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  “No, it wasn’t Bach. You said at the time that you couldn’t look at Frida for another minute. You were sick of her that day.”

  She had me. “Okay, maybe I did, but this doesn’t justify me prancing around the city all day, being twenty-nine years old. Think of your mother, sitting at home thinking I’m seventy-five.”

  “Would you listen to yourself for a second? Mom is not sitting at home thinking that you’re seventy-five.”

  “Well, her life revolves around me. I can’t keep this from her.”

  Lucy paused, took a deep breath, and put her hands on my shoulders.

  “Gram, for once in your life, please, do something for yourself. For no one else but yourself, Gram. All you’ve ever done your whole life is think about other people before yourself. You had Poppy Howard for all those years, and Mom and me and Aunt Frida. When have you ever just done something for yourself, without thinking how it’s going to affect other people? You’ve even said as much before.”

  “It’s my generation.” I shrugged. “That’s the way we were brought up.”

  “Okay, so guess what? For one day, you’re going to live in my generation . . . and believe me, it’s the most selfish generation this planet has ever seen. All we ever do is think of ourselves.”

  “But Lucy, that’s the point. I’m not from your generation. As much as I want to, I don’t know how to think like you.”

  “So what’s wrong with trying for one day? For one day in seventy-five years, take the day off from yourself. Take the day off from your generation, and live like people my age do. Don’t you owe that to yourself?”

  “No, Lucy,” I said, holding my ground. “I don’t deserve it. Why would someone deserve this? It’s wrong.”

  And then she said something to me that made me start to change my mind: “So why did you wish to be young again for one day if you didn’t really mean it? Why are you getting this gift if you’re not going to use it? There’s got to be some kind of logical reason for this. Maybe there’s something you need to do. Maybe there’s something you need to find out about yourself. All I know, Gram, is that you’ve got to do it. That’s why I’ll say it again. Gram—for once in your life, do something for yourself. And if you really can’t do something for yourself, if you are really that selfless and your generation is so selfless, then I’ll ask you this: Gram, do it for me.”

  She bewildered me. “What would this do for you?”

  Lucy took a deep breath. “How many people in this world get to hang out with their grandmother when she’s around their own age? Think about that for a second—how many?”

  “Well, that’s true. I’m assuming there’s never been anyone else who’s ever gotten that chance.”

  “Exactly. Do it for me if you really can’t do it for yourself. Let me have this one day in my life to see my grandmother at twenty-nine years old, without looking at some old grainy black-and-white pictures. Imagine how much that would mean to me for the rest of my life. Imagine what I could learn from it.”

  “But I didn’t really mean it when I wished it!” I asserted.

  “Really?” she said, taking a step back. “I wished for a car on my sixteenth birthday, and I got a computer. Judging by looking at you, I should have wished a little harder.”

  That made me laugh. My granddaughter was right. What was I rejecting this chance for? Who was I to throw away such a gift? Screw Barbara. Screw Howard. And—even though I felt bad about even thinking this—screw Frida. For one goddamned day in my life, I was going to do something crazy. I was going to live for myself. I was going to live as a twenty-nine-year-old.

  “You are a wise girl.” I smiled at her.

  “I get it from my grandmother.” She smiled back, putting her arm around me.

  “Okay, fine,” I said. “But for one day only. This is it. I’m going to buy some more candles, and at midnight tonight I’m going to light them, and tomorrow this will all seem like a dream.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you.” She raised her hands, surrendering. “I’m just asking for this one day in our entire lives.” Then, taking my hand, she said, “Come here.”

  She turned me around and pulled me in front of the Paris mirror. We stood staring at the two young ladies reflected there.

  “Look at you,” she said. “Just look at how beautiful you are.”

  “I look like you,” I said, wiping away tears.

  We stood there for a long time comparing our faces.

  “I never realized how much we look alike,” Lucy said. “You really can’t tell from those old pictures.”

  “Sure you could,” I exclaimed. “Look at your jawline—it’s exactly the same as mine. Look at your cheekbones.”

  “Hey, you’re taller than me,” she said. “I was taller than you yesterday.”

  “That’s right!” I remembered. “I shrunk through the years.”

  “You mean you shrink as you get older?”

  “Shrivel is more like it,” I complained. “Lucy, if I ask one thing of you, it’s this: please, drink milk. It’s the best thing for your bones.”

  “I thought sitting in the sun was the best thing,” she said, trying to be funny.

  “Oh, no, never sit in the sun,” I told her seriously. “Sitting in the sun is no joke. Lucy, it’s a horror on your skin. My poor friend Harriet, with the malignant melanomas—”

  “I know, you told me a thousand times.” She put her hand to my mouth, stopping me. “I’m kidding.”

  “You see? I really am your grandmother.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” She laughed. “Maybe spending the entire day with you was not the best idea.”

  “Oh, no,” I replied. “You convinced me, and now I’m your problem for the day.”

  “Jeez, Gram, it was just a joke.”

  “Okay, now, let’s make an appointment with your hairdresser,” I instructed. “I don’t want to go to mine. He only knows from blue hair. Then we’ll have lunch, and then the bras, and then”—I giggled when I said this—“then maybe we’ll pick up some hot guys.”

  “Yuck.”

  “It’s my day.”

  “Okay, fine.” She shrugged.

  “After all,” I said, looking at myself in the mirror again, “today is my day of being selfish, and what I say goes.”

  “Now you’re speaking like a person of my generation!” she declared.

  “You bet your damn ass I am.” I laughed.

  “My grandmother’s cursing?” She looked at me, shocked.

  “Oh, please, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. There are a lot of things you’re going to learn about me today. Now come on,” I told her. “Let’s get this day started. Cinderella goes back at midnight!”

  frida

  Frida Freedberg was always a worrier.

  She attributed this aspect of her personality to her mother, Hannah, who would wake her up every morning for school with such vehemence that it terrorized her for the rest of her life.

  “Frida?” her mother would whisper as she walked quietly into Frida’s bedroom.

  “Frida?” She would say, a little louder.

  “Frida!” she’d shriek. “You’re going to be late for school and then you’ll never graduate or meet a nice man!”

  Frida’s mother had been dead for fifty years, but she could still hear that penetrating shrill voice stab her in the heart each morning. Frida wasn’t crazy about her mother, but she never told anyone, not her late husband, Sol, and certainly not her best friend, Ellie. Frida never shared such things like Ellie did. Ellie couldn’t keep a secret if she tried. Frida kept things to herself.

  Still, she couldn’t deny that she was a worrier, and this particular morning was no different.

  Ellie had called her that morning sounding shaken up. She’d asked crazy questions. Was this the beginning of Alzheimer’s? Oh, God forbid. So she went down to check on Ellie. They lived in the same building, so it wasn’t so difficult to just take the elevator down a couple of floors
to make sure she was okay. Instead of finding Ellie, though, she found her granddaughter, Lucy, and a person Lucy claimed was a cousin. Frida knew that such a cousin did not exist. Frida had known Ellie her entire life, seventy-five years’ worth of knowing, and this young woman was no cousin. Frida even tried asking if the girl was from Chicago, even though Frida knew that no one in Ellie’s family ever lived in Chicago. The girl took the bait and said she was. Still, she did look a lot like Ellie when she was younger. Then again, that could just be a coincidence.

  This was the tip-off that something was wrong. The other woman had to be a nurse or, worse, a social worker, brought in to help the family decide what to do with Ellie. Lucy was probably keeping this from her, fearing she wasn’t strong enough to take the news. What would Frida be without Ellie? Ellie was her dearest friend, a sister in every sense.

  Frida was a champion in the game of jumping to conclusions. A worrier like Frida was worried.

  Then again, another side of her, the saner side, told her that maybe Ellie really did go out to Barbara’s house like Lucy said. She would just call Barbara’s house to find out. Besides, she’d been meaning to call Barbara, anyway, to thank her for such a lovely time at Ellie’s seventy-fifth birthday party the night before. No one would suspect she was worried about Ellie. It was the perfect cover. Then, if Ellie was there like Lucy said she was, all the worrying would have been for nothing, case closed, on to the next thing. She had enough to do that day, anyway. There was the business of the bruised peach she needed to return to the grocery store. Maybe afterward she’d stop at that coffee shop on Walnut Street. Frida never bought coffee from that place. Who in their right mind would spend three dollars for a cup of coffee that cost less than ten cents to make? The reason Frida went in the shop was the heaps of Sweet’N Low packets that were ripe for the taking. Frida was running low.

  Everyone, including her closest friend Ellie, assumed that Frida’s husband Sol had invested poorly before he died and left Frida practically penniless. This was not the case at all, however. In fact, it was Frida who handled the investments, even when Sol was alive. Frida had over two million dollars to her name. Being the worrier that she was, though, she saved for the rainy day that never came. Frida learned the Sweet’N Low trick from her older sister, Gert, God rest her soul, who was old enough to remember the Depression. Gert died with enough pilfered Sweet’N Low to satisfy the diabetic sweet tooth of a small town.

  Frida picked up her address book and looked up Barbara’s number as she took a seat on the sofa. Should the news be bad, it was best to be sitting.

  “Hellew?” The voice on the other end spoke in a high-pitched nasal-toned accent. Barbara’s voice. Barbara’s voice made everything she said sound like whining. Frida would never tell anyone this, though, especially Ellie. She didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.

  “Hello, Barbara, this is Frida, you know, your mom’s friend?”

  “Frida,” Barbara said, somewhat perturbed. “I’ve known you my entire life, of course it’s you, who else would it be?”

  “I’m sorry, dear,” Frida said, worrying she might have upset Barbara. Never upset Barbara. Don’t get on Barbara’s bad side. A flare-up from Barbara could make anyone back down. Her temper was like dropping the A-bomb on Hiroshima. “I just didn’t want you to think it was a different Frida,” Frida said, hoping to clear up the dreadful situation she’d gotten herself into.

  “All I’m saying is that I know it’s you, Frida. I saw you last night. How are you today?”

  “Oh, I’m all right.” She tried to segue into the real reason she was calling: “Actually, I was calling to thank you for last night. It was a lovely party.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” Barbara said happily. Always compliment Barbara. It was always the way to curb Barbara’s irritation toward you. “Oh, yes, the flowers were just lovely.”

  “You didn’t think the arrangements were too ornate?” Barbara asked.

  “Oh, no, dear, they were exquisite,” Frida lied, but it was only a white lie.

  “And what about the food? Didn’t you think we waited a long time?”

  “Do I feel that I waited a long time?” Frida repeated. Frida had learned that when she didn’t have an answer to a question it was best to stall by repeating the question. Truth be told, it did take a while for the food to arrive—about five minutes. Frida thought she might have fainted from the hunger. “Everything came on time,” Frida lied again. Remember, don’t get Barbara started.

  “Didn’t you find the crab cake to be a bit stringy?”

  “The lumps of crab in it were very generous.” (What Frida really thought: the crab cake was like paste.)

  “Was the lettuce in your salad wilted?”

  “It was as crisp as a cracker.” (What Frida really thought: it was so wilted you could have slapped it on something like papier-mâché.)

  “Was your steak too rare?”

  “It was just the way I like it.” Frida ate the entire contents of the bread basket, insisted she was full, had her steak wrapped up and took it home and stuck it under the broiler for another fifteen minutes.

  “And my coffee wasn’t hot enough,” Barbara added.

  “I burned my tongue.” Frida got brain freeze.

  “What about the cake from the Swiss Pastry Shop?”

  “Oh, that was good?” Frida sort of asked.

  “I thought it was too sweet,” Barbara grumbled.

  “Yes, now that you mention it, maybe a little.”

  “That’s the last time I’m going to that restaurant.” Barbara sighed. “I have two standing reservations, but after that I’m through.”

  “Good for you,” Frida agreed. Barbara always said she was never going back to The Prime Rib, yet continued to eat there at least once a week. Barbara’s husband, Larry Sustamorn, the dentist, loved it there and insisted on going regularly. He was a timid man, but when he believed in something, like food at The Prime Rib restaurant, Barbara took it to heart.

  “Anyway, at least Mom had a good time,” Barbara went on.

  “She did. She really seemed to be having a good time.” Frida perked up. She’d almost forgotten why she had called Barbara in the first place.

  “Did she tell you she had a good time?” Barbara inquired.

  Frida paused. “Did she tell me she had a good time?” she repeated.

  “Yes, you!”

  “She did. She said she had a good time, a wonderful time, a stupendous time.” (Frida’s translation: They hadn’t really discussed it yet.)

  “Well, she said nothing to me.”

  “Nothing?” Frida gasped. “No, that doesn’t sound like Ellie . . . does it?”

  “Frida, she said nothing. When I called her this morning she said that the party was just fine and then she screamed some nonsense about a mouse and that was that.”

  Frida became alarmed, but didn’t quite know what to say next. Ellie never mentioned anything about a mouse. She must have been seeing things. “Maybe Ellie had a lot of things on her mind today?”

  “Like what?” Barbara insisted. “Frida, really, what could possibly have been more important than thanking her caring daughter for the seventy-fifth birthday party she gave her? Do you know how much time and effort I put into planning that party for her? Do you know how many hours it took to get the right flowers, the right guest list, not to mention the seating arrangements, with the way your friends don’t speak to each other. I thought I was going to scream. If I heard one more time, ‘Don’t sit Edie next to Lila because they’re still fighting over that bill from Outback Steakhouse three months ago . . . ’”

  “I thought they had gotten over that, and Edie agreed to split the tip fifty-fifty,” Frida interjected.

  “No, she won’t budge on forty-sixty,” Barbara corrected her.

  “Oh, what a shame.”

  “Frida, honestly, women your age act like little girls sometimes.”

  “We do, don’t we?” Frida wholly agreed, sighin
g inside.

  Frida fantasized about telling Barbara to stick it you-know-where. What did she know about the controversy over the Outback Steakhouse bill? Barbara knew nothing about a fixed budget. Lila always over-ordered when she split the bill, and all the other ladies were fed up. In Frida’s eyes, it was right for Edie to stand up and fight. Lila had no right to get the soup and the salad and dessert and not pay a little extra.

  “Well, all I’m saying is that it took a lot of time and effort, and what does my mother do? She makes up some excuse to get off the phone with me, and a dumb one at that. I even thought we’d have a nice lunch today. I thought she’d want to shower me with thank-yous today, but instead she’s going out to lunch with you. Good for you, Frida. Please give my mother my deepest regards and tell her highness that I’m ready at her beck and call.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. It’s time you stand up to my mother and tell her what’s right.”

  “No, Barbara, what I meant to say was”—Frida took a deep breath, dug her fingernails into the arm of the couch, closed her eyes, and prepared for the ensuing drama—“I’m not having lunch with your mother today.”

  “WHAT?” Barbara roared. “She told me that you were having lunch together, and that’s why she couldn’t see me! She has my very best pair of sunglasses that I left in her purse and she wouldn’t let me even come down and get them. What do you mean she’s not meeting you for lunch?”

  “I-I . . .” Frida stammered.

  “Spit it out!”

  Frida wiped her brow. “Well, Ellie called me this morning and asked if I was feeling okay. She wanted to know if I had any reaction from the dinner last night.”

  “I knew the beef was too rare!” Barbara snapped.

  “Well, I said that I was fine. A little dyspeptic, but I’m always dyspeptic.”

  “Get to it,” Barbara prodded.

  “Well, then I asked Ellie if she’d like to get together today, and she said that she was going out to your house.”

  “She didn’t!”

  “Oh, yes,” Frida responded carefully. She ripped off a piece of the newspaper and started fanning herself. This was too much.