11:13 a.m. (Quinn)
Are you showered and dressed?
I sniff my armpit. One out of two isn’t bad. For the past six weeks, I have relied solely upon Uber Eats for food, Lisa for booze, and Quinn for around-the-clock, long-distance consolation. No need to shower and dress for a pity party.
11:14 a.m. (Callie)
Yeah, kinda. Looking in the mirror this morning, I realized I make glue look tan.
11:15 a.m. (Quinn)
Well, you looked at yourself. That’s a start. A pathetic one, but a start.
After twenty-eight days of me hiding in bed, Quinn, with boots-on-the-ground support from Lisa, had decided that if the average stay of alcoholics to dry out in rehab was four weeks, that was more than long enough for me to wallow in my abandonment behind drawn curtains. Lisa didn’t storm into my bedroom on day twenty-nine and insist I sign up for dating apps, but she did push that I had to dosomethingother than watch all twenty-one seasons ofGrey’s Anatomy. I informed her that the show has been on television almost as long as Thomas and I have been married. Lisa’s patience was tested after a month of watching me drown in a self-destructive sea, and she swore that both the hospital series and I had taken a sharp downhill turn in the last few seasons. She decided the least I could do was demonstrate more common sense than the showrunners and move on while I had a shred of dignity left. I claimed Lisa was being unnecessarily harsh on my devastated heart. She reminded me that I gave her a similar version of the girlfriend, tough-love “Get off your ass and onto your feet” speech a month after her ex absconded with everything but her 401(k). I mumbled an apology to her for being a less-than-compassionate coldhearted bitch and attempted to retreat to my bed. Lisa was having none of it.
11:15 a.m. (Quinn)
And Callie, the world is waiting to have you back in it.
I’m not so sure about that, I surmise, as my near disrobing to relieve my waist doesn’t draw an ounce of interest from the pimply-faced tech geniuses at the Apple store, who have left me waiting twenty-seven minutes past my scheduled appointment time. Growing more annoyed with each passing minute, and possibly from the lack of oxygen due to my denim-pants prison, I can’t help but wonder if the members of this turquoise-clad crew are truly tech geniuses. If that were so, wouldn’t they be working in an AI start-up instead of the mall? Or at least be able to tell time? I’m pretty sure Albert Einstein didn’t publicly profess himself a genius, which leads me to conclude that if a person is touted as one on their name tag, they most likely are not. Turns out, having a cheating husband makes me mean.
When I see my name roll to the top of the appointment screen, I pat my mother’s leg to let her know we are moving from one unfamiliar spot to the next. She gives me a vacant look, and I smile at her so she knows it’s safe to follow me. I take her hand, and we shuffle up to the high bar, where purported Mensa member Darren asks me, “How can I help you?”
“Darren, come on. You just saw me a couple months ago,” I remind the young man who graduated high school in the same class as my youngest son, Andrew. Darren had opted for a gap year before going to college, and two years later, it seems that crack still hasn’t closed.
“Mom. Mom.Mom!” I raise my voice and try to connect with my mother’s marine-blue eyes encased in thick, dark lashes, once the source of great envy for every Manhattan socialite. In this moment, however, her distant gaze signals that her mind is not with me but perhaps lost in department-store visits past.
“I need you to stay here, Mom. Next to me. No wandering off.” Once the one to dole out directives, Helen Steele barely nods her head in what I choose to interpret as a willingness to comply. I let go of herhand for a quick moment while I fumble through my oversize purse to pull out her laptop.
My saddened, sallow face finally registers with Darren. “Oh, yeah, right. Hi, Mrs. Kingman. You—you look different.”
I can’t help but believe death by invisibility is a real thing for middle-aged women.
He yawns. “What seems to be the problem?” I had been hoping to be assisted by any other genius than Darren after our last visit’s monumental embarrassment, but there is no such thing as giving up your spot to wait for the next associate at the Apple store. Their customer service motto is akin to “You snooze, you lose.”
I hem and haw, considering how to phrase the dilemma we are here to solve after last month’s 1-800-Sex-Lockvirus took hold of my mother’s computer and refused to let go. Darren had successfully eradicated it after forty-five minutes, and for his efforts, I’d slipped him a twenty and made a hasty getaway.
“Well, today I’m wondering if there’s any way to secure the sound level on a MacBook Air to ‘Low’ so that my mother can’t figure out how to adjust it. I need the volume to stay put.” Helen remains surprisingly savvy with the basics of technology for an eighty-seven-year-old surfing the slippery slope of dementia.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, um, I’m back with my mom’s laptop, and I don’t want her to be able to watch her, uh, favorite shows turned all the way up. The blaring sound is disruptive to the other people in her assisted-living facility, particularly her roommate.”
“How about getting her AirPods?” Darren offers, as if that’s a genius fix I hadn’t thought of.
“Yeah, well, while she’s fairly nimble with a Google search and the volume button, I’m pretty sure learning how to use earbuds is not going to work for my mom. I think she’s past embracing new tech accessories in this phase of her life. Better to stick with what she knows.” I considered taking the laptop away from my mom altogether, but whenI was in her room and saw her sleeping with it under her pillow, whether due to a fear of theft or fear of losing her one tether to a familiar world outside of me, I just couldn’t do it. So here we are, on what has lately turned into quarterly visits to the Genius Bar.
“Okay, then, let me take a look.”
As I hand over the laptop, I feel my mom grow agitated next to me. Shaking, her hands reach out, confused by this stranger taking her computer, desperate to have it back in her possession. I lower her arms so Darren can get to work. She scowls at me, her blue eyes watery.
Also noticing her discomfort, Darren puts the laptop on the counter between himself and my mother, likely hoping the proximity will calm her. I’m touched by this young man’s moment of maturity and thoughtful awareness of the elderly. I make a mental note to email his mother and tell her what a kind son she has living in her basement. Darren opens the laptop, and fast as lightning, my mother’s knotty finger hits play on the show already cued up on the screen. A loud, unsettling moan emits from the laptop, followed by several grunts in rapid succession.
“This is a good one,” my mom announces, now more lucid when the familiar scene comes to life on her display. While my mother claps in delight, my mouth falls ajar and my body freezes as I struggle with what to say next to Darren and the customers surrounding us who openly stare. A nearby mother covers her toddler’s ears.
“Oh, yeah. That’s right, you were here because of all the viruses from the, uh ...” Darren hedges.
I save him the humiliation.
