Her red Van canvas shoes, size 7, are parked under the chair
in the hallway. They are nestled next to my weathered Sacony running shoes,
size 5. Every morning, when I wake in my Los Angeles apartment, and spy our
shoes side-by-side, I feel happy. It's the feeling that originated decades ago
when I recovered from anesthesia and was informed, it's a girl.
My daughter, Faith, was my firstborn, into the world 18
months before her sister, Jill. For half of the year, Faith lives in Boston,
with her 12-year-old daughter, Betsy, and their extended family. This is Faith's
second season writing on her sister Jill's Amazon Series,
"Transparent." Instead of couch surfing like she did during Season
One, she has accepted my invitation to be my roommate.
"We'll see how it goes," I had said, when upon
arriving in L.A., I opted to seek a larger apartment that could accommodate the
two of us, rather than a studio for just me. I was pretty confident the
arrangement would work -- Faith is an easygoing sort of gal -- and that the
money she would contribute to my rent would make the tab easier for me.
"I'm sure it'll be fine, Momma," she said. I
should mention she is also sweetly optimistic.
I insisted Faith take the one bedroom for herself because I
wake at 4 a.m. and jump into my home office. I purchased an IKEA sofa bed,
which is providing me with excellent sleep. "It's my own studio," I say,
when she repeats her guilt for taking the bedroom.
"I can get up, turn on lights, make coffee, write in my
journal, and get on my laptop. I couldn't do that if you were on the sofa bed,"
I add, smug about my longtime routine.
Of course, we've each had to make compromises to oblige our
lifestyles. I watch my critically acclaimed TV shows before she gets home from
work. Then, I turn the remote over to her for reality shows. "The
Celebrity Apprentice" and "The Real Housewives of Atlanta" and "Beverly
Hills" are her favorites.
Faith turns off the living room television at 8 p.m. when
it's lights out for this early bird. Often, I'll lounge on the opened sofa bed and
try to watch her shows, but having Donald Trump being the last image you see
before dreamland is not something I'd recommend.
I don't insist that Faith make her bed or tidy up her room
before she leaves for work. It's a method I employed when she and her sister
were toddlers: I just close the door. I suppose I should tell you I was a calm
parent, madly in love with my two daughters. In my eyes, they could do no
wrong.
I raised them without judgment because I wanted to do the
opposite of my mother. Their grandmother undoubtedly loved me, but her
criticism of my weight, my slouch, and other attributes that reminded her of my
father, who she nagged often, wounded me.
I was also guided by a classic parenting book, "Children
The Challenge" by Rudolf Dreikurs. His lessons "natural
consequences" and "let the children handle their own battles" suited
my style. Consequently, I never interfered if they were fussing with each
other. I simply stayed out of their disagreements, and encouraged them to figure
out how to reach a satisfactory conclusion.
Back to the adjustments as a roommate: Faith has to remind
me, "Please close the bathroom door, Momma."
I reply, "Oh, sorry, I'm so used to living on my
own." But, this is false, for when Tommy was alive; we never
closed the bathroom door. In fact, I think that was one of my favorite parts
about our compatible 14-year-marriage. Keep the bathroom door open to continue
conversations. For comfort, dispense of my bra when in the house. Leave on the
hall table the baseball cap that covered his balding dome.
Actually, in many ways Faith reminds me of the pleasure and ease
of living with Tommy. There's the heart bounce when the front door opens and a
familiar voice announces, "I'm home," and their appreciation of my
simple dinners. Tommy would gladly eat anything I cooked; my daughter is
grateful for the Gelson's-prepared food that awaits her at day's end.
These comparisons bring up another reminder: Tommy's size 9
running shoes would sit at the bottom of the stairs in our Chicago house. That's
where I would perch, too, to remove my 5's. Two pair of shoes nestled
side-by-side; what could be sweeter, or so familiar.