My name is Teddi Bayer. Not as bad as, say, Candi Kane,
but still...
No biggie, you think? Then picture this: a newspaper ad
for Bayer Furniture the Sunday after I was born. There I
am, naked except for a big bow around my neck,
superimposed on a bed of teddy bears. Below me are the
words IN CELEBRATION OF THE BIRTH OF OUR LITTLE TEDDI, BUY
A COUCH THIS WEEK AND GET A FREE TEDDY BEAR! BETTER STILL,
BUY A BED
AND MAKE ONE OF YOUR OWN!
Fast forward twelve years and imagine a raucous bunch of
adolescent boys trying to cop a feel of my mosquito-bite-
breasts to see if I'm "stuffed."
And my parents expected me to turn out normal? Somehow,
despite my name and my genes, for thirty-six years I've
managed to defy the odds. That is, until today, when, to
show that they are team players and can embrace a common
goal, my entire family — and that includes my too-good-
looking-for-his-own -good husband, Rio — came together to
make sure that I go smack, stark-raving, way-over-the-edge
mad.
You think I'm exaggerating, right? Well then, let's take
them one by one, shall we? First there's my mother, who
called me in every aisle of Waldbaum's this morning to
tell me what food I should not buy for our big family
dinner tonight. Every single aisle, where she somehow knew
exactly what item I was putting into my cart just as I was
reaching for it. My best guess is that it's all the shock
treatments she's had. They've no doubt given her this
incredible psychic power. And is she saving the world with
it?
No, she's just driving me nuts.
Witness: "How much chopped liver are you buying for your
father?" she asked the moment I was at the deli counter
ordering it. "You always buy too much."
I might have been a tad snippy when I told her, "Only half
a pound," and added, "Is that all right with you?"
Of course, she was snippy right back. "Half a pound?
That'll never be enough. Not that I would ever tell you
what to buy." She said this as if she hadn't told me to
get the challah, not the Italian bread in the bread aisle,
not to buy the plums because knowing me they were bound to
be too soft, and to resist the cheap mints in the bulk-
food aisle I always get instead of the exact-same-for-a-
higher-price ones in the gourmet section. "You're a grown
woman. You have a mind of your own. You should do what you
want."
She pauses, maybe to take a drag of her cigarette, and
then continues. "Of course, I haven't lived with your
father for more years than you've been alive without
learning something. I thought I could help, but I see I
was wrong. I'll never make another suggestion."
Yeah, if only. "Mom, you've helped," I told her, searching
the glass cases for some arsenic in cream sauce, which, if
I'd had it for lunch, might have spared me the dinner
party from the dark side I knew was to come. "You're
always a help."
"Well," she said, "all I've ever wanted is for you and
David to be happy."
I told her we are happy. My older brother, David, is,
anyway. Of course, he is a thousand miles south of New
York, basking in the Caribbean sun and enjoying life
without a phone, or so he tells us. Not that it matters. I
know the drill. "David and I are both happy."
"Happy? Of course you're happy. Did you lose a child?"
This is why we cut my mother plenty of slack. Yes, it was
almost thirty-five years ago, and yes, the rest of the
family thinks that little Markie's death has become a
weapon with which she bludgeons us regularly. Still, I
don't know that I'd be any better. Gives me the chills
just thinking about it.
I told her I was thankful I hadn't, which satisfied her,
and she moved on to critiquing my wardrobe until I
crinkled a package of rice crackers near the phone and
shouted that I was losing her. Before you feel too sorry
for her, know that she called me back once I was in the
car and asked if I'd gotten her favorite French vanilla
creamer — which amazingly I had actually remembered — and
told me now she uses the low-fat kind. Zipped my rain
slicker back up, grabbed Alyssa out of the safety seat and
ran back through the puddles. But, not being a dummy,
didn't return the regular so that when she hated the low-
fat I'd have the right one on hand.
Of course, that's not nearly enough to drive anyone over
the edge, so throw in my three kids. Today Dana, my oldest
at eleven, had to stay after school, only she forgot to
tell me so I wasn't home for Jesse when he got there. And
Jesse, who's nine-going-on-six when he isn't nine-going-on-
forty, forgot to tell me he was supposed to bring cupcakes
for some bake sale at school and brought home a rather
nasty note from his teacher about responsibility —
presumably his. And post food-shop-from-hell, Alyssa, our
little Princess Cupcake at nearly five, announced she
couldn't hold it in until we got home. My car will
probably never smell quite the same.
But you're still skeptical. You don't believe it's a plot,
do you? Then add my neighbor's husband, who, while not
technically related to me, is like a brother-in-law, since
Bobbie and I are as close as sisters could be. Tonight he
up and left her and their twin girls, Kristin and Kimmie.
I am fully aware that this is not my tragedy, but hers.
And I swear that I was there for her. I held her, I cried
with her. In fact, I think I took it worse than she did
because it was more of a surprise to me. But I'm claiming
it as part of the plot to speed me over the edge because
it opened a box of fears that I have managed to keep
locked since the day that Rio and I got married — that
someday, somewhere down the line, Rio would realize he
didn't love me and climb into the candy-apple-red Corvette
I brought to the marriage and drive off into the sunset
without me.
Anyway, back to Bobbie, who showed me a drawerful of sex
toys which didn't save her marriage, and told me, "Mike's
screwing a hypnotherapist. In fact, they've been screwing
around for centuries — in other lives, or so he says."
"Other lives?" I am sure my eyes were like saucers, but
this stuff was really hard to believe. I mean, yes, Mike's
into all sorts of natural supplements and he thinks that
ginkgo biloba actually staves off Alzheimer's, but the
man's a chiropractor. They all believe in that stuff. But
they don't all go off to find alternative
universes. "Since when does Mike believe in past lives?" I
asked her.
"Since he needs an excuse for screwing around in this one."
She claims she's less upset about his infidelity than the
problem of who will adjust her. "I mean," she said as she
cried in my arms, "that man knows how to stop my
migraines. He knows how to get rid of the pain that runs
down my leg. Who's going to get rid of the pain in my ass?"
All I could do was hug my very best friend tightly and
tell her the honest truth — that it looked like he was
already gone.
I know, I know. You're thinking that I'm taking all this
too personally. But then, you don't know about my father,
who has been leading my husband to believe that one day
he'll be running Bayer Furniture, and who chose tonight to
tell him that at seventy, he still has no plans to retire.
I think he takes a perverse pleasure in screwing Rio
because, in addition to Rio screwing his daughter, he
feels that Rio screwed him by not converting to Judaism,
as he promised he would.
Which brings us, finally, to my husband, Rio, who actually
believed that tonight's dinner was going to change
everything and that my father was suddenly going to see
the light and bankroll a Bayer Furniture Clearance Center
for Rio to run. And now that that boat has sailed, he is
standing in the doorway to our bedroom on the fence about
whether to blame me or have sex with me. This despite the
black negligee I've got on — a nightgown, I might add,
which my mother gave me two years ago, telling me it would
stop Rio from even thinking about cheating.
You'll remember I locked that fear in a box before today.
Now I'll worry about it every night for the rest of my
life, along with the greatest of my fears — that some day,
just like Mom, I'll have a second home at the South Winds
Psychiatric Center. And that I'll have a phone set aside
exclusively for me there just like the one reserved for
her, which is preprogrammed with dial-direct connections
to her favorite florist and the local Chinese restaurant,
which delivers moo shu pork at the touch of a button. And
that I will have sheets stored for me just like the three-
hundred-count ones kept in a locked hospital closet for my
mother. (Only mine, of course, will be seconds from T.J.
Maxx.)
And then, like me, my poor sweet children will be done
for — left to manage without consistent and unconditional
love, needing always to walk that thin line, showing love
without demanding it in return — or risk pushing their
fragile mother over the edge.
And as long as I'm being morbid, I may as well go the
final step and acknowledge that worse still, they'll have
to live out their lives with the Sword of Psychosis
hanging over their heads, always wondering when the men in
the little white coats will be coming for them.
Boy, your mood sure can change when you think about being
institutionalized or abandoned. Now I'm not any surer than
Rio that I'm up for making love. Still, there he is,
standing in the doorway, framed by the light like some
kind of god. His hair is black, full. It still curls down
onto his forehead the way it did the first time I saw him.
His chest and shoulders still dwarf his waist and hips.
He's the kind of man who walks with his shoulders — a
lion's gait, always on the prowl. There's a rhythm to it,
and it mesmerized me from the start. It is too dark to do
more than imagine the small tuft of dark curls that
escapes the vee of his shirt, but if I close my eyes I
have no trouble seeing it clear as day. Unfortunately when
I open them, he is still standing in the same spot, still
unable to decide if he's interested in what I'm offering.
Finally he speaks: "I take it Bobbie's still alive?"
Translated this means: how could you leave me to deal with
your parents on the most important night of my life to gab
with your girlfriend?
I remind him that my girlfriend's husband just left her
and that she was really upset. We both were. I don't go
into the thing about how divorce is one of the three most
traumatic things that can happen in your life, because I'm
not sure it's three and because he wouldn't care,
anyway. "What was I supposed to do?"
In the dark I can barely make out a grimace. The last
thing I want to do is fight with him, but he isn't being
fair.
"Didn't she come running when my mother tried to commit
suicide?" I ask.
He crosses his arms across his chest, unmoved. "Which
time?"
Several, I suppose, but while it means the world to me, I
realize it would be wise to remind him of something he
cares about more. "How about when Alyssa had that fever
and you were off hunting little defenseless deer and I had
to rush her to the hospital and Bobbie was here for the
whole weekend watching Dana and Jess?" I should have left
out the dig about the defenseless deer. I'm not sure he
even heard the rest. Anyway, I make a stab at another time
Bobbie saved the day. "How about when she climbed on the
roof to adjust the DirecTV thingy so you wouldn't have to
miss the Indy 5000 or whatever it is?" Surely he cared
about that.
Only he says she didn't do that. "You did, Teddi. You
don't remember that?" Me? I hate heights. Maybe I blocked
the memory. When I hesitate, he throws up his hands. "You
got brain damage or something? You remember anything
anymore?"
His words hang in the air as if we've had this
conversation a hundred times before. Maybe we did once or
twice. Or a couple dozen. Who's counting?
"Sorry," he says after a while, sitting down on the bed
and slipping out of his Italian loafers. "I didn't mean
anything by that. At least I saw that you picked up my
good suit at the cleaners, finally."
"Your suit?" I guess I don't hear exactly what he's
saying, because I'm thinking that I've forgotten it yet
again, despite how many times he's reminded me. "I —"
"What? They couldn't get the freakin' stain out?" He's
halfway off the bed, running to check.