Rebecca Handler

o n e w o m a n p a r t y

Nonfiction

If I Had Wings

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“The girl was brought to school with very little paperwork, by her great-grandmother, who was showing signs of dementia.”

We leaned in, clutching our jars of water, wanting to know more. We were at Book Club, but as usual, the conversation had veered in another direction, because we stalk stories like hunters.  

“She was non-verbal for several years. She wears a big bow in her hair, like a girl from another century.”

The water was served to me in a jar because we were at Helen’s house, and her home has houseplants, beautiful art, homemade galette, and water served in jars. Tonight, there were also tiny cucumbers that looked like dollhouse watermelon. 

“She sometimes gets angry and throws things. The school’s emergency plan is that the teacher takes the other students out of the room and leaves the girl alone. Then someone comes in to talk to her.”

I held my breath for a few seconds too long and coughed. That morning I had seen a coyote gnawing on a squirrel, and now the day was ending with another strange story. 

The girl was instructed to finish a sentence that started with, “If I had wings.” She wrote, “If I had wings, I would fly everywhere and look for my mom who is living in a car.”

I could have been a girl who didn’t speak, who wore bows in her hair, and ripped a television off a wall in her classroom. I could have been the smallest cucumber, or a great-grandmother with dementia. I could have been a squirrel minding my own business. I could have been a winged superhero, locating all the mothers living in cars. 

Instead I am a person in a book club with women who drink Sauternes and talk about resilience. What will happen to this girl, we wondered, and decided it could go either way. Our silence was a collective prayer. A prayer for the great-grandmother, that she will hold on long enough to see this girl through. A prayer for the girl to learn to live with her anger. A prayer for more nights like this one. 

Big Dog

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My eleven-year-old and I were trying to decide between two foster dogs. One was a calm, half-blind, small Boston terrier, and the other was an eighty-five pound longhaired mutt who lived for years as a stray in a forest outside of Istanbul. “Let’s foster the terrier,” my daughter said. “She’s so sweet. Look how cuddly she is. Take our picture.”

“No,” I said, “Let’s get the big one.”

“He’s huge,” my daughter said. “Wouldn’t the terrier be easier?”

“But he lived in a forest. How cool is that? Plus, you and your sister always get to choose. It’s my turn. And I want the big one.”

“But I don’t want him.”

“What if I buy you some Skittles?”

“Ok.” 

The dog refused to get in the car and I had to send my daughter back to the shelter for assistance. Once he was safely in the backseat, I put the windows down and blasted Cyndi Lauper. Finally, I was a person with a startlingly large dog. It was like driving a mascot to a football game. I couldn’t see out the back window, which made me feel giddy with rebellion. 

As we were heading up Market Street, the dog threw up all over the seats and my daughter. “This is the most disgusting thing in the entire world,” she said quietly, staring out the window in a state of paralysis. She hates vomit. Sometimes she wants to be a doctor but “only the kind that never has to deal with vomit.”

“I can’t stop now,” I said. “Let’s just get home.” In the rear view mirror was a panting, drooling, brown and white face the size of a computer monitor. He looked like a full-grown man in a handmade, poorly fitting, Bernese Mountain Dog costume.

The dog threw up some more which made the car smell like airplane beef stroganoff.

We made it home and I told my daughter to run in and shower. My older one stayed outside with the dog while I cleaned up the car. The vomit had leaked down the back of the seats and got all over my hand as I reached down into the crack with a paper towel. My older daughter called out, “Oh my god Mom, this is the biggest poop I have ever seen.” I cleaned that up too. Looking back, the dog was getting himself into fighting shape, ridding himself of unnecessary weight.

“He’s just nervous,” I said, rubbing his soft head and staring into his beautiful brown eyes. “I mean, he lived in a forest. Did you know that?”

“You said that already, Mom.” She used a small towel to try and remove a piece of poo from the dog’s hair.

“In Turkey!” I shook my head in disbelief. I tend to get carried away with the history of dogs we foster, regardless of accuracy.

The younger daughter was clean now, in pajamas. She was sad that we couldn’t stop for Skittles earlier due to the vomit situation, and asked if we could watch TV. I ordered pizza and we settled in with the dog to watch Parks and Rec.

We ate quickly, on edge because the dog had started to pace. Also, he had discovered that if he got up on his hind legs, he could reach any surface. I moved the plums and lemons to the fridge, and the leftover challah to the pantry. I also put the phone chargers in a drawer, and the jar of pencils in a cupboard.

It was time to feed the cat. My younger daughter emptied a can of creamed chicken into the cat’s dish and within three seconds, our house turned into a National Geographic episode.

Apparently, while I was putting away pencils, the dog attacked the cat. There was screaming, and blood, and it was awful. In a heroic feat reminiscent of Mother Lifting Car Off Toddler, my younger daughter, who weighs less than the dog, yanked the beast off the cat, and then the older one, wisely, lured the dog outside. My children instinctively and bravely addressed the disaster while I was organizing office supplies. It was like peeking into a future where I am sipping Ensure through a straw while they balance my checkbook and interview home aids. 

I brought the dog back to the shelter that night. And then I threw myself into the arms of my husband, who was finally home from work. He told me it sounded like everyone did the right thing, and his understatedness was both a breath of fresh air and a nuisance. I put my head on my younger daughter’s lap and sobbed. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I should have never brought that dog into this house. I forced it on you and I bribed you with Skittles.” She patted my back, told me it wasn’t my fault, and reminded me that the dog was very gentle with people. “He just shouldn’t be in a home with cats,” she said sensibly. I wiped my face on my sleeve and told her how strong she was.

Her older sister relayed, in vivid detail, the way the younger one had pulled the dog off the cat, and told her she was the bravest person she knew, which made me cry even harder. I complimented her on quickly removing the dog from the house, saying, “I don’t know what I would do without you.” She told me she didn’t know what she would do without me either. And then she said this will make a good blog post. 

Our cat, who survived nearly four years in Australia without being attacked by a single snake or spider, appears to be fine. And our new foster, a Chihuahua, was found as a stray in the East Bay.

The Girl Is Now A Mother

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She was five when I first met her. Hiding behind her mother, who was wearing a forest green robe and slippers. They weren’t expecting visitors, but here we were, pulling up in a dirty burgundy Buick. A time before cell phones, a time of surprises, what’s forty-five minutes out of the way? Let’s try it, they might be home. 

I was traveling with a close friend, and this was his family. He grew up outside of Providence, across the street from fields and cows he used to say. The oldest of seven, my friend was in college now, and wanted to check in on his mother and the kids. 

When his mother saw he wasn’t alone, she teased him. You could have given me a heads up, she said, tightening her terrycloth belt. The girl giggled. I can’t imagine being the youngest of seven children but I suppose you might need to physically attach yourself to your mother’s robe if you wish to spend any time with her. 

I shook the mother’s hand, which was small and soft. I remember these details, like the small hand and the green robe, because this was one of the few times I met my friend’s mother, before the darkness that swirls around all of us seeped in and took her away. I waved at the little girl. She was beautiful with dark eyes, light brown skin, and soft curly hair. She had the kind of face that would inspire origin questions, to which the answer could equally be Iceland, Indonesia, or in this case, Rhode Island.

It was three years after this first meeting, after this friend of mine and I had fallen in love, when the darkness struck. Witnessing children of various ages lose their mother was a study in dread and quiet fascination. This was the saddest thing I had ever seen, and to this day, still is. Some of the children reacted in anger, others in denial, and the little girl, now eight, in stoicism. She announced, with confidence, that her mother would not want her to hide, that she would want her to be strong. As an adult now, I understand that we often look to children for tips on how to live, but then I was twenty-two, pretending to be an adult, and her bravery stunned me. 

I have had the privilege of watching this brave girl grow up, along with her equally courageous and kind siblings. The loss of their mother was character defining for all of them. 

Recently I visited this girl, now thirty-one and the mother of a newborn. She has the same beautiful face, and the same measured strength. With the support of a devoted partner, she is confidently sorting out nursing and sleeping. Her cozy apartment in Queens is decorated with family photos, including one of her mother in aviator sunglasses. When I first saw her baby, who has dark eyes, light brown skin and a few tiny soft curls, I felt that a mysterious question had been answered. I don’t believe in an afterlife, or spirits watching us, but then again, I choose to believe my deceased father is now living on the moon. Things don’t happen for reasons, but they do happen. And this girl is now a mother. 

Stories Can Save Us

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The carpet in the San Mateo Marriott Airport Hotel is a pattern of geometric beige and grey shapes, impervious to dirty loafers and rolling suitcases. Someone designed this carpet, I think as I rush through the lobby. This shall be our carpet, someone declared. 

I am late to the conference. The marching band is finishing a pump it up number, as I enter the back of the banquet hall, balancing a side plate of mini-croissants and sliced cantaloupe atop my conference program, scouring the room for an open seat. I find one in the back between a short man with dreadlocks and a woman on her laptop with a spreadsheet open and a pencil behind her ear. The nametag hanging around my neck is attached to a green lanyard. Most other people seem to have blue or red lanyards. Perhaps I signed up for the vegetarian lunch. I look down at my kangaroo leather boots and try to recall which meal preference I stated.  

It is sweltering outside but inside it is conference weather, drafty from the air conditioning. I am wearing a sleeveless dress and regret forgetting to bring a conference shawl. Everyone else in the room is in long sleeves except for one woman in a sleeveless navy dress with a spider web tattoo covering her shoulder. 

This is my first conference in four years. Well that’s not true. I attended a bloggers conference in Perth where I learned I didn’t want to be a blogger. I wanted to be a writer. 

As a woman with a news anchor haircut officially welcomes us to the conference and reviews the day’s schedule, I polish off the mini-croissants and contemplate returning to the buffet for a yogurt cup. Instead I open my program and circle the workshops I plan on attending. 

I spot a colleague across the room. I text him, Hi I can see you. I see him check his phone and look around. Finally he sees me and waves. He is in a blue lanyard. 

A woman at my table (red lanyard) gets up and leaves behind a pink notebook. The cover reads, in cursive, A Place For Your Dreams. Soon she is back with coffee and two apricot pastries.

It is freezing in here. Many years ago I attended a fundraising conference where the keynote speaker was a man with a disability who climbed Mount Everest. I do not remember his disability but I remember some of his slides made me feel very cold. 

The first clue that this is not a fundraising conference is it is quieter. Also there are more men.

The workshops are surprisingly good. One of them is about storytelling as persuasion, and my eyes unexpectedly fill with tears when the communications consultant in the black jumpsuit says, “Especially in turbulent times, stories can save us.” She has smoky eye makeup and elegant arm movements that make it look like she is gently scooping up her audience. She tells us humans are narrative animals. She says Martin Luther King said I have a dream, not I have a pie chart. 

This is an example of using humor at a conference. 

In another workshop, a woman asks too many questions that aren’t actual questions (red lanyard), and I want to say something but remind myself I am not in charge of this room. 

At lunch I join my coworkers at a round table with cloth napkins and two breadbaskets. We swap stories about the sessions we just attended. Who knew the mayor of Stockton was so dynamic, one of them says. I notice I am happy to be with these people. We are a team, I think, as I unwrap a butter patty. 

Men in black serve us grilled chicken with sides of cooked carrots and mashed potatoes. The lanyard colors didn’t mean a thing. I shiver and dig in.

Instructions: Spa Locker Room

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Do not be alarmed by the soft sound of Tibetan bells. The Spa Locker Room music is here to relax you. You may or may not have been given a tour of the locker room by a woman with a top bun in a black polo shirt. Either way, you will not be able to locate the toilets. They are not in fact behind the shower curtains, but around a corner near the self-serve cucumber water station. In your assigned locker, you will find a robe that doesn’t fit and plastic slip-on shoes that are a half size too small and look like the sandals your neighbor wears when he’s outside smoking. Place your belongings on the shelf and try to secure your locker using the keypad. It will not work and you will want to punch it, but then you remember to press the C button before entering your code. 

Four women are in a huddle whispering. They are not talking about your butt. One of them is getting married or turning 40 or getting divorced, and her friends have brought her to the Spa Locker Room to eat chocolate covered almonds and use the spray deodorant. There is free stuff all around, and you might be tempted to take the eco-friendly bamboo toothbrush wrapped in plastic. Instead, moisturize your entire body with the white lotion that smells like sour peaches from Shaw’s Candy. As you rub your belly, do not fall into the trap of thinking about your younger body. You are alive and you are in a Spa Locker Room. Acknowledge your privilege and moisturize your elbows. 

You might overhear the following:

“And then he said his girlfriend’s a slasher.”

“What’s that?” 

“Model Slash Actress.”

“What a douche.”

There might be a basket of green apples and a selection of tea with names like Margaret’s Hope, Vive Le Thé, and Paris For Her. You can sit by the gas fireplace, on the beige patterned couch, surrounded by beige patterned pillows, and read articles like Change Your Life In Seven Days and Your Best Abs in a magazine called Women’s Health. Toss the magazine back on the coffee table with the small wooden Buddha and consider women’s bodies as property, containers, vessels, weapons, cradles, and caskets. Vigorously scratch your thigh. Recognize your body has been itchy lately. Perhaps it is angry with people who are trying to control it. Think of your body as something to protect fiercely, like a child.

A woman in a cotton wrap shirt the color of a fresh bruise will enter the Spa Locker Room and call your name. You will follow her to a lavender-scented room and undress.