A New England Story, Part IX

“Can you believe all this stuff mom had?”

            We were facing Ann, and I was, as my wont, demonstrating an enthusiasm that was directly, yet inversely proportional to my interest. In other words, I couldn’t care less. So I amused myself with fleeting observations. Watching her. We were standing in the living room, with its view of Manchester Bay. The sunlight glinting of the water and the snow, blinding at times.

            Ann’s body was angled away from us, in a defensive posture. She kept scanning the living room, as if seeking refuge from what she clearly felt was a threat: our honesty. She never looked at either of us directly, which I thought was infinitely curious:

            “It’s so much work! I just keep finding things to shove into garbage bags, especially in the other bathroom.”

            “Oh, really?” I began to pay attention more to her words. “Some of that stuff under the sink is ours.”

            “Oh.”

            That was it. Nothing like an apology, let alone concern.

            “Yeah, so maybe you shouldn’t throw anything else out until I look at it.”

            Ann’s eyes began to scan furiously for something, anything else to look at.

            “We also found a lot of creams and facial cleansers by Dr. Perricone and some other brands like La Mer.”

            Suddenly, Ann’s attention focused. She turned her eyes straight at me. “Really? Hmm, maybe I should take a look at some of those things while you’re going through the other trash.”

“Oh, yes, you might find it interesting. You would not believe the collection of unguents, decoctions, creams and vitamins. Your mom was determined to work from both the outside in and inside out.”

Lance couldn’t repress a snort. “Tch. I can’t believe all the money she spent on herself. And all that she wasted. There are so many jars and bottles that are half-used. It’s such a waste of money.”

“Well, it made her feel good, didn’t it?”

I couldn’t resist a scoff of my own. “Doubtful, or else she wouldn’t have kept buying more and more.”

“Nurse! Nurse! Can you get me that cream please?”

            “Where is it?”

            “In the drawer here. I can’t reach.”

            The nurse, a normal, overworked woman who knew more than the doctors but got paid less than half, began rummaging in the nightstand next to the bed. “Is this it?”

            “Yes, thank goodness you found it.”

            Before she handed it to Paige, however, she took a look at the prescription. “Wait, was this prescribed to you in the hospital?”

            “No.” Paige looked annoyed

            “Well, you can’t use this. You can’t use any medications or creams that haven’t been prescribed here in the hospital. What is it for?”

            “It’s for my eyelids. So they don’t sag.”

            “Definitely not. I’ll give this back to you when you are released.” With that, the nurse left.

            “Nurse Ratchett,” Paige muttered. Then she turned to me. “Lane, can you bring me the Renova from home? It’s in my bathroom, in the medicine cabinet.”

            I looked at the now empty doorway.
            “Oh, I won’t tell her.”

            “Well, okay.” There was no point, clearly, in protestations.

            “I know I’m going to burn off half my skin, but I don’t care,” she laughed. “I’ve got to get rid of these wrinkles.”

            “Let’s have a tag sale,” I suggested.

            “What a fabulous idea! I think it would be great!” enthused my husband.

            Ann, however, was less than amenable to the idea. She had seen the labels on her mother’s clothing, an homage to both of their desires to be “Brahmin’s”: Dana Buchman, Max Mara, Ferragamo shoes, and a smattering of lesser labels such as the luxe line at Banana Republic.

            Indeed, Paige was infinitely generous with herself. Many of the clothing items even had their tags attached. This was, of course, quite convenient when it was necessary to give Ann, her only daughter, a gift because rather than go shopping at a store, she would simply go “shopping” in her closet. Which process conveniently justified another trip to either Lord and Taylor or Neiman Marcus, to replace said “gifts.”

            Paige’s thrift-ness knew no bounds.

            Neither, it turns out, did Ann’s.

            “Just think of the money we can generate to pay that enormous Visa bill,” I said.

            It was a calculated comment. Strike Ann at her pocketbook because she was cheap and didn’t want that money to come out of her inheritance.

            “Hmm,” she wavered. “Maybe it could be good after all. Yeah, I think it will work, so here’s what we’ll do.”

            As Ann proceeded to attempt to claim ownership of the project, it became clear that she had absolutely no idea what to do nor how to do it.

            Instead, she offered to assist in weeding out all the items which were not saleable, to wit: cosmetics.

Said she, “I wouldn’t want it all to go to waste. I’ll clean it up.”

            An hour and a half later, Ann had cleaned up the entire bathroom by emptying it into a box which she intended to ship to herself care of her attorney employers in Honolulu.

            I looked on in silence.

            All is vanity.