Happy II

Watercolor tea cup

A short story by Beth Sherman

It began with chocolate mousse.

When she lived in the city, my mother and I would go to brunch every Sunday at a place

on the Upper West Side called Happy II. There was a prix fix menu. We always got the same

thing – a Caesar salad, pistachio-crusted salmon, and the mousse. She insisted I meet her at the restaurant, which was two blocks from her apartment, so that if one of us was late, the other could get a table. Afterward, we usually walked through Central Park, and then I took the train back to Long Island and she went home.

Right before Christmas, everything changed. Sometimes I try to recreate that meal in my mind, combing for clues I should have spotted.

Let’s go to Happy I, she said, studying the menu.

It was a running joke between us. How Happy I was cheaper, with servers who smiled

more and extra dressing on the salad, so we wouldn’t have to ask.

She was wearing a pair of old slacks and a stained sweater. Her hair looked like she

hadn’t combed it in weeks, but she had lipstick and eyeshadow on, as usual.

What do I like, she asked me, when our waitress appeared.

Another joke.

Um, I think you probably want the Caesar, the salmon, and the mousse. Same for me.

After our order had been placed, I launched into an anecdote about Carol’s son, Ryan,

who hit a fire hydrant during his road test.

And while water is streaming from the hydrant, Ryan turns to the instructor and says, but I still get to parallel park, right?

My mother tapped her water glass impatiently.

Have you seen Carol lately? She has a son, Brian, right?

Ryan, Mom. I just told you about him.

I’m not the best listener either sometimes. It used to drive my ex-husband crazy.

Would you pay attention, he’d say angrily.

My mother signaled the waitress over. About our order . . .

Your order’s right here, said the young woman, putting our meals in front of us.

Have you been getting enough sleep? I asked my mother, after she acted like she’d

forgotten something else I just said.

As a chronic insomniac, I know how the lack of sleep makes me lose focus.

I sleep like a baby. Poorly. I think I’ll go straight home instead of to the Park.

The rest of the meal was uneventful. I did most of the talking and she nodded

occasionally. After we said our goodbyes and I’d gone to the ladies’ room, I noticed my mother had left her untouched chocolate mousse behind, in a plastic take-out container.

She’d lived on West 93 rd Street for the past five years. Hector, the doorman, was helping another tenant with some packages. Recognizing me, he waved me inside the building without using the intercom to announce my arrival.

I rang the bell of her apartment. No answer. Turning the knob, I found it wasn’t locked.

At first, I thought she’d been robbed. There was stuff strewn all over the place, like a

burglar had trashed the place and not found anything worth keeping. Clothes, shoes, makeup, laundry, piles of unopened bills, old newspapers. The couch had so much junk on it you couldn’t see the color of the cushions. In the kitchen, it was worse: Piled in the sink and on countertops were dishes containing things that had congealed. And the stench. The whole place smelled like a garbage truck. Rotting food. Bathroom odors.

Lauren!

My mother flung my name in my direction, like a curse, as she stood in the doorway,

glaring at me.

You shouldn’t be here. I never invited you.

Mom, what happened?

Nothing.

An understatement. I brought your mousse, I said, holding the dessert out like a peace

offering. Why does the apartment look like this?

Don’t be such a nag. I get busy, okay? I never was one of those women who lived to cook and clean.

Neither am I but this is . . . extreme.

Fine. If it makes you happy, I’ll fix it. She walked over to the sink and started moving

dishes around, making more of a mess.

I watched her pour half a bottle of detergent over everything. Scrubbing plates and cups with a sponge. She never turned the water on. I didn’t ask her to. I just stood there and imagined how soap bubbles would look – translucent, fragile, floating till they popped.