Come to me 01

Spiegel and Growl by Spotify Audio Books presents Come to Me by Amy Bloom, narrated for you by Amy Bloom.

Love is not a pie. In the middle of the eulogy at my mother's boring and heartbreaking funeral, I began to think about calling off the wedding. August 21st did not seem like a good date. John Wescott did not seem like a good person to marry, and I couldn't see myself in the long white silk gown Mrs. Wescott had offered me. We had gotten engaged at Christmas while my mother was starting to die. She died in May, earlier than we had expected. When the minister said she was a rare spirit, full of the kind of bravery and joy which inspires others, I stared at the pale blue ceiling and thought, "My mother would not have wanted me to spend my life with this man." He had asked me if I wanted him to come to the funeral from Boston and I said no and so he didn't respecting my autonomy and so forth. I think he should have known that I was just being considerate.

After the funeral, we took the little box of ashes back to the house and entertained everybody who came by to pay their respects. Lots of my father's law school colleagues, a few of his former students, my uncle Steve and his new wife, my cousins whom my sister Lizzie and I always referred to as Thing One and Thing Two, friends from the old neighborhood before my mother's sculpture started selling, her art world friends, her sisters, some of my friends from high school, some people I used to babysit for, my best friend from college, some friends of Lizz's, a lot of people I didn't recognize. I'd been living away from home for a long time. First at college, now at law school.

My sister, my father, and I worked the room, and everyone who came in, my father embraced. It didn't matter whether they started to pat him on the back or shake his hand. He pulled them to him and hugged them so hard I saw people's feet lift right off the floor. Lizzy and I took the more passive route, letting people do whatever they wanted to us, patting, stroking, embracing, cupping our faces in their hands. My father was in the middle of squeezing Mrs. Ellis, our cleaning lady, when he saw Mr. Dquervo come in, still carrying his suitcase. He about dropped Mrs. Ellis and went charging over to Mr. Dquervo, wrapped his arms around him, and the two of them moaned and rocked together in a passionate musicless waltz. My sister and I sat down on the couch, pressed against each other, watching our father cry all over his friend, our mother's lover.

When I was 11 and Lizzie was eight, her last naked summer, Mr. Dquervo and his daughter Jusella, who was just about to turn eight, spent part of the summer with us at the cabin in Maine. The cabin was from the Spencer side, my father's side of the family, and he and my uncle Steve were co-owners. We went there every July, colder water, better weather, and they came in August. My father felt about his brother the way we felt about our cousins, so we would only overlap for lunch on the last day of our stay. That July, the Dquervos came, but without Mrs. Dquuvo, who had to go visit a sick someone in Argentina where they were from. That was okay with us. Mrs. Dquervo was a professional mother, a type that made my sister and me very uncomfortable. She told us to wash the berries before we ate them, to rest after lunch, to put on more suntan lotion, to make our beds. She was a nice lady. She was just always in our way.

My mother had a few very basic summer rules. Don't eat food with mold or insects on it. Don't swim alone. Don't even think about waking your mother before 8 a.m. unless you are fatally injured or ill. That was about it. But Mrs. Dquervo was always amending and adding to the list, one apologetic eye on our mother who was pleasant and friendly as usual and did things the way she always did. She made it pretty clear that if we were cowed by the likes of Mrs. Dquervo, we were on our own. They got divorced when Jella was a sophomore at Mount Holio. We liked pretty Docel Gella and bullied her a little bit and liked her even more because she didn't squeal on us, on me in particular. We liked her father, too. We saw the two of them, sometimes the three of them, at occasional picnics and lesser holidays. He always complimented us, never made stupid jokes at our expense, and brought us unusual, perfect little presents. Silver barrettes for me the summer I was letting my hair grow out from my pixie cut, a leather bookmark for Lizzy, who learned to read when she was three. My mother would stand behind us as we unwrapped the gifts, smiling and shaking her head at his extravagance.

When they drove up, we were all sitting on the porch. Mr. Dquervo got out first, his curly brown hair making him look like a giant dandelion with his yellow t-shirt and brown jeans. Gella looked just like him, her long curly brown hair caught up in a bun, wisps flying around her tan little face. As they walked toward us, she took his hand, and I felt a rush of warmth for her. For showing how much she loved her daddy like I loved mine, and for showing that she was a little afraid of us, of me probably. People weren't often frightened of Lizzy; she never left her books long enough to bother anyone. My parents came down from the porch, my big father in his faded blue trunks drooping below his belly, his freckled back pink and moist in the sun as it was every summer. The sun caught the red hair on his head and shoulders and chest, and he shone. The Spencers were half Viking, he said. My mother was wearing her summer outfit, a black two-piece bathing suit. I don't remember her ever wearing a different suit. At night, she'd add one of my father's shirts and wrap it around her like a kimono. Some years she looked great in her suit, waist nipped in, skin smooth and tan. Other years her skin looked burnt and crumpled and the suit was too big in some places and too small in others. Those years she smoked too much and went out on the porch to take off. But that summer the suit fit beautifully and when she jumped off the porch into my father's arms, he whirled her around and let her black hair whip his face while he smiled and smiled. They both hugged Mr. Dquervo and Jella. My mother took her flowered suitcase and my father took his duffel bag and they led them into the cabin.

The cabin was our palace. Lizzy and I would say very grandly, "We're going to the cabin for the summer. Come and visit us there if it's okay with your parents." And we loved it and loved to act as though it was nothing special. When we knew really that it was magnificent. The pines and birches came right down to the lake with just a thin lacing of mossy rocks before you got to the smooth cold water and little gray fish swam around the splintery dock and through our legs or out of reach of our oars when we took out the old blue rowboat. The cabin itself was three bedrooms and a tiny kitchen and a living room that took up half the house. The two small bedrooms had big beds with pastel chenille spreads, yellow with red roses in my parents' room, white with blue pansies in the other. The kids' room was much bigger, like a dormitory, with three sets of bunk beds, each with its own mismatched sheets and pillowcases. The pillows were always a little damp and smelled like salt and pine, and mine smelled of my grief as well, because I used to sleep with my mother's scarf tucked under it. The shower was outside with a thin green plastic curtain around it, but there was a regular bathroom inside next to my parents' room. Mr. Dquervo and Jella fit into our routine as though they'd been coming to the cabin for years instead of just last summer. We had the kind of summer cabin routine that stays with you forever as a model of leisure, of life being enjoyed.

We'd get up early, listen to the birds screaming and trilling, and make ourselves some breakfast, cereal or toast if the parents were up, cake or cold spaghetti or marshmallows if they were still asleep. My mother got up first. Usually, she'd make a cup of coffee and brush and braid our hair and set us loose. If we were going exploring, she'd put three sandwiches and three pieces of fruit in a bag with an army blanket. Otherwise, she'd just wave to us as we headed down to the lake. We'd come back at lunchtime and eat whatever was around and then go out to the lake or the forest or down the road to see if the towny kids were in a mood to play with us. I don't know what the grown-ups did all day. Sometimes they'd come out to swim for a while, and sometimes we'd find my mother in the shed she used for a studio. But when we came back at 5 or 6, they all seemed happy and relaxed, drinking gin and tonics on the porch, watching us run toward the house. It was the most beautiful time.

At night after dinner, the fathers would wash up and my mother would sit on the porch smoking a cigarette, listening to Aretha Franklin or Billie Holiday or Sam Cooke. And after a little while, she'd stub out her cigarette and the four of us would dance. We'd twist and Lindy and Jitterbug and stomp, all of us copying my mother. And pretty soon, the daddies would drift in with their dish towels and their beers, and they'd lean in the doorway and watch. My mother would turn first to my father, always to him first. "What about it, Danny? Care to dance?" And she'd put her hand on his shoulder and he'd smile, tossing his dish towel to Mr. Dquervo, resting his beer on the floor. My father would lumber along gamely, shuffling his feet and smiling. Sometimes he'd wave his arms around and pretend to be a fish or a bear while my mother swung her body easily and drearily, sliding through the music. They'd always lindy together to Fats Domino. That was my father's favorite. And then he'd sit down, puffing a little. My mother would stand there snapping her fingers, shifting back and forth. "Gaucho, you dance with her before I have a coronary," said my father. Mr. Dquervo's real name was Bolivar, which I didn't know until Lizzie told me after the funeral. We always called him Mr. Dquervo because we felt embarrassed to call him by a nickname. So Mr. Dquervo would shrug gracefully and toss the two dish towels back to my father and then he'd bop toward my mother. His face still turned toward my father. "We'll go running tomorrow, Dan. Get you back into shape so you can dance all night." "What do you mean back? I've been exactly this same shape for 20 years. Why fix it if it ain't broke?" And they all laughed. And Mr. Dquervo and my mother rolled their eyes at each other. And my mother walked over and kissed my father where the sweat was beading up at his temples. Then she took Mr. Dquervo's hand and they walked to the center of the living room.

When she and my father danced, my sister and I giggled and interfered and treated it like a family badminton game in which they were the core players, but we were welcome participants. When she danced with Mr. Dquervo, we'd sit on the porch swing or lean on the window sill and watch, not even looking at each other. They only danced the fast dances, and they danced as though they'd been waiting all their lives for each song. My mother's movements got deeper and smoother, and Mr. Dquervo suddenly came alive, as though a spotlight had hit him. My father danced the way he was, warm, noisy, teasing, a little overpowering. But Mr. Dquervo, who was usually quiet and thoughtful and serious, became a different man when he danced with my mother. His dancing was light and happy and soulful, edging up on my mother, turning her, matching her every step. They would smile at all of us in turn, and then face each other, too transported to smile. "Dance with daddy some more," my sister said, speaking for all three of us. "They had left us too far behind." My mother blew Lizzy a kiss. "Okay, sweetheart." She turned to both men, laughing, and said, "That message was certainly loud and clear. Let's take a little break, Gaucho, and get these monkeys to bed. It's getting late, girls." And the three of them shepherded the three of us through the bedtime rituals, moving us in and out of the kitchen for milk, the bathroom for teeth, toilet, and calamine lotion, and finally to our big bedroom. We slept in our underwear and t-shirts, which impressed Jella. "No pajamas," she had said the first night. "Not necessary," I said smugly. We would lie there after they kissed us, listening to our parents talk and crack peanuts and snap cards. They played gin and poker while they listened to Dinah Washington and Odetta.

One night, I woke up around midnight and crossed the living room to get some water in the kitchen and see if there was any strawberry shortcake left. I saw my mother and Mr. Dquervo hugging, and I remember being surprised and puzzled. I had seen movies. If you hugged someone like you'd never let them go, surely you were supposed to be kissing, too. It wasn't a mommy-daddy hug, partly because their hugs were defined by the fact that my father was 8 inches taller and 100 lbs heavier than my mother. These two looked all wrong to me. Embraces were a big pink and orange man enveloping a small, lean, black and white woman who gazed up at him. My mother and Mr. Dquervo looked like sister and brother standing cheek to cheek with their broad shoulders and long tanned bare legs. My mother's hands were under Mr. Dquervo's white t-shirt. She must have felt my eyes on her because she opened hers slowly. "Oh, honey, you startled us. Mr. Dquervo and I were just saying good night. Do you want me to tuck you in after you go to the bathroom?" Not quite a bribe. Certainly a reminder that I was more important to her than he was. They had moved apart so quickly and smoothly. I couldn't even remember how they had looked together. I nodded to my mother. What I had seen was already being transformed into a standard good-night embrace, the kind my mother gave to all of her close friends.

When I came back from the bathroom, Mr. Dquervo had disappeared, and my mother was waiting, looking out at the moon. She walked me to the bedroom and kissed me first on my forehead, then on my lips. "Sleep well, pumpkin pie. See you in the morning." "Will you make blueberry pancakes tomorrow?" It seemed like a good time to ask. "We'll see. Go to sleep, please, mommy." "Okay, we'll have a blueberry morning. Go to sleep now." "Good night, nurse." And she watched me for a moment from the doorway, and then she was gone.

My father got up at 5:00 to go fishing with some men at the other side of the lake. Every Saturday in July, he'd go off with a big red bandana tied over his bald spot, his Mets t-shirt, and his tackle box, and he'd fish until around 3. Mr. De Quervo said that he'd clean them, cook them, and eat them, but he wouldn't spend a day with a bunch of guys in baseball caps and white socks to catch them. I woke up smelling coffee and butter. Jella and Lizzy were already out of bed, and I was aggrieved. I was the one who had asked for the pancakes, and they were probably all eaten by now. Mr. Dquervo and Lizzie were sitting at the table finishing their pancakes. My mother and Jacella were sitting on the blue couch in the living room while my mother brushed Jella's hair. She was brushing it more gently than she brushed mine, not slapping her on the shoulder to make her sit still. Jella didn't wiggle and she didn't scream when my mother hit a knot. I was getting ready to be mad when my mother winked at me over Jella's head and said, "There's a stack of pancakes for you on the top of the stove, Bunny." "Gaucho, would you please lift them for Ellen? The plate's probably hot." Mr. Dquervo handed me my pancakes, which were huge brown wheels studded with smashed purpley berries. He put my fork and knife on top of a folded paper towel and patted my cheek. His hands smelled like coffee and cinnamon. He knew what I liked and pushed the butter and the honey and the syrup toward me. "Juice," he said. I nodded, trying to watch him when he wasn't looking. He didn't seem like the man I thought I saw in the moonlight giving my mother a funny hug. "Great pancakes, Laya," he said. "Great, Mom." I didn't want to be outclassed by the Dquervos' habitual good manners. Gella remembered her please and thank you for every little thing. My mother smiled and put a barrette in Jella's hair. It was starting to get warm, so I swallowed my pancakes and kicked Lizzy to get her attention. "Let's go," I said. "Wash your face, then go," my mother said. I stuck my face under the kitchen tap, and my mother and Mr. Dquervo laughed. Triumphantly, I led the two little girls out of the house, snatching our towels off the line as we ran down to the water, suddenly filled with longing for the lake. "Last one in!" I screamed, cannonballing off the end of the dock. I hit the cold blue water, shattering its surface. Lizzy and Jella jumped in beside me, and we played water games until my father drove up in the pickup with a bucket of fish. He waved to us and told us we'd be eating fish for the next two days, and we groaned and held our noses as he went into the cabin, laughing.

There was a string of sunny days like that one. Swimming, fishing with daddy off the dock, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the rowboat, drinking orange crush on the porch swing. And then it rained for a week. We woke up the first rainy morning listening to it tap and dance on the roof. My mother stuck her head into our bedroom. "It's monsoon weather, honeys. How about cocoa and cinnamon toast?" We pulled on our overalls and sweaters and went into the kitchen where my mother had already laid our mugs and plates. She was engaged in her rainy day ritual: making sangria. First, she poured the orange juice out of the big white plastic pitcher into three empty peanut butter jars. Then, she started chopping up all the oranges, lemons, and limes we had in the house. She let me pour the brandy over the fruit. Gella threw in the sugar and Lizzy came up for air long enough to pour the big bottle of red wine over everything. I cannot imagine drinking anything else on rainy days. My mother went out onto the porch for her morning cigarette. When my father came down, he joined her while we played go fish. I could see them snuggling on the wicker settee. A few minutes later, Mr. Dquervo came down, looked out to the porch, and picked up an old magazine and started reading. We decided to go play Monopoly in our room since the grown-ups didn't want to entertain us. After two hours in which I rotted in jail and Lizzie forgot to charge rent, little Jella beat us and the three of us went back to the kitchen for a snack. Rainy days were basically a series of snacks, more and less elaborate, punctuated by board games, card games, and whining. We drank soda and juice all day, ate cheese, bananas, cookies, bologna, graham crackers, Jiffy popcorn, hard-boiled eggs. The grown-ups ate cheese and crackers, and drank sangria. The daddies were reading in the two big armchairs. My mother had gone off to her room to sketch, and we were getting bored. When my mother came downstairs for a cigarette, I was writing my name in the honey that had spilled on the kitchen table, and Jella and Lizzie were pulling the stuffing out of the hole in the bottom of the blue couch. "Jesus Christ, Ellen, get your hands out of the goddamn honey. Liz, Jacella, that's absolutely unacceptable. You know that. Leave the poor couch alone. If you're so damn stir crazy, you go outside and dance in the rain." The two men looked up slowly, focusing as if from a great distance. "Laya, really?" Said my father. "Laya, it's pouring." "We'll keep an eye on them now," said Mr. Dquervo. "Right like you were." My mother was grinning. "Can we, Mommy? Can we go in the rain? Can we take off our clothes and go in the rain?" "Sure, go naked. There's no point in getting your clothes wet. No point in suits. There's not likely to be a big crowd in the yard." We raced to the porch before my mother could get rational. Stripped and ran whooping into the rain, leaping off the porch onto the muddy lawn, shouting and feeling superior to every child in Maine who had to stay indoors. We played goddesses in the rain, which consisted of caressing our bodies and screaming the names of everyone we knew. And we played ring around the rosie and tag and red light, green light and catch, all deliciously slippery and surreal in the sheets of gray rain. Our parents watched us from the porch. When we finally came in, thrilled with ourselves and the extent to which we were completely, profoundly wet in every pore, they bundled us up and told us to dry our hair and get ready for dinner. My mother brushed our hair and then she made spaghetti sauce while my father made a salad and Mr. Dquervo made a strawberry tart, piling the berries into a huge red shiny pyramid in the center of the pastry. We were in heaven. The grown-ups were laughing a lot, sipping their rosy drinks, tossing vegetables back and forth. After dinner, my mother took us into the living room to dance, and then the power went off. "Shit," said my father in the kitchen. "Double shit," said Mr. Dquervo. And we heard them stumbling around in the dark, laughing and cursing, until they came in with two flashlights. "The cavalry is here, ladies," said Daddy, bowing to us all, twirling his flashlight. "American and Argentine division senora is senoritas." I had never heard Mr. Duervo speak Spanish before. Not even that little bit. "Well, then I know I'm safe from the bad guys. Anyway, on the other hand," my mother laughed and the daddies put their arms around each other and they laughed, too. "On the other hand, what? What? Mommy." I tugged at her the way I did when I was afraid of losing her in a big department store. "Nothing, honey. Mommy was just being silly. Let's get ready for bed, Munchkins. Then you can all talk for a while. We're shut down for the night, I'm sure." The daddies accompanied us to the bathroom and whispered that we could skip everything except peeing since there was no electricity. The two of them kissed us good night, my father's mustache tickling, Mr. Dquervo sliding over my cheek. My mother came into the room a moment later, and her face was as smooth and warm as a velvet cushion. We didn't stay awake for long; the rain dance and the eating and the storm had worn us out.

It was still dark when I woke up, but the rain had stopped and the power had returned and the light was burning in our hallway. It made me feel very grown up and responsible, getting out of bed and going around the house, turning out the lights that no one else knew were on. I was conserving electricity. I went into the bathroom and was squeezed by stomach cramps, probably from all the burnt popcorn kernels I had eaten. I sat on the toilet for a long time, watching a brown spider crawl along the wall. I'd knock him down and then watch him climb back up again toward the towels. My cramps were better, but not gone. So, I decided to wake my mother. My father would have been more sympathetic, but he was the heavier sleeper, and by the time he understood what I was telling him, my mother would have her bathrobe on and be massaging my stomach kindly, though without