Normal Girl by Molly Jong-Fast

Author:Molly Jong-Fast
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781588360328
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2001-07-13T00:00:00+00:00

The coke is wearing off, and the wild hangover from the Wild Turkey is beginning to set in. If I weren’t vomiting every ten minutes, I’d be terrified by the prospect of this little talk with my mother. But luckily all I can do is brace myself for the next wave of nausea.

Brett pulls me up the narrow white limestone steps to the paneled cherry-wood door on Sixty-fourth Street. We stop. He looks at me and takes some of my hair in his hand.

“I want you to know, you’re going to be okay.”

We have one of those long silences like you see in the movies but never believe normal people have. Romantic, sickening, confusing, and mildly annoying. He kisses me on the cheek.

I push him away and slam my hand on the doorbell.

Unfortunately the white facade of my mother’s house is crumbling, otherwise it would be a beautiful house. It is one of those superwide townhouses, the kind that is three windows across instead of two. I can hear a family of pigeons cooing from the space between the window and the air conditioner. The brown paint on the door is chipping. I remember when it wasn’t.

As the fashionable neurotic opens the door, she is looking at her square gold Cartier tank watch. She starts pacing back and forth as we enter. Wisps of her brown hair peek out from under the hood of her gray cashmere sweat suit. She looks like she’s going to jump on me as she races toward us.

“Miranda!” She wraps her arms around me. She used to smoke a hundred cigarettes a day; consequently her breath is still heavy, though she hasn’t had a cigarette in a long time. Her eyes are puffy; she isn’t wearing any makeup. I feel dizzy and lie down on the pink-and-yellow floral chintz sofa. I do my best to ignore her by focusing on the ceiling’s gold molding. Feeling my chest rise and fall is calming, quieting. My mouth is dry, but I’m too tired to ask for a nice little Stoli gimlet.

“Does anyone want a little drink? You look tense, Brett. Can I offer you a Scotch?” She walks to the bar. My mother the socialite, born into a long line of new money. Her father was a famous alcoholic who also directed movies. Her mother was a famous alcoholic who also acted. They both drank famously and performed mediocrely. Both died before sixty.

“No. I think I’m fine, and Miranda’s more than covered in that department.”

She puts some lime in her Diet Coke. “So, darlings . . .”

“Look at her.” Brett points to the couch and I guess to me, though I feel invisible.

“Well, darlings.” She takes a sip. Mom’s the kind of woman who can’t stand, sit, or lie still for even a minute. She glides around the room, Diet Coke in hand. Little drops of water have formed on the side of her glass. They slide off onto the rug, like the living room is a tiny ecosystem and her glass is a rain cloud.

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