Flashback, Flash Forward

No matter how much I try to remain in the present, my mind takes over and I have either a flashback or flash forward. Of course, there are times that I’m just having a hot flash and disconsolately in the present for that. It is May, already. April came and went in a flash. The day of my birthday, the 22^nd, was uneventful, a day of work like any other; until I was surprised at home when Mark, Lindsay, Scott and Kim hid Sonny from me and then brought him out, golden fur, decorated with a red bow. I got my first “mother-in-law” birthday card from Scott, which I will treasure always. And then Phil and Phyllis- Scott’s parents- yes, I chuckle every time I say their names together, too- came over to join in singing me happy birthday while I blew out the candles on a fancy cake.

126 days left of this journey. Thursday, at last, Scott and Lindsay officially closed on their house. That was a journey in itself, with the typical back and forth of uncertainties and frustrations of buying a home and getting a mortgage. Even up to the day before the closing, there was a problem and they were unsure that the deal was going to go through. A roller-coaster ride, just like most anything in life. I kept telling them, “Everything will be alright, you’ll see.” And, luckily, I was right; my daughter and future son-in-law will reside in a lovely little cape five minutes away from us, four if there’s light traffic on Jerusalem for a left-turn and I make the light on Hempstead Turnpike. When people ask me how far it is and I tell them this, I add- “it’s as far as the umbilical cord will stretch." It’s also five minutes away from Phyllis’ and Phil’s house- equidistant to both sets of parents- one set to the north and one set to the south. I flashback to the days when Mark and I got our first apartment- a stone’s throw away from each of our parents. Friday night dinner at my parent's house, Sunday night dinner at Mark’s.

And now the work begins- breaking down old walls, putting up new walls- demolishing, building and making it their own. I came home from work early on Thursday and Kim and I decided to go over to Scott and Lindsay's house to congratulate them. Before we did, I called my best friend, Meryl, in Florida to find out what the traditional things to bring to a new home were. She told me sugar, salt, bread, a candlestick and matches. Although she couldn’t really explain what each one stands for. My mom, as always had most of the answers; sugar is for a sweet life, salt is for a little spice, bread- so they should always “have what to eat”. She never heard of the candlestick and matches. I brought them birthday candles and decided that it meant they should celebrate a lot of birthdays there. Who knows; it sounded good. The sugar, salt, bread, birthday candles and matches went in a large red gift bag and of course, I also bought them one of those sappy little plaques with a sappy little saying about a home. Kimberly bought them a beautiful azalea, bursting with pink buds.

Lindsay greeted us at the door, holding a large Ziploc bag filled with ice on her head. “What happened?” I asked, a little panicky. “I got hit by a hammer,” she responded. “Your future son-in-law lost the grip to the hammer because his hands were all sweaty. It went flying…and landed right onto the top of my head. He said it was like it was happening in slow motion and I told him it couldn’t have been that slow, because I had no time to move away from the flying hammer.” Always a little drama when it comes to Lindsay. It makes sense that she’s an actress.

I looked around at Scott and Lindsay’s future home; presently the floors are filled with torn sheet rock and nails. Lindsay led us around, explaining how the furniture will be placed and how they will rearrange the kitchen. I tried to flash forward beyond the demolition to picture what it will look like. My mind got carried away as I walked to the backyard and I could almost hear my future grandchildren giggling and playing in the grass. I shook myself back to reality, when I noticed how overgrown and weedy the grass was and the monstrous, diseased tree, smack in the middle, that must, unfortunately be cut down.

It’s a lot of work that needs to be done. But they are young and strong and have handy, wonderful friends to help them, besides for Mark, who is excited to be part of this project. When I got home later, I noticed Lindsay and Scott’s boxes, still piled by the wall of my dining room. “Another few weeks,” I tell the boxes, “and you’ll be out of here.” I am happy and a bit sad all at once.

By the time we returned home, it was too late to make dinner. Mark and Kim and I decided to go to our favorite diner. We were sitting next to two older couples, who caught my eye for some reason. As they left, the older of the two gentlemen, slowly and carefully got up from his seat. I could tell this was difficult for him. He was bent over, his spine circling towards the floor. His wife, looking much younger and better than he, helped him put his jacket on. And that’s when it clicked. I realized that the older man was my former boss, the one I worked for when I was getting married. He and his wife were even at our wedding. I saw perhaps a glimmer of recognition in her expression, but I chose not to say anything to them. I whispered, excitedly to Mark, “You know who that was- Al- my old boss. Look how old he got.”

Then the flashbacks began, as a comfort, at first. Mark and I had both worked in the store where I worked for Al- at the jewelry concession. Mark had worked in the small appliance department, before I got the job. It’s where we met. I had bought a tape recorder from Mark and he called me to find out how I liked it and then he asked me out. The rest is history, as they say. It’s also where I met Meryl; we worked together. Mark and I started reminiscing about all the people, who worked with us, telling Kim the stories from the past. There was Bebe, the alcoholic, who worked in the jewelry department, too, who fell asleep one night smoking a cigarette and set her apartment on fire. She wanted to get a face-lift because her skin was so wrinkled from the booze and cigarettes, but she was too chicken to do it, so she sent her husband first, as the guinea pig. He ended up getting the face-lift and looked 20 years younger than she did; she never got up the courage to do it herself. Then there was Fran, tall skinny, nutty Fran, with her huge boobs that entered any room two minutes before she did. We laughed, remembering the time she was rushing past Meryl who was pregnant with Matthew then. Her boobs literally knocked Meryl into the garbage pail. I could just picture Meryl, sitting in that pail, with her enormous belly sticking up and her feet dangling on either side. We were laughing so hard that we couldn’t get her out of the pail. Flashbacks.

That night, after all the memories faded, as I was lying beside Mark in bed, I thought of Al and how old he got. He had to be younger than we were now when we got married. Maybe he was close to 80 now. 32 years. The flash forward started to come over me. “Mark,” I said, with angst, “He got so old.” “Who?” he answered, trying to sleep. “Al. He got so old. It’s only 32 years. Just think, that will be us in 32 years. We’ll be old like that. Maybe even bent over, like Al. It’s so depressing. And that’s if we even make it another 32 years.”

“Go to sleep, Jeannie,” Mark sighed, “Let’s just get through tomorrow.”