Miss Matched

Chapter 5

The phone is ringing off the hook.

"Freddie, would you get that, please," Mom yells from the solarium where she's stationed. She's planted herself there, surrounded by flowers, for the last three weeks, not eating, not taking any calls. Her hair is a mess, and she's not wearing make-up. Basically, she's not doing much of anything except polishing off a bottle of Malbec with my help every day.

"You're going to have to talk to him at some point." I don't spell out who him is. It could either be Peter or her producer, Phil Goldman. I've been handling her calls from both. I save the cover letter I'd been composing for a winery in San Luis Obispo and walk down the hall to the retro phone and stand she found at an auction. It belonged to some old-time film star. Only Felicity: most people would just use a cell. "O'Hara residence." The way she wants me to answer is like I'm hired help. It's just one more thing in a long list of things that annoy me.

It's Phil. "How is she today, Frederica?"

"The same." I wish I could tell him she was coming around, or something even more ambiguous, but I lack my mother's diplomacy gene. Or maybe it's the bullshit gene.

"There's not much time left. I need an answer by Friday at the latest. I'm sorry, but if she can't do it, I'll have to find another matchmaker."

"I understand," I say. "And, I think she does, too. I'm doing my best."

"I'm sure you are, Frederica, but you may have to do better." He hangs up, no goodbye or anything. It strikes me as very Hollywood.

Gently, I lay the phone back in its cradle, then head to the solarium. Mom's propped in one of the chairs, her feet resting on a matching ottoman, a half-empty glass of wine on the side table. Her complexion is pasty and she's got puffy bags under her eyes, making her look her age. I've seen my mom act like this after other break-ups but never quite this bad. "That was Phil," I tell her. He needs a decision before the end of this week or you'll be replaced."

"I just can't deal, Frederica. My heart is broken. You understand?" I can't tell from her speech if she's depressed or if she's already had too much wine. Not that the distinction between the two is all that great.

I close my eyes and nod.

The truth of the matter is that I don't understand. Not in the least. My heart has never been broken, not like that anyway, and so I just have to take her word for it. This has gone way beyond her usual dramatics.

"Listen mom. I know it's hard, but you must snap out of this funk. You need the show to help pay off the Peter's debt."

"I ..." She sighs. "It wasn't all Peter. Yes, he gambled. Yes, he took our account to zero. The truth is we'd been living beyond our means for quite some time. The truth is I'm as much to blame as him, maybe more."

It's so frustrating that I'm the grown-up in the room. I want to shake her by the shoulders or slap her across her face, like Bette Davis did to Joan Crawford in that black and white classic movie. It doesn't matter who is to blame, the situation is dire. "Mom, it will make you crazy to see someone else as the matchmaker. I mean, you're the matchmaker."

She waves her hand from her wrist and slurs slightly. "No one else can do it like I do it."

"Exactly. So are you going to let someone else claim the title that you've worked all these years to make for yourself?"

She gulps what remains of her Malbec. "I'm the matchmaker," she crows loudly. "I'm responsible for fofteen, I mean fifteen, marriages. I'm responsible for beautiful grandberries."

Actually, it's sixteen marriages and I don't correct grandberries either. "Right," I encourage. "and you're not about to let some other Mary or Greta..." Greta? Where did that come from? "... take that title from you."