This is F.
The closet is a mess. But I have an article to write. I peck at a sentence, change a few words, and delete it. I do the same thing a second time. I check my email. Then I glance at my phone. Suddenly, I'm buying "The amazing eye cream is finally back!" I force myself back to the paper. But what am I supposed to write about when the eye cream might be out of stock again?
In addition, the closet was a mess. I shut down my laptop and went into the hallway.
Most of the contents were missing (it was a shared closet we had with our neighbors), but some were. Beyond my comprehension. There was a box of Halloween stuff for our neighbor's kids to decorate with. I lingered. Under that box was something I vaguely recognized—a large, translucent plastic tub filled with colorful shapes, as familiar as blurry faces in an old photograph.
I dragged it to our apartment, opened it, and felt a surge of joy. We wondered what we'd done to Ava's Barbie dolls. I wanted to imagine we'd neatly stored them somewhere, hidden away in their patent leather dreams. But no. I smiled at the blond hair, the bare limbs, and the shimmering fabric.
I threaded a green floral taffeta dress through my fingers. It was the one Barbie (Ava) wore on her first day of Pre-K, when she was told she could bring a "comfort toy." When I suggested she might want something softer, more easily confused, she looked up seriously and said, "But I love Barbie."
Who can blame her? I love Barbie dolls too.
The taft between my fingers was stiff, but it was obvious that it was something else too. It stank.
I took a sniff and realized my hands were covered in a crunchy, shimmering mixture. I looked closer, panting. A Barbie doll was covered in rotting spots, her face and dress splattered, as if she had crawled through mud to a ball. I noticed the little braids that made up her face and felt sad for not remembering whether it was me or our nanny, Nanny Thelma, who had helped Ava create them. Her arms were raised as if waving, or saying, “Hey. Do something! We’re rotting here!” The scene was so morbid that I couldn’t help but think of writing about Halloween merchandise with Greta Gerwig.
Ken didn't do any better, though he managed to pull off a shirtless pose, part of the heroic dance moves. Either way, he looked cool in his five-handed trousers, and his optimism was touching.
Without mold, he would have ten.
The pain was excruciating, and I poked around. Despite the moldy Barbie doll, it still tried to maintain an atmosphere of dignity. Especially a naked person, wearing three chains of pearls that ran over her ankles and down her legs.
However, my eyes were drawn to the naked Barbie doll underneath. It looked utterly rotten, so familiar. I pushed him naked past, and there he was. Sailor Boy. My first true love. My grandparents brought him back from a cruise when I was four, and I quickly fell for him. His fluffy hat reminded me of Pillsbury Doughboy's hat, but Sailor Boy's was more masculine, even Roguish, even when I pounced on it to the side and let it fall onto his forehead (dangerously!). His blue eyes opened and closed as he tilted from horizontal to vertical. I found his teeth charming, though I didn't know the word yet. Seeing him now almost breaks my heart. My Sailor Boy had always been rotten. In fact, I bet any moisture that got into that bathtub was absorbed and spread by him. A bad apple. And I thought he was so sweet. Even so, I was still happy to evaluate my boyfriend.
Nevertheless, I finished fixing my Super Citizen Bad Boy with one last adoring gaze, then sighed and pulled the trash can out. I watched as the Barbie doll collapsed, one rotting beauty in another rotting place, my eyes drawn to the pink stuff scattered on the pile. I held my breath and pulled it out. I realized immediately. My mother's knitted sweater. I scanned the Charles Manson scene and pulled out a matching pair of shorts.
Suddenly, the more obvious woven fabrics turned into fragments. Like when you notice a water tower in New York, realize they're everywhere. A white cardigan and pink tie detail stared at me. A purple pencil skirt. And a strapless dress with a dark green belt; Ava's favorite.
The woven scraps didn't cover the moldy spots on the Barbie dolls and my ex, but they certainly would. I filled a bowl with water and white vinegar, threw them in, and then regretfully dragged a bag of smelly Barbie dolls to the basement.
As they soaked, I thought of the way my mother dressed Ava and said, “These might not be as exciting as fancy ones, but I made them so you might…” I was about to interject with how pretty they were, but I didn’t need to. Ava’s face lit up, and she gasped, “Oh, Grandma!” That made my mother smile, and I felt so proud of my little girl. She loved Barbie’s sparkly, pleated dresses, but when she saw it, she knew it was beautiful.
I fished them out of the bowl, their smell still making me pull my face back in disgust. I squeezed them out and tossed them into a batch of fresh vinegar mixture. Sweaters and clothes floated, and I thought of the redshift my mother sewed for Barbie. I loved its bell sleeves and was fascinated by the seams that pointed to Barbie's perfect bust.
“What are these?” I asked.
“Oh. That’s a dart,” my mother said. “To give the clothes the right shape. Near her chest.” I didn’t quite understand, but I found this talk about breasts and darts excitingly adult and womanly.
My mom was always doing things. The night before my 11th birthday party, when we had finished cooking, she announced she was going to make pizza herself. I was terrified. In the early 70s, birthday parties in suburban New Jersey were all about pizza, but the kind that came out of white boxes. Not the kind my mom made with a kit.
“Why can’t we just order one?” I blurted out. “They’ll think I’m a loser.” There was a hint of hurt in her eyes, but I didn’t care. “Why can’t I have a real cake anymore? Like, from the bakery?” I continued. “Audrey has a huge one. She says it’s called a cake.”
My mother turned to the kitchen sink and tightened a tap that wasn't dripping. She said, "I think we can make an ice cream cake."
I knew the chocolate leaves were in the fridge, ready to top the cake. I helped her do it. We washed the leaves we'd cut from the rose bushes in the yard. As we patted them, she said, as always, that the little ones were the prettiest. We poured dark chocolate over them, licking our fingers in the process. Once they were frozen, we carefully pulled the leaves from the chocolate, creating precise replicas of the veins, stems, and all.
The leaves look like these, but smaller and glossier.
When I was little, I thought she was amazing. For 10 and 364 days, I wished she were as cool as my friend Nancy's mom, who looked exceptionally chic in her two-piece outfits as she smoked on a poolside lounge chair. I was thrilled to discover everything about my friend's mom, from her matte lipstick to her ashy yellow highlights to the oversized sunglasses she wore on her head. My mom was pretty, but she didn't wear liquid black eyeliner. She taught second grade. She always looked good, but she shopped at stores and wore reliable one-piece Jensens to the swimming club. She was tall, thin, beautiful, and radiant. But she was a smart mom, not a glamorous one.
She turned around, forcing a smile. "Homemade cakes are no longer your style?" she asked. I have no style. I'm 10 years old. But when I see them, I do know what hurt feels like.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, because if I tried to speak, I would cry. She stopped fidgeting with the tap and put her arms around me.
“It’s okay, baby,” she said. I loved it when she called me “baby.” It made me feel adored and safe, and there was nothing else to say. I wrapped my arms around her, buried my head in her chest, wet it, threw darts, and so on.
The next evening, my mother pulled a pizza out of the oven like a prize. My friend and I exclaimed "Oh, wow!" and "Far away," trying to sound like Laurie Partridge. There was a bottle of Coke on the table—not the store-bought brand we usually had, or ginger ale (which we only drank on special occasions, like when we ate hot corned beef sandwiches on summer nights). I knew, and quietly loved her.
"Be careful, it's hot," she warned. I couldn't help but hope she wouldn't sing. But only for a second. She sliced into the crust with an impressive tightness. We agreed, the pizza was as good as a piece of piano.
“Even better!” Nancy said. My mother’s eyes met mine, and I felt so proud that I had to look away.
His stench was fading, but Barbie's clothes needed another rinse and more vinegar. They were floating on top, and I poked them down with a spoon.
I haven't had a picture of my mother since that birthday, but I do have one from another birthday when I was younger, trying to hide my summer frizz with a tight ponytail. Combined with my button-down shirt, it made me look more like a girl than a girl, but my mother looked like a woman, her beauty—Pale hair and that kind of tanned lady's look when Bain de Soleil #4 was considered sunscreen.
Around that time, I started calling her "F". At the end of the school year, a group of parents gave her a briefcase with her initials "Gold". It wasn't her, but she took it to school, and she used to be a good athlete.
“Have a nice day, FF,” I said before school ended, which made her laugh, so I kept doing it. At some point, it became F, and it never changed.
She stopped doing things because her hands, which had been so busy, were too weak to even bring a fork to her mouth. I fed her the pig with a blanket and a mini potato knife, and we laughed, we laughed; we always preferred the appetizers at the wedding to the main course.
"Do you remember how you made the leaves on top of the cake?" I asked.
She smiled and nodded. “Children are the most beautiful,” she said softly, and our eyes met.
“ You are the most beautiful,” I said. She shook her head but smiled.
I told her about Barbie's clothes and showed her pictures. She asked if the scent was coming out, and I said it was.
Then we remained silent, because these days it's often us. When your life dwindles to bedtime, there's nothing to say. So I talked about work and the children, and she nodded.
Then I thank her. Love. And ridiculous. Kind. She shrugged, as if someone could be those things.
“For everything you’ve done,” I said.
"What did I do?" she asked.
I said, “These paintings adorn the walls of her house, depicting landscapes, seascapes, and portraits of old people. As I listed other things, I pointed to my finger—“Afghans, sweaters, candlesticks, and platters.”
She shrugged modestly again, but with a slight smile.
"And the way you used to wrap brownies or payroom squares in waxed paper in my lunchbox. Other kids had those pink snowball stuff and twinkies, and they traded them, but I never traded mine because it was too nice."
She smiled slightly.
“And it’s always been a good egg.” She smiled, looking at her hand. “Sometimes I get a little distracted,” she said. Her eyes flickered for a second.
"Give me your baby. For my safety."
We watched a YouTube video of Liza singing "Cabaret," whispering "Great," just like she always does. Then we listened to Louis and Ella singing "Cheek to Cheek," and I held her hand and danced in front of her chair. As he sang, we trembled with Tevye's massive body around the barn, chanting "If I Were Rich." Even though we knew it was silly—maybe because we knew it was silly—we clapped.
Then I had to catch the train back to New York, leaving behind the gentle glow of her smile until next time.
I was just about to edit and publish this message when I received the call. I had spent ten months in fear and prayer. It was time. Finally. Her suffering ended. She did not end her own life.
But that's not all.
On the other end of the phone, the voice ended. The end of her calling me "baby." The end that felt safe. The end of holding her hand on a quiet afternoon.
The end of being a daughter.
The next morning, she died with her eyes closed, just like a lady in her way of life.
When we buried her, the rabbi not only used a shovel, but we also covered her with enough filth that you could no longer see the coffin. My brothers and sisters did their part, and I did mine (poor thing). We watched as our children, spouses, friends, and relatives took turns grabbing the shovel and tucking our dear mother into this long and final sleep. It lasted longer than we could bear, but when we were finished, the rabbi spoke of the importance and quality of healing in burying loved ones, not with machines but with one's own hands.
Although the memories of those cold winds will forever haunt me, they also bring me some solace. Because his words made it so fitting. For someone who has done so much for us, this is the last thing we can do.
Use your own hands.
And her attitude.
And her loving heart.
Goodbye, dear F.