Nice Big American Baby. Judy Budnitz

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      Why are you still getting pimples? You’re twenty-seven years old; why are you still getting pimples like a teenager?

      Not everyone has perfect skin like you, I said. Green light. Go.

      I do not have perfect skin, she said, bringing her hands to her face.

      Both hands on the wheel, please. Do you want me to drive?

      No, I don’t. You must be tired.

      I touched my forehead. Small hard bumps like Braille.

      She drove. I looked at the side of her face, the smooth taut skin. I wondered when she would start to get wrinkles. I already had wrinkles. On my neck. I could see them.

      So, how is it going with this Piotr?

      He’s all right.

      Still playing the—what was it? Guitar?

      Bass guitar.

      She turned on the radio and started flipping through stations. Maybe we’ll hear one of his songs, she said brightly.

      I told you he was in a band. I didn’t say they were good enough to be on the radio, I said.

      Oh. I see. So the band’s just for fun. What else does he do?

      Nothing. Yet.

      So. What kind of name is Piotr? Am I saying it right?

      Polish, I said.

      I did not feel like telling her that only his grandmother lived in Poland; his parents were both born in Milwaukee, and he had grown up in Chicago and had never been to Poland; Piotr was a name he had given himself; he was not really a Piotr at all, he was a Peter with pretensions and long hair. I did not tell her this.

      A black car cut into the lane in front of us. My mother braked suddenly and flung her right arm out across my chest.

      Mother! Keep your hands on the wheel!

      I’m sorry, she said, it’s automatic. Ever since you kids were little.…

      I’m wearing a seat belt.

      I know, honey, I can’t help it. Did I hurt you?

      No, of course not, I said.

      When we reached the parking garage my mother rolled down her window but couldn’t reach; she had to unfasten her seat belt and open the car door in order to punch the button and get her parking ticket. I looked at her narrow back as she leaned out of the car, its delicate curve, the shoulder blades like folded wings under her sweater, a strand of dark hair caught in the clasp of her gold necklace. I had the urge to slide across the seat and curl around her. It only lasted for a second.

      She turned around and settled back into her seat, and the yellow-and-black-striped mechanical bar swung up in front of the car, and I tapped my feet impatiently while she slammed the door shut and rolled up the window. Now she was fiddling with her rearview mirror and straightening her skirt.

      Come on, I said, watching the bar, which was still raised but vibrating a little.

      Relax, honey, that thing isn’t going to come crashing down on us the minute we’re under it. I promise you.

      I know that, I said, and then closed my eyes until we were through the gate and weaving around the dark oil-stained aisles of the parking garage. I would have liked to tell her about some of the legal cases Mitch had described to me: freak accidents, threshing machines gone awry, people caught in giant gears or conveyor belts and torn limb from limb, hands in bread slicers, flimsy walkways over vats of acid. Elevator cases, diving-board cases, subway-train cases, drowning-in-the-bathtub cases, electrocution-by-blender cases. And then there were the ones that were just called Acts of God.

      I didn’t tell her.

      Remember where we parked, she said.

      OK.

      But she did not get out of the car right away. She sat, gripping the wheel.

      I don’t see why we have to do this, she said. Your father worries—

      He’ll be more worried if you don’t go, I said, and anyway there’s nothing to worry about because everything’s going to be fine. Right? Right.

      If there’s something wrong I’d just rather not know, she said to her hands.

      We got out; the car shook as we slammed the doors.

      She was right about the clinic. It was cold and it was ugly. She signed in with the receptionist and we sat in the waiting room. The room was gray and bare; the chairs were old vinyl that stuck to your thighs. The lights buzzed and seemed to flicker unless you were looking directly at them.

      We sat side by side and stared straight ahead as if we were watching a movie.

      There was one other woman waiting. She had enormous breasts. I could not help noticing.

      I took my mother’s hand. It was very cold, but then her hands were always cold, even in summer, cool and smooth with the blue veins arching elegantly over their backs. Her hand lay limply in mine. I had made the gesture thinking it was the right thing to do, but now that I had her hand I didn’t know what to do with it. I patted it, turned it over.

      My mother looked at me strangely. My hand began to sweat.

      There was noise, activity somewhere; we could hear voices and footsteps, the crash and skid of metal, the brisk tones of people telling each other what to do. But we could see nothing but the receptionist in her window and the one woman who looked asleep, sagging in her chair with her breasts cupped in her arms like babies.

      I need to use the restroom, my mother said, and pulled her hand away.

      The receptionist directed us down the hall and around the corner. We went in, our footsteps echoing on the tiles. It was empty and reeked of ammonia. The tiles glistened damply.

      Here, do something with yourself, my mother said, and handed me her comb. She walked down to the big handicapped stall on the end and latched the door.

      I combed my hair and washed my hands and waited.

      I looked at myself in the mirror. The lights were that harsh relentless kind that reveal every detail of your face, so that you can see all sorts of flaws and pores you didn’t even know you had. They made you feel you could see your own thoughts floating darkly just under your skin, like bruises.

      Mother, I said. I watched her feet tapping around.

      Lisa, she said, there’s a fish in the toilet.

      Oh, please.

      No, I mean it. It’s swimming around.

      You’re making it up.

      No, I’m not. Come see for yourself.

      Well, it’s probably just some pet goldfish someone tried to flush.

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