My mother, galvanized, followed me. “Green tea, if you have any.”
“I don’t.”
“Champagne, then. Or wine. Wollie, I came as soon as I heard.”
“Heard what?” Being Estelle/Prana’s daughter entailed feeding her cue lines to her monologues. I hadn’t seen her in five years, but I could do my part in a coma.
“I have not been off-ashram since the autumnal equinox, but this week was my turn at market, so yesterday, in the checkout lane in Solvang, I saw it. TV Guide.”
“Yes?” I found a bottle of wine, some cheap Chardonnay I’d gotten at Trader Joe’s, and scrounged around for a corkscrew.
“Need I describe the effect it had on me? My daughter-on the cover?”
I stopped to gape at my mother. “I’m on the cover of TV Guide?”
My mother stared back, cheekbones high, nostrils flaring. “Your name. Your photo, the size of a tiny stamp. One among dozens, and the headline ‘Who Will We Remember Six Months from Now? And Why Do We Care?’ Despicable grammar. So you’re on this television show, Biology Today-”
“Biological Clock.”
“-a participant in-what is it, some science program?”
“Reality TV,” I said.
“What is that?”
“Television that uses real people in situations-. Never mind, you wouldn’t like it. It’s a job, Mother, temporary, something I fell into and-”
“My God, I used to lie awake nights, fearing my children would one day be drafted. And now my daughter, a willing tool of the patriarchy-”
“Mom. Reality TV-okay, it’s morally decadent. I’m not out there curing cancer or shutting down nuclear reactors, but I’m making the rent, paying off credit cards-”
“Please elevate yourself to the level of this discussion. I speak from a spiritual plane.” My mother’s hands gripped the Formica counter. She was fine-boned and fragile, more delicate than I’d ever been. Her forearms brought to mind some exotic bird. “Don’t you realize the danger, that your image miniaturized and multiplied millions of times over, on television screens everywhere-”
“Actually, the show’s not that popular.”
“-exacts a price?”
“What about actors?” I asked. “They’re all in danger?”
“Actors are interpretive artists, playing parts, which minimizes the effect, but yes, they are damaged, as is obvious when you meet one. This is the cost of art. But you reveal yourself without the filter of character. Why do you suppose indigenous people shy away from cameras?”
The phone rang, and I grabbed it in irritation. “I don’t know a lot of indigenous people. Yes, hello.”
“There’s a couple of Hopis I could introduce you to,” the voice said.
“Hold on,” I said to the phone, then addressed my mother. “I have a contract. I can’t break it, it would be unethical. Bad karma.”
My mother drew herself up to her full height. “Don’t bandy about words the meaning of which you have no true understanding. This is my life’s work, and I tell you that walking away is the only course of action with integrity.”
“Well, I’m not gonna. Excuse me.” I spoke into the phone. “Is this-Simon?”
“It is.”
“I’ve had a fatiguing day,” my mother said, oblivious to the fact I was talking to someone else. “I shall retire. Your refrigerator leaves something to be desired. Is there a place to buy tofu tomorrow?”
“Hold on, Simon.” I slid the phone to my chest. “Yes, Prana. This is still L.A.”
“Good. I have borrowed a pair of socks.”
This could go on forever. “Simon,” I said, “I’ll call you in ten minutes. Someone’s about to barricade herself in my bedroom and I’m desperate to get out of these pantyhose.”
“You’re wearing pantyhose?” he said.
“Pantyhose?” my mother said. “Good God, how Republican.”
Prana had appropriated not just socks but my bed, all four pillows, the cashmere sweater Joey had given me for my birthday, and the half box of Godiva chocolates stored in my refrigerator. She’d also marked her territories with scented candles and lotions. None of this surprised me. Leopards may go to live in ashrams, but they don’t change their spots.
The good news was that my mother was soon tucked away to sleep, read, meditate, or whatever it was she did in “retirement.” She could do it for up to twelve hours, I knew from experience, a blessing for those who needed a half day to recharge their Prana-tolerance batteries.
I was back in the kitchen, in sweatpants, when the phone rang. “You have an elastic idea of what constitutes ten minutes,” Simon said.
I poured Cocoa Puffs into a bowl. “I come by that naturally.”
“Okay. So you thought I was a DEA agent-”
“No, Joey thought that.” I opened the refrigerator. Instead of milk, I found a carton of something called Soy So Licious. I looked down. My milk carton was in the garbage can. “Oh-and she wondered what kind of car that is you drive.”
“A Bentley.”
“Is that a big deal?”
“It’s a Continental GT. The cheap Bentley.”
“Oh, okay.” Again, I was struck by how easy it all was on the phone. “So you’re not some kind of drug dealer.”
“No. I’m not any kind of drug dealer.”
“Good. Not that I wouldn’t associate with you if you were. But we’d never have a long-term relationship. Or even dinner-” I poured Soy So Licious over my Cocoa Puffs. It looked milklike, but not white enough.
“Lunch?”
“Yeah, lunch. I’d have lunch even if you worked for the DEA. Lunch is a noncommittal meal.”
“Are you asking me to lunch?”
“Well, not-”
“Yes,” said a new voice. “Come tomorrow for brunch.”
Silence. Then I found my voice. “Prana, what a ghastly thing to do, listening in on my phone calls. Would you hang up, please?”
“I am not eavesdropping. I picked up the phone to call Solvang.”
I mentally ground my teeth. “Simon, meet my mother. Mom, tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. I’m sure Simon has-”
“I’m aware of the date. I’m not a mental defective. Noon, Simon.” My mother went into a purr she reserved for the male of the species. “If you care to bring something, champagne would not go amiss.” There was a click.
I cleared my throat. “It would make me very happy if you’d ignore-”
“I’m very happy to come for brunch.”
“-because it’s news to me we’re even having it, and you must have family plans. Besides-brunch: such a pretentious meal. Who has brunch on Thanksgiving?”
“I love brunch. Eggs Benedict, bloody Marys… See you at noon.”
“Wait, this is-awkward and-I don’t know your last name, or anything about you. You can’t come to brunch, you don’t want to meet my mother, I don’t want you to meet her, I’m not even sure-okay, you’re not DEA, but who are you, what is-”
“My last name is Alexander. I’d love to meet your mother. I eat everything except beets, no allergies, and I’ll try not to embarrass you in front of your family.”
“Okay, but the thing is-”
“I need to talk to you in any case. In person. It’s why I call. Repeatedly.”
“Yes, but-”
“And I know who Richard Feynman is.”
That stopped me cold. I’d forgotten for a moment, but it all came flooding back. Annika. Annika’s missing mother. Annika’s probably dead boyfriend Rico, his own blood in the trunk of his car. “Who is he?”
“Let’s save that for brunch.”
“Who is he?” I nearly screamed it.
He was silent.
I pulled myself together. “Listen, Simon Alexander, whoever you are-who are you, by the way?”
A pause. “Someone with an interest in your well-being.”
“Why do I feel like I’m on a game show? Personal or professional interest?”
“Both.”
Well. That was something. “And you’re not in the DEA? And you weren’t on Temple Street the other day?”
“I’m not in the DEA. I was on Temple Street the other day.”
“Doing what?”