticks and pipe cleaners for the final project in their elective engineering class. I was sure last-minute runs to craft stores would end with elementary school, but turns out, even with all the technology at students’ fingertips, trifolds and handmade 3D models are still a teacher’s favorite form of presentation and every parent’s hassle.
“Con mucho gusto.” My mother beams upon meeting Mrs. Eisenberg, who is propped up in a beautiful hummingbird-print upholstered wingback chair. Her color has returned to her cheeks since the last time I saw her.
I have witnessed it at the Senior Connection and now one-on-one with Mrs. Eisenberg. My mother has the magic touch of being able to make a person feel like the most important one in the room, just as my father was able to do. Gloria is one of the few people whose heart expands for those who are older than her when other people fail to acknowledge their presence, let alone their value.
“Look at me,” Mrs. Eisenberg shows off, lifting both her arms and legs at the same time, her left side only slightly lagging behind the right.
“Someone’s been acing her daily workouts.” I put up my right hand so Mrs. Eisenberg has to high-five me with her left for an extra rep.
“And I got my physical therapist set up so she can do Zoom workouts with Elaine and Patrick in Scottsdale. Next, I’m going to have her record her sessions with me so she can start a subscription service online for seniors. That’s how you really start making money, auto-renewal. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that when it comes to your lotions.”
“So, what you’re telling me is you’re a fitness model now?” I chuckle a little too long, needing a few more seconds to get up the nerve to ask Mrs. Eisenberg about Ash andInnovation Nation.
“I’m going to go viral,” Mrs. Eisenberg says, holding up her phone.
“How do you know what viral is?” I laugh again, unable to imagine Mrs. Eisenberg spends her time on anything as trivial as social media.
“Back in 2009 I was one of the original investors in Instagram’s Series A round of funding. You know I don’t believe success is everinstant, but the ’gram proved me wrong.” Mrs. Eisenberg lifts a finger at me. “But that’s a one in a billion exception. The norm takes a ton of slow and steady work that goes unrecognized.”
“Speaking of work,” my mom says, running her fingers through Mrs. Eisenberg’s hair. “Where should I set up so we can remind your roots what color your hair really is?”
“Eddie used to tease me that while I was living in the twenty-first century, my hair was stuck in the eighties. It was a bold claim coming from a man who went bald before we had our first baby.”
Ahhh. That could explain Ash’s shiny head.
“The eighties were my favorite decade.” My mom grins, and I know it’s true. That’s when my parents fell in love and started our family.
Feeling extraneous in this conversation, I inelegantly butt in with the real reason we are here. “Before you two hold hands down memory lane to the shampoo bowl, I need to ask you about something, Mrs. Eisenberg.”
“Sounds serious.” Mrs. Eisenberg straightens up in her chair and looks to my mom to see if she knows what I’m about to pry into. Gloria’s face indicates that she is as clueless as Mrs. Eisenberg is. Feeling like I’m going to chicken out, I grab the jars of lotion I promised Mrs. Eisenberg from my bag. She waves her hand for me to put them on the coffee table where her finished lunch plate still sits.
“Would you like me to clear that for you?” I ask, picking up the plate, surprised there isn’t help in the house taking care of such things, but happy for a moment more to procrastinate.
“Antonia, you are not here to clean up after me. You are here to ask me something. So go ahead and ask. You know I believe mood follows action, and you look absolutely terrified.”
“Last time I was here, while you were resting, Ash told me about your past. Your history,” I begin, but don’t offer too much more in case Ash overshared in the emotion of the afternoon.
“Ah,” is all Mrs. Eisenberg replies.
“How come you never told me anything about your childhood and career before?”
“You never really asked. Your generation is obsessed with learning from the rare young Zuckerbergs of the business world. It’s true, they made it in their twenties or early thirties, but there is even greater wisdom and depth of experience that surrounds you all.” Mrs. Eisenberg points back and forth between herself and my mother.
“Success does not come fast for the majority of people, Antonia. If it comes at all. But when it does come at record speed, well, that is sheer dumb luck. Building a company is a slow process full of small steps forward and immense setbacks. But that’s not what you young entrepreneurs want to hear, is it? The minute things get hard, and failure is nipping at your heels, it’s easier to quit than dig in and deal with the outcome. It’s possible to come out the other end of a mess better than where you started. Or maybe not, no guarantees.” Mrs. Eisenberg leans forward with a wry grin.
“This may be hard for you to believe, but the pants-on-fire risk is the most fun aspect of being an entrepreneur. Once you achieve what you set out to do, well, honestly, it’s kind of ho-hum.” Who knew Mrs. Eisenberg was such an adrenaline junkie?
“I think we both know my past ideas were all failures. You were with me on those adventures to nowhere,” I lament.
“I didn’t know that for sure. You didn’t give any of them enough time to play out. You decided they were flops before they even had a chance to become anything tangible.”
“You didn’t like them,” I insist defensively. My mom shoots me a familiarberespectful in someone else’s homelook. Her glare is reminiscent of those she gave me during all our years sitting side by side on hard pews in God’s house.
“I was dispensing critical feedback so you could make your products better. That’s how much I believe in you. My observations were not criticisms meant to cut you down. You are the one who confused the two and then abandoned ship.”
As true as this may be, I really wish my mom didn’t just hear what Mrs. Eisenberg said. I can feel her filing away the termcritical feedbackfor the next time she hassles me about my appearance.
“And the lotions. Do you believe in Brown Butter, Baby!?”
