$17.95 / Perfectbound
ISBN: 9781608440245
332 pages
Also available at fine
bookstores everywhere

1980

Minna sits in a swivel armchair, gazing out the large window at the blurred swipe of gray, the Charles River winding below. She marvels, what a wonderful view Julie has here. Rain and gusts of wind slather the pane lavishly. For a surreal second the room is brilliant with lightning. Thunder explodes like a threat. Minna feels insu­lated, like a spectator at a horror show. She has seen this all before. When you are ninety, nothing really upsets you. It is all so unimportant. What is important is that she has made this journey.

Julie has lived here for a dozen years already and, until now, Minna has resisted coming to visit. She reasoned that Boston was too long a trip. Julie had her own demanding life and interests, and she didn’t need a mother on her hands. The truth is I knew she didn’t want me, and she makes me feel uncomfortable. We have never been close.

But in this year, her ninetieth, time has seemed to evaporate. Days spiral by, each one more brief than the one before. The end to life looms. I have to talk to my daughter. There are important things to decide, to talk over with her before I die.

“Mom, do you want some tea?” Julie calls from the kitchen. Minna watches her daughter as she walks into the room, her movements languid and fluent, catlike. She winds her long, auburn hair into a knot, fastening it with a comb as she crouches lithely at the foot of her mother’s chair. She looks into her troubled face. “Hey, what are you thinking? Tea?” She stands behind her mother and places her hands on the bony shoulders.

Minna attends. “I was woolgathering, I guess. Sure, let’s have some tea.” She pulls herself shakily to her feet. “I want to help.”

Minna looks around the apartment. Everything is beige and white, so straight and clean-lined, so perfect; no knickknacks, nothing personal in sight. Not even any plants. So sterile, she thinks. But she’s a journalist, a professional woman; she doesn’t have the interest in a home. The place is functional and easy to keep.

Minna tries to rationalize her disappointment. She bites her lip, remembering bitterly what a furious parent she was, so discontented with her husband and tough with the boys. I never trusted men. She shrugs, asking herself; Why would Julie want marriage, growing up with our family as a model?

Minna examines the one piece of wall decor—a framed certificate. It states that Julie Bauer Anson received a master’s degree, cum laude, from Smith College, June 1, 1954. I always pushed her to achieve. She would do what I never could. I know she resents me for it.

Minna carries the teapot to the living room, where Julie has set up two TV tables in front of the couch. The two women sit side by side in the gray light, sipping their tea; one tiny, ancient, and frail, the other in the full flush of life, lustrous and healthy.

Minna regards her beautiful daughter, tall and graceful, even as she is curled into the corner of the couch. Minna thinks, she holds her head so high, looking down upon the world with those wide-open gray-blue eyes. She is impressive; so cool, so collected. Minna has a moment of pride. She is my accomplishment. The moment passes, replaced by another thought. She’s like a total stranger to me. She has been that way ever since she was a kid. After we sent her to boarding school, sometimes months went by when we had only a postcard or a snippy phone message. I got used to it.

She feels a surprising surge of resentment. Look at her. So superior, so cold, so polite.

Julie’s head is turned. She is staring out the window at the storm, immersed in her own thoughts. A prickle of awareness, a sense of tension seems to alert her. She looks at her mother curiously. “Mom, what’s up?” Minna clears her throat and purses her lips. “I am getting old, Julie. There are some things we have to attend to, you and I.” Her voice is tremulous despite her effort to sound business- like. “You know, I never hear from your brother since dad died. I doubt he would care about anything I have to say.” She holds her handker­chief to her lips for a moment, summoning her control.

“I’ve been drawing up my will and I have questions, like, do you want the house?” She looks at Julie through blurred tears. “After all, it is where you grew up. It was our home for more than thirty years.” She waits hopefully. “If you don’t, then I suppose you and your brother share the proceeds.”

Julie’s face is impassive. Coolly, she says, “I don’t really give a damn about the house. I’d rather have the money.”

Minna blanches. She straightens her shoulders and continues. “Then, there’s the piano. It’s in fine shape. I don’t touch it any more, but you used to play so well, I thought…” Minna sees that Julie is looking out the window. She’s not even listen­ing to me. Minna raises her voice irritably, “And your flute, your silver flute.”

Julie leans suddenly toward her mother. “The truth is, I don’t want any of that stuff. I don’t want to be reminded of those times, growing up. I don’t care what you do with it. Throw it all away, for all I care.”

Minna raises her hand to her cheek as though she were struck. She collapses back onto the cushions, trembling with anger. She whispers, “You are cruel.” Then, in a burst, she explodes, “You’re just like my stepmother.”

Julie’s eyes narrow with a calculated interest. “Oh, yes? So I’m like her. Tell me about her.” Julie’s voice is laden with sarcasm. “Did she also have a lovely upbringing? Did your father adore her?” There is a pause, as Julie slowly turns to Minna. She is suddenly curious. “Why did he marry her if she was so awful?