covered by a floral spread. There was a vanity with pictures stuffed in the frame of the mirror and a wall lined with ribbons from horse shows I’d won or placed in. Never having too much of an eye for detail, Anjoli left a 1984 calendar hanging on the wall. The month was still August, according to my time warp of a bedroom. My clock radio was still set to WPLJ. On my bed rested a floppy-eared stuffed dog given to me by my high school prom date.
I’d just tried to start writing the opening pages of my novel and almost finished the first sentence when I got distracted by my reflection in the mirror. The problem with this book I wanted to write was that I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted the book to be about. I figured if Jerry Seinfeld could make a television show about nothing, why couldn’t I write a book about nothing? Unfortunately, the Seinfeld writers came up with witty observations about everyday life. All I came up with was a dark, rainy night and some chick named Desdemona wandering a cobblestone alley.
“Oh, are you doing the nonsurgical face-lift?” Anjoli asked, sounding overjoyed that we might be able to share our thoughts on the program.
“It’s for the Bell’s palsy,” I said. “Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six.”
“Of course it is, darling. I simply wondered if it was adapted from the nonsurgical face-lift program.”
“No,” I sighed impatiently. “I’m hoping to regain movement on the right side of my face. I’m not trying to give myself a face-lift.”
Her own face was shining from the base of oils and creams she applied after her shower. “Don’t turn your nose up at it, darling. Kimmy and I took the class and it was wonderful,” she said, exaggerating the final word. “I purchased the DVD if you’d like to watch it with me. Five minutes a day and you’d be amazed at how the facial muscles tone up. Plus, forcing all of that oxygenated blood to your face helps smooth wrinkles so you won’t ever have to have a face-lift.”
“Mother! My face is paralyzed. In another week, I’m going to be further along in a pregnancy than I’ve ever made it. I kind of have more important things to deal with right now. Plus no one has to get a face-lift.”
She inhaled through her nose and straightened her back. “Point well taken. What do you need from me, darling?”
“I don’t know if you can help me with this. I need to relax. I feel like I’m constantly on the brink of tears. I want to know for sure that the baby is okay, and I know this sounds so vain, but I need to know my face will look normal again.” Oh my God! My “important issues” are the same as hers.
She smiled. “I have an idea for this evening,” Anjoli said. “Why don’t you finish your exercises, then we’ll take a short walk? I’m going to make a quick phone call and have Alfie open the shop today. Think about staying with me for a few more days, darling. It will be like old times. We can light a fire, sit by the tree, and gab for hours.”
“We never did that.”
“So, we’ll do it now!” Anjoli beamed. Staying in the city for a few days didn’t sound like a bad idea. I couldn’t walk for more than four blocks, which in Caldwell would place me right in front of someone else’s suburban home. In Greenwich Village, the same distance would take me by Jefferson Market gourmet foods, the Joffrey Ballet, street vendors, restaurants, and the public library.
Anjoli’s home was always extraordinarily decorated for Christmas. Because her living room ceiling extended to the top of our three-story apartment, she could easily fit a twenty-foot tree. Each year she had a tree-trimming party where nearly a hundred guests brought ornaments, from drag Santa to hand-painted glass snowflakes. Since Anjoli knows mostly theatre people, nearly half of her guests could play piano and do wildly entertaining numbers where they’d play holiday songs, then engage the guests with a five-minute comedic commentary
I’d just tried to start writing the opening pages of my novel and almost finished the first sentence when I got distracted by my reflection in the mirror. The problem with this book I wanted to write was that I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted the book to be about. I figured if Jerry Seinfeld could make a television show about nothing, why couldn’t I write a book about nothing? Unfortunately, the Seinfeld writers came up with witty observations about everyday life. All I came up with was a dark, rainy night and some chick named Desdemona wandering a cobblestone alley.
“Oh, are you doing the nonsurgical face-lift?” Anjoli asked, sounding overjoyed that we might be able to share our thoughts on the program.
“It’s for the Bell’s palsy,” I said. “Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six.”
“Of course it is, darling. I simply wondered if it was adapted from the nonsurgical face-lift program.”
“No,” I sighed impatiently. “I’m hoping to regain movement on the right side of my face. I’m not trying to give myself a face-lift.”
Her own face was shining from the base of oils and creams she applied after her shower. “Don’t turn your nose up at it, darling. Kimmy and I took the class and it was wonderful,” she said, exaggerating the final word. “I purchased the DVD if you’d like to watch it with me. Five minutes a day and you’d be amazed at how the facial muscles tone up. Plus, forcing all of that oxygenated blood to your face helps smooth wrinkles so you won’t ever have to have a face-lift.”
“Mother! My face is paralyzed. In another week, I’m going to be further along in a pregnancy than I’ve ever made it. I kind of have more important things to deal with right now. Plus no one has to get a face-lift.”
She inhaled through her nose and straightened her back. “Point well taken. What do you need from me, darling?”
“I don’t know if you can help me with this. I need to relax. I feel like I’m constantly on the brink of tears. I want to know for sure that the baby is okay, and I know this sounds so vain, but I need to know my face will look normal again.” Oh my God! My “important issues” are the same as hers.
She smiled. “I have an idea for this evening,” Anjoli said. “Why don’t you finish your exercises, then we’ll take a short walk? I’m going to make a quick phone call and have Alfie open the shop today. Think about staying with me for a few more days, darling. It will be like old times. We can light a fire, sit by the tree, and gab for hours.”
“We never did that.”
“So, we’ll do it now!” Anjoli beamed. Staying in the city for a few days didn’t sound like a bad idea. I couldn’t walk for more than four blocks, which in Caldwell would place me right in front of someone else’s suburban home. In Greenwich Village, the same distance would take me by Jefferson Market gourmet foods, the Joffrey Ballet, street vendors, restaurants, and the public library.
Anjoli’s home was always extraordinarily decorated for Christmas. Because her living room ceiling extended to the top of our three-story apartment, she could easily fit a twenty-foot tree. Each year she had a tree-trimming party where nearly a hundred guests brought ornaments, from drag Santa to hand-painted glass snowflakes. Since Anjoli knows mostly theatre people, nearly half of her guests could play piano and do wildly entertaining numbers where they’d play holiday songs, then engage the guests with a five-minute comedic commentary
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