Clarissa’s mother, Monica, called one night to tell her that Clarissa’s daughter, Helene, had fallen down a flight of stairs, but not to worry. It was going to be okay. Clarissa asked her why was it going to be okay. “Because I could see that when her head hit the bottom there was this thick oriental rug at the foot of the stairs and Helene had a smile on her face when she landed.”
Clarissa heard the clink of glass against a gallon jug of Carlo Rossi Burgundy at the other end of the line. She waited until she was sure her mother had refilled her Baccarat crystal glass. The sound of that beautiful old glass - battered with time, all it’s facets catching light and turning it into miniature rainbows - was the sound that she thought of as “Monica’s Music”. Her own Hollywood movie theme. When she was a little girl, Monica loved to see Clarissa’s mouth open with a little girl’s “ooooooh”. Monica would click the edge of the crystal goblet against the wine bottle again and again, making music with her wide-eyed child counter-pointing it with her “ooooooh” A mother-daughter duet.
“Mother?” Monica had not said anything for a while. “Mother.”
At the other end of the line she could imagine her mother dozing in a stooped over-position in her ancient Japanese kimono that she’d found in a second hand store in Greenwich Village a millennium ago, when Monica was a Bohemian wannabe. Clarissa could see her sitting at her kitchen table with the light of the street lamp illuminating the tabletop - the gallon jug of wine, cigarette butts overflowing the Japanese bowl with the blue dragon flying across the white porcelain, the photos she had probably taken out of one of the boxes filled with her old life and some of the present one, strewn across the dark oak.
“Mother,” she said again as she heard her mother stirring and reaching for her gold lighter. “Thank you so much for calling.”
“You won’t worry, will you darlin?”
“No, mother. I’m sure Helene will be fine. You’ll take care of her.”
“Yes. I will. Good night.”
“Good night, Monica.”
Clarissa put her cell back down on the bedside table and got up from her bed. It was a coolish night. She reached for a velour throw and carried it into Helene’s room. Helene was lying on her back, sleeping, her giant teddy bear straddling her right arm, its black beady eyes seemed to blink as she leaned over to kiss her daughter.
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