And this wasaftera session with Ari where she wanted to, once again, talk to me about setting more boundaries with my parents. So I walked in already on edge.
My brother had conveniently begged off, with some excuse about working late (because accountants are known to be particularly busy in early July ...). So it was just me, absorbing all myparents’ energy, like overwatered soil in a pot with nowhere to spread all the excess.
I wish I could be more like Ike and leave my parents to themselves when I’m not in the mood. But I think that’s a little brother prerogative. I don’t have it in me to skip Shabbat dinner with them. That’s not my role.
I’d once again brought the documents for my parents to sign—documents that would move most of their assets into the annuity. My dad signed it without looking at it, which wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for. My mom flitted around ignoring it all night. As I got ready to leave, I decided to try asking her about it one more time.
“Can you please read through everything this week?” I plead. “If you want to talk to Tracey—”
“Who?” my dad asks, and I sigh.
“The financial planner.”
“Oh, right, right.” He’s listening even if my mom isn’t.
“If you want more information, just schedule a call with Tracey,” I say pointedly to my mom.
“You know I find all of this financial stuff so boring.” She rolls her eyes conspiratorially, as though she’s sharing a secret between two friends.
“I know,” I reply. “That’s why I’m trying to make it as easy as possible.”
“You’re such a doll,” my mom coos, kissing my cheeks about twenty times and leaving me with the distinct impression that she’s going to feed the papers to one of the Waldos before actually reading them.
I resign myself to having to have this conversation again next week and say my goodbyes.
I make my way home and then trudge into my apartment, carrying a heavy package of what I assume is the dog food I ordered. The evening has exhausted me, so I immediately slump happily onto my couch. George nestles himself into my lap, and I grab my latesthalf-read book off the table (yes, with the basics of the ending already known. I eventually caved. I am who I am.). I pull a blanket over me and open WhatsApp, because I have a few missed texts from J, sent while I was at dinner.
J: I know this is seasonally nonsensical, and I don’t even celebrate, but please hear me out.
J: Why are there so many birds in the “Twelve Days of Christmas”? Everyone sings this song like it’s totally normal, but we’re talking about some psycho showing up to their partner’s house every day with increasingly larger live animals. On the first day it’s like, “Aw, a partridge and tree I can plant in my yard. How nice!” Second day you’re like, “Oh cool, turtle doves can go with the partridge.” But after the french hens and calling birds, you’re going to wonder what’s up. The fear is mitigated by the golden rings, and maybe you think, “Okay, this makes much more sense for Christmas.” But then the next day the person shows up with GEESE!? Then it aggressively gets larger with swans. Why is this person not stopped?!
Then I see he wrote again, after an hour went by with no reply.
J: Sorry. This is what working from home does to someone’s brain.
I’m laughing as I start typing back.
Nora: You forget I talk to people about their innermost thoughts all day long. A long but logical dissection of the bird jump-scares of Twelve Days of Christmas is nowhere close to the weirdest thing I’ve heard all day.
Nora: And actually, yeah, it’s kind of amazing how many songs we sing along to with no thought to the words we’re saying.
The little dots pop up, an immediate indication that he’s typing and stopping. I look at the clock. It’s past two in the morning in London, and I wonder what’s keeping him up so late.
J: You don’t think it’s totally normal to sing “I am the walrus”?
I snort a laugh. He’s such a British stereotype—of course he’d go straight from Christmas carols to the Beatles.
Nora: Well if we want to get philosophical about the Beatles, I really think starting with Yellow Submarine has to be the best place.
J: I should look up who wrote “Twelve Days of Christmas”—maybe they also turned to LSD for more abstract lyrics.
Nora: It’s an excellent theory.
Nora: Anyway, I’m sorry I texted you back so late, but I clearly couldn’t let those musings go without a response. Hope I’m not keeping you up. Better let you get back to dreaming of a house full of geese and swans.
George hops off me and goes to smell the package I’ve brought in. He looks over at me and gives me a small bark, like I’m not moving fast enough for him.
“All right, big man,” I say, pulling myself off the couch with a groan. I walk over and open the package so George will stop bothering me. Maybe he doesn’t need to confirm visually that it’s his food, but I’mguessing he won’t stop smelling the box and trying to get my attention until I put the food away.
