Dispatches From Paradise. Shelly Gitlow

he smacked me across the face and jolted me into action.

      “You are so right.”

      He smiles warmly and kisses my hand. Maybe he’s changing his mind.

      “Everyting going to be irie, Mrs. Lady. Jah will show you the way.”

      I have no idea what he’s talking about. It must be some kind of Jamaican voodoo or something. I don’t want him to think that I’m not into that hocus pocus, so I nod enthusiastically.

      “Thank you! I feel so much better now.”

      I’m taking the Rastaman’s advice. Listening to “I Like It Rough” by Lady Gaga while driving to Liz’s place is helping with my attitude adjustment, but I’m still desperate. What if she won’t let me stay? We really haven’t had much contact. We have our own lives, and that’s a good thing. I’m not the kind of mother who needs to be overly involved. I think she appreciates that. I know I would have, if I had a mother.

      My mother died when I was twelve. I was devastated. She doted on me and loved to dress me up and show me off. My father was a sexist pig who pretty much ignored me and put all his energy into my brother, the boy wonder. I tried hard to get his attention but nothing worked until I got pregnant. I can’t say that his behavior caused me to be a sexpot and seek endless attention from males, but I’m sure it was a major factor.

      I hope I remember how to get to her house. Nothing looks familiar. Has it been ten years? That’s a little scary. Time moves so fast, and seems to speed up as I get older. Funny, I don’t feel older, except sometimes when I’m due for my shots and I look in the mirror. It’s very depressing to study every new line and wrinkle. But I can’t stop myself. If I’m not vigilant, I could end up looking my age.

      I know I look good for a fifty-five-year-old woman, but I want to look young. It is so not fair. Why can’t we pick when we want to stop aging? Most people lie and say they wouldn’t want to be twenty-one again because they know so much more now. Not me. I’m vain enough to admit that I’d like to be “Forever 21,” just like that store. I was gorgeous and basked in the limelight. Modeling was so much fun. Who wouldn’t want that? The attention is a drug. Once you’ve had it, you always crave it.

      There’s the house. It looks different. They changed the front entrance. The lights are on. She must be home. I’ll leave everything in the car for now. I trot up to the front door, summon up my nerve, and knock. There’s no answer, but I hear music. I try the bell. No answer. Maybe she’s in back.

      I walk around the side of the house to the backyard. Surprise! There’s Liz and some guy. Good for her. Richard just left, and she’s already got a new man. Maybe that’s why she kicked him out. Maybe she’s turning out to be more like me than I thought. Genes line up in interesting and unpredictable ways.

      He’s got a nice body. I can’t see his face because he’s trying to plant one on her. My oh-so-proper daughter’s pushing him away. Typical Liz. So maybe she doesn’t take after me. This is so interesting to watch, but I better let her know I’m here or I will majorly piss her off.

      “Hi, there.”

      Liz is startled to see me and bolts out of her chair, leaving her rejected partner in the lurch. She looks awful. Sometimes nature needs a little help.

      “You should cover your grays.”

      She smoothes her hair, sticks it behind her ears, and glares at me.

      “What are you doing here?”

      Rude, but then she recoups and makes the proper introduction.

      “Michael, this is my mother, Claudette.”

      He’s a cute guy who appears to be more than a little tipsy. He’s fixated on my cleavage. I gauge his reaction closely. In my objective assessment, he can’t quite believe that I’m old enough to be her mother. Perfect. That’s the way I like it. And in a way he’s right.

      There’s not a big age difference. And since she hasn’t had anything done, and I’ve indulged in everything, I might even look younger.

      “So nice to meet you, Michael.”

      I take his hand. He’s all smiles.

      “Your mother?”

      “Yes.”

      “You look more like sisters.”

      “That’s so flattering. Thank you.”

      Liz rolls her eyes. It’s her own fault. She could have plastic surgery and partake in all the other amazing procedures and potions out there, but she chooses not to. Maybe she’ll change her mind now that she’s back in the dating world. I could take her to Dr. Grant. He can work wonders. I’ve seen the results in his waiting room. She really should get some boobs, or at least a Wonderbra. It’s so competitive out there.

      Damn you, Alphonse. Why did you have to die on me? I’m not ready to go hunting. It’s a good thing I didn’t let myself go to pot. Ha! Like I would ever let that happen.

      I’m still holding Michael’s hand. He’s infatuated with me. I can tell. It’s an ego boost, but I’m not interested in him. He’s got a weird vibe. And I don’t know where they stand. She was pushing him away, but maybe she’s playing coy with him. It’s not my style, but if she can work it, more power to her.

      “Is my daughter giving you a hard time, Michael?”

      Michael looks down, and Liz glares at me. I don’t want to mess up her game, so I better back off. If she likes him, she’ll be furious and won’t let me stay. I let go of his hand. She grabs his hand and pulls him away.

      “You should leave, Michael. It’s going to get ugly.”

      Why would she say that? I haven’t done anything. Michael totally doesn’t get what’s going on, but he knows enough to split.

      “Uh, thanks for dinner. It was great.”

      “I’m glad you came.”

      I can’t help myself. It’s too tasty to pass up.

      “But you didn’t. Did you?”

      I wait for them to laugh, at least a little chuckle. Michael looks down, but I can see his slight grin. Liz is mortified. That girl really needs to lighten up. Michael says “Good night,” and I give him a little peck on the cheek. Probably shouldn’t have, but I’m friendly and spontaneous. Sue me. As Michael leaves, I call to him.

      “Hope to see you again, sweetie.”

      She hisses, “What the hell do you think you’re . . .”

      I tried to be good, but I’d much rather be naughty and have fun. Apparently I have set her off. I put my hand up to stop her attack.

      “You have to be nice to me. Something bad happened.”

      It’s lame, but effective. Her voice softens a bit.

      “I am nice to you, but you . . .”

      “Alphonse died.”

      It’s a showstopper. Death will work every time. You can depend on death. Too bad you have to use it so sparingly. Her eyes roll back. She’s shocked and appropriately upset.

      “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.”

      But the sympathy only lasts about thirty seconds. I’m bawling again. But does she put her arms around me or offer me any comfort? No way. How did I raise such an ice queen?

      “Can I at least sit down and have a glass of wine?”

      “Of course.”

      She pours me a glass. But I can tell she wishes I would evaporate.