My Nest Isn't Empty, It Just Has More Closet Space Read online

  Actually, the fact that it’s New York is beside the point. For me, the trouble is she’s not under my roof anymore.

  Or in a convent.

  Truth to tell, the only convent I’ve ever been in was to research my first novel, when I visited a cloistered order of nuns who kept strict vows of silence. Imagine a group of women, living without uttering a single word, 24-7.

  Like the worst pajama party ever.

  The nuns made an exception to talk to me for my novel, which is proof of heaven, and they told me that silence was the way to the soul and that an empty can makes the most noise.

  But to stay on point, Francesca has moved out for good, which I know is the right thing.

  For her.

  We packed up her books and sweaters, and gradually I watched her bedroom empty until all that was left were some drama-club trophies, a stable of plastic Breyer ponies, and an I Love Lucy pillow.

  Things she’s too old to take, but too young to throw away.

  They’ll stay and wait for her, holding her place in a time that’s becoming history, and a home where she’ll no longer feel at home.

  She’s making a new home.

  I gave her my old Pyrex casseroles to take to her apartment, and we poached a tall Oriental lamp from the dining room. I made her take an ergonomic desk chair that she doesn’t even like, and I surrendered a painted stool she’ll use as a night table. When I look around now, my own house has disintegrated, in a sense, to form hers.

  Did my house give birth to her apartment?

  And since I don’t have to make meals, take time to chat, and generally live with her, the very structure of my days has dematerialized, and I almost feel myself fall to pieces, splintering in a strange sort of way.

  It’s an odd feeling, though the pieces are slowly coming back together, reconstituted and reconfigured, to form a new life.

  After.

  Different from Before.

  I’m not sure what After will look like, going forward. It won’t look like when she was at college, because that was only temporary, a four-year baby step to walking. But now she’s flying, and this is something else. Something new. And as happy as I am for her, I’m betting that many of you have felt the same way I do, you mothers and fathers who have happily completed your God-given task of willing a child into and out of your life.

  And all of it within memory.

  It’s a paradox that you can remember your child’s first word from twenty years ago and you cannot remember your car keys from twenty minutes ago.

  BFFs.

  Francesca’s first word was “duck,” because she had a toy rubber duck. I was fascinated by her first word, and have been fascinated by all of her words since, even the angry and the exasperated words, because there have been so many more joyful, clever, thoughtful, and loving words.

  She’s a congenitally noisy can, my daughter, and I’m grateful for that. I know that the house will be silent without her, but I also know that we’ll probably be on the phone way too much, and that we’ll text, email, and even trade paragraphs from whatever we’re both writing.

  In the end, we’ll always have each other’s words.

  And each other’s hearts.

  Because, with apologies to my cloistered sisters, I think that voice, and not silence, is the sound of the human soul.

  Reading Is Fundamental

  Mother Mary has a new job that benefits us all.

  Before I reveal it, let me explain that over the years I’ve made a few author friends, and I buy their books and get them to sign them to my mother, which gives her a big charge. Last month I shipped her five books, including my newest one, then I called to ask her, “How’d you like my book?”

  “I loved it, it was great! But I have some corrections for it. And for the others.”

  “Corrections? How many?”

  “About five.”

  “Five corrections?” I ask, surprised. “Like typos? That’s bad.”

  “No, five pages of corrections. And for the others, too.”

  I am astounded. “Five pages of typos?”

  “Not typos, corrections, and I have five pages per book. So, twenty-five pages of corrections.”

  Now, I officially don’t get it. “Give me an example of something you corrected.”

  “Okay, in your book, you use the word ‘ain’t.’ ‘Ain’t’ is not a word.”

  “Is it used in dialogue?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, it’s fine. That’s how the character speaks. That’s not a mistake.”

  “Yes, it is. Nobody should use the word ‘ain’t.’ You know better than that, you went to college. I’ll mail you the sheets. You’ll see.”

  “Okay, send them.”

  “‘Ain’t!’ Hmph!”

  So Mother Mary mails me the alleged corrections, twenty-five pages of notebook paper, each line written in capitals in a shaky red flair. AIN’T IS NOT A WORD! is the most frequent “correction.” A few are typos, but the rest are editorial changes, different word choices, or new endings to the plot.

  Bottom line, Mother Mary is a book critic, in LARGE PRINT.

  Still, I read the sheets, touched. It must have taken her hours to make the lists, and it’s really sweet. I call to tell her so, which is when she lowers the boom:

  “You need to send the lists to your friends,” she says. “Your friends who wrote the other books. They should know about the mistakes, so they can fix them.”

  “Okay, Ma, you’re right. Thanks. I will.”

  I don’t like lying to my mother, but I’m getting used to it. I figure I’ll put the sheets in my jewelry box, with daughter Francesca’s letters to Santa Claus. Those corrections are going to the North Pole.

  Then my mother adds, “You don’t have to worry about the one set, though.”

  “What one set?”

  “A set of corrections, for your new friend.” She names a Famous Author who isn’t really my new friend, but Somebody I Wish Were My New Friend. I can’t name her here, as she will never be my new friend, now. In fact, she’s probably my new enemy. Because my mother sent her five pages of unsolicited editorial changes to her terrific, number-one bestseller.

  “You did what?” I ask, faint. “Where did you get her address?”

  “Your brother got it from the computer.”

  “Her address is on the computer?”

  “She has an office.”

  Of course she does. “And you sent it to her?”

  “Sure. To help her.”

  I try to recover. I have only one hope. “You didn’t tell her who you are, did you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I want to shoot myself for never changing my last name. My last name is Scottoline and so is Mother Mary’s, and the Very Famous Author signed a book to her at my request, so in other words…

  “Oh, sure, I told her I’m your mother, in case she didn’t know.”

  “Great.” I sink into a chair. “And you did that because…”

  “Because I’m proud of you.”

  Ouch. I can’t help but smile. How can I be angry? I tell her, “I’m proud of you, too, Ma.”

  It’s not even a lie.

  Begrudging

  I’m not one to hold a grudge.

  On the contrary.

  I don’t merely hold a grudge, I wave my grudge proudly. I hoist it like the Statue of Liberty with her torch. I love grudges.

  I put the grrrr in grudge.

  I have lots of grudges, maybe three hundred of them, and they’re always with me, like a Snuggie of bad feelings. And when I travel, I pack my grudges in a roller bag and drag them behind me.

  They don’t fit in the overhead.

  They barely fit in a 727.

  But I’m starting to wonder if this is a good thing.

  Our story begins with my oldest grudge.

  Over twenty years ago, I decided to try to become a writer. I did this to stay home with baby daughter Francesca, but that’s not the
point. The point is I always wanted to write a novel, and the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to give it a shot. So finally I did, and there followed five years of rejection. My favorite rejection letter came from a New York agent who wrote, “We don’t have time to take on any more clients, and if we did, we wouldn’t take you.”

  Ouch.

  I’ve had a grudge against that meanie for almost two decades, and it’s one of my favorite grudges.

  I’m hoping you can relate. I’m betting somebody done you wrong, at one point. Maybe more than one person. And maybe, like me, you keep mental score, so you can keep hate alive.

  If you are a grudge professional, you keep a You-Know-What List. I myself have a You-Know-What Book, Volumes 1–12.

  What doesn’t kill you makes you bitter.

  So here’s what happened: I was signed up to go to Book Expo America, which is a big publishing trade show in New York, and I knew that the aforementioned meanie would be there, because he always goes. Every year, when I spot him, my head explodes and I think felonious thoughts, but I never say anything because he’s always across the room or surrounded by people.

  Also, I chicken out.

  And it’s been bothering me for years that I chicken out.

  In fact, between being angry at the meanie for the original grudge and being angry at myself for chickening out, I’m packing a lot of bad vibes lately, far too many to carry on the plane.

  And now the airlines are charging for checked bags, which also makes me angry. In fact, I’m starting a grudge against the airlines.

  So I told my assistant Laura that I would be seeing the meanie, and I asked her how I should handle it. I told her I had three choices: I could tell him he was a jerk to me, or beat him senseless with my latest hardcover, or strangle him with those Spanx I bought and never wore.

  You know which answer I preferred.

  One size kills all.

  And Laura answered, “Don’t be bitter, be better.”

  “Huh wha?” says I.

  “You heard me. Be better, not bitter. You’re better than that.”

  “I am?” I asked, but Laura had already hung up.

  So I went to the trade show, and sure enough, I saw the object of my disaffection across the room, talking to people. And I promised myself I would not chicken out, yet another year.

  Was I bitter or better?

  Only one way to find out.

  I found myself walking toward him, happy that I had a purse so heavy it could qualify as a lethal weapon.

  In case I was accidentally bitter.

  I zeroed in on him, and when I got closer, I could see that he was much older than I remembered, or maybe I had never gotten this close to him. When he looked over at me, his pale blue eyes were hooded, and one had a gray rim, like a storm-cloud edging in. His posture was stooped, and his suit hung on him. Still, he smiled at me in a formal way, and I found myself extending my hand to shake his, which felt cool and frail, his knuckles knobby from arthritis.

  I introduced myself and asked, “How are you?”

  “Fine,” he answered, then turned away and went back to his conversation.

  He hadn’t gotten nicer, he’d just gotten older. And God willing, he was going to die before me.

  Suddenly, I felt better. Lighter. Happier. I went outside and called Laura.

  “Good for you!” she said. “So you forgave him.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m better, not crazy,” I told her.

  And I’m still mad at the airlines.

  How To Talk To Moms

  By Francesca Scottoline Serritella

  Did you hear about the ten-year-old who writes self-help books? His name is Alec Greven, and he penned, or crayon-ed, How to Talk to Moms. Presumably, the intended audience is other ten-year-olds, but I think this book could have broader appeal.

  Namely, me.

  I wasn’t attracted to it in some condescending, look-how-cute way either. I need this book. I need help figuring out How To Talk To Mom.

  But here’s the problem. I need the twenty-four-year-old-just-moved-out version.

  As you know, my mom and I are very close. When it comes to the big issues, feelings, emotions, etc., I can always speak frankly with Mom. It’s the small stuff I’m sweating.

  For instance, last night, I went to see my cousin in Long Island City. No big deal. So I mentioned this mundane outing matter-of-factly to my mother over the phone. But as a matter of fact, she didn’t find it so mundane.

  “How are you getting there? The subway? At night? ALONE?”

  I thought I said, “I am going to see Paul’s new apartment,” but in Mom-speak that translates to: “I am going to meet certain death in the New York City subway tunnels that are soon to be my tomb.”

  Talk about lost in translation.

  So how should I have said this to avoid throwing Mom into an unrecoverable tailspin of fear and worry?

  Recently, I met a nice guy while out at a bar with friends. He’s a young lawyer and it turns out he grew up near me and we have a lot in common. I gave him my number and lo and behold, he actually called me to go out. I share this good news with Mom, but again, in plain English. Her response?

  “Dinner with a stranger? Did you verify what he told you? He could be anyone, you have no way of knowing.”

  See, my story in Mom-ese translated to: “I met a guy named Ted Bundy, and I think he really likes me!”

  To appease her, I had to Google the guy, find his last five addresses, proof of his alleged alma mater, and one official Notice of Appearance in court to prove he was a practicing (she immediately assumed he was laid-off ) lawyer. And she still wanted me to spring for the $19.95 criminal-background check.

  I didn’t.

  God help me the night I actually went on the date.

  I understand playing it safe, so my mother and I discussed some strategies on how to protect myself just in case. Meet him at the restaurant instead of my apartment, make sure I get in the cab to go home alone, tell my roommate where I’m going and plan when she should call me and expect me back, etc. I thought I had said all the right things in my predate Talk With Mom. But I made one critical error, this time, not with what I said, but with what I did NOT say.

  I did not say, “I’ll call you when I’m home.”

  Big mistake.

  Like, huge.

  You see, New York dinners start kind of late, so I was still out at 11:00 P.M. when she texted the first time. And the bar we went to afterwards was loud, so I didn’t hear my phone ring at 11:37 P.M. or again around midnight. And we happened to have a conversation about how people who constantly check their BlackBerrys are so annoying, so I kept it in my purse while the four other text messages chimed in. And at the very end of the date, the guy actually seemed to want to kiss me, so when I finally did hear my ringer go off, I quickly silenced it and leaned in.

  Kiss of death.

  In the cab I saw I had five new text messages, three missed calls, and two new voicemails. I winced when I listened to the first voicemail and heard my mom’s barely controlled voice saying, “Hi, honey. Just making sure you’re okay. Please call me when you get home.”

  This is what you get for scaring me.

  But this time, I could translate.

  “CALL ME NOW I AM FREAKING OUT!”

  I felt terrible. Sure, my mom was overreacting a little (I found out when I did call her that she had even emailed my roommate). But the fact remained that for a couple hours there, she was really scared for me, and all because of a simple breakdown of communication.

  So how does the newly moved-out twentysomething talk to Mom?

  Alec Greven can’t grow up fast enough.

  Miles To Go

  I know I’m supposed to become my mother, but I’m actually becoming my late father.

  At least I thought of him recently, when I checked the mileage on my car. I’m at 94,272, and I’ve watched it inch up from 94,109 and before that, 93,820. I check my mileage mo
re often than I check my weight, and that’s saying something. On a long trip, I watch my mileage like it’s a movie with Brad Pitt.

  I can’t get enough.

  Bottom line, I’m way too involved with my car mileage. The more miles I have, the happier I get. I dream about hitting 100,000 miles like some people dream about hitting the lottery.

  Why?

  It makes me feel as if I’ve accomplished something, though I haven’t. It’s my car that’s done all the work. I’m just along for the ride. Still, every time I hit a new 10,000-mile mark, I feel like celebrating.

  Growing up, I remember The Flying Scottolines driving around in our ’64 Corvair Monza, and my father pointing to the mileage counter as the little white numbers turned slowly to something. He was so excited that we all clapped, but I didn’t understand why.

  Now I’m excited, and I still don’t understand why.

  I used to think it was because if I accumulated enough miles, I could justify getting a new car. But that’s not it. I love my car and want to be buried in it, with a Diet Coke in the cupholder.

  At around 17,328,000,000 miles.

  But I’m wondering if my mileage thing is related to my Things To Do list thing. I love having a Things To Do list, and over the years, I perfected a template for my Things To Do list. I write the list of Things To Do on the right, and on the left, next to each Thing, I draw a big circle. I get to check the circle only after each Thing is Done.

  Oh boy, I love checking those circles.

  I make a big check, like a schoolteacher at the top of your homework. Then I stand before my list and survey with satisfaction all the checked circles.

  And oddly, I admit that I’ve added to the list a Thing I’ve Already Done, just so I can check the circle.

  I know, right?

  It’s kind of kooky.

  So I told this to a friend of mine, and she told me she does things this kooky, and she also added another kooky thing. She has an electronic reader, and at the bottom of each page, it tells you what percentage of the book you’ve read. As you read the book, the percentage increases, and she has found herself watching the percentage increase as she reads. She’s gotten used to the fact that she read 57% of a book, as opposed to 45 chapters, and she’s even figured out how many pages it takes to increase the percentage a point. The other night, she couldn’t go to sleep because she had read 96% of the book and she had to get to 100%.