Twice Begun by Reina Lisa Menasche

Author:Reina Lisa Menasche [Menasche, Reina Lisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Reina Lisa Menasche
Published: 2012-07-16T04:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

Fortunately, Tanta doesn’t require much of me for the next couple of days. Or maybe she’s already sick of the family invasion and isolating to lick her wounds.

True, her house looks and sounds as if it’s been taken over by aliens—kids playing and making a mess; adults cooking and talking and disciplining unruly kids; sweet-tempered Momi valiantly trying to put away stray purses and backpacks and books and laptops; Susan conducting nonstop business on her cell; my sister Ronnie heatedly arguing politics with my father, who’s baiting her by pretending to be a Republican; Ilena and her husband playing at the card game “Oh, Hell,” punctuating every loss such loving statements as “I hate you”; and Pumpernickel and the Pekingese yipping at the screen door to get a nip at the fat orange cat, et cetera.

Bedlam, like throughout the rest of the city.

There’s also the ubiquitous TV news superimposed over all of it: updates of fire-fighting, air quality, and burnt out neighborhoods, as well as those slightly irritating fluff pieces about folks who take midnight evacuations in their stride, with good ‘ol American pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps fortitude.

Tanta’s house has always been a circus, but it’s no longer her circus. I almost feel sorry for her.

Except at night.

At night The Blue Haven reverts to what it should be: another world, another century, Tanta’s secret. I find myself falling asleep easily and waking suddenly in the wee hours. Will I, too, grow old alone? Will I make friends with imaginary ghosts, misusing Jell-O in my desperate bid for attention? When was the last time Tanta slept with a man, or kissed a man, or loved a man? I suspect there is a story lurking here, one that hurts too much for her to tell. Like my story would be if I did not force myself to tell it….

Serge, I think, where are you? Do you miss me? I imagine him next week at the Marriot, curled up with Ivy and some creepy woman in an ice-skating skirt.

Ivy, I think, are you okay, baby? And think of her rocking fiercely in her chair in the condo.

She’ll survive a divorce, of course. Most children do—and with a 50% divorce rate, they’d better. But at what price? Will my daughter be scarred as my clients are scarred? Will she forever wear the fingerprint of an insecure female, expecting men to leave? I dislike seeing the wounds so many clients wear as badges for the rest of their days. Can’t you transcend your trauma? I want to cry out. Can’t you choose to live something else?

Then, in those wee hours, my mind slams into Dean Martin again, at his imaginary restaurant, “Shut Up and Eat.” I never expected his novel to be like it was. Or for him to be like he is: strong and sweet and kind. I know he’s tired of the “alcoholic” job description and working hard to expand his repertoire. Yet he can never be a non-alcoholic, can he? Always recovering, never recovered.

After tossing

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