Ask Again Later by Jill A. Davis Page B

on a Thursday afternoon—but still, you can. Facilitators of your wishes are practically daring you to go. Here is the map. A map is permission. Señor Siegfried won’t mind.
    Of course, our parents leave us maps—musty, folded the wrong way, and stowed in the glove box in case you need them. They were good enough for my parents; they must be good enough for me! Only problem is, I know where my parents ended up.
    You could brace yourself for the various pileups along the way. Sixty miles ’til infidelity; watch out for the fork in the road at every family holiday; and whatever you do, don’t mention how Dad falls asleep at “an old friend’s” house “due to unforeseen weather,” sickness, sprained ankle, thunderstorm, pants on fire…That’s the sucker’s map because it shows the easiest and most dangerous road to follow. And when you’re not paying attention, just cruising along, searching for what’s next, it can also be the most hypnotic and appealing. Don’t ever underestimate the allure of what looks easy.
    Psychologists say our “love maps” are established by the time we’re seven years old. At seven, I loved trolls. I loved diaries. My father had become a stranger. My love map is really more like a set of sketchy directions scribbled on a cocktail napkin.
    In the end, all of us will have created a map that worksonly for us. If anyone else dared to follow it, he’d be signing up for a horrific triptych the likes of which the automobile club could never even conceive.
    As for right now, I’m lost. A map, any map, would be greatly appreciated. I’m not the first lost person to feel this way. Lost people just want a way out; they’ll follow any foolish trail.

Paul Molé
    IT’S SATURDAY. We are weighted down with ski coats, mittens, and boots. We walk around the Central Park Reservoir. One of our daily rituals.
    â€œYou’re not getting the full effect if you aren’t landing on your heel and rolling up to the ball of your foot, and then off your toes, each time your foot lands,” Mom says.
    â€œYou don’t like the way I’m walking?” I ask.
    â€œI took a walking class at Canyon Ranch,” Mom says.
    â€œA walking class?” I say.
    â€œI enjoy these walks with you,” Mom says.
    â€œMe, too, we argue less when we’re moving,” I say.
    â€œWe don’t argue. I have no idea where you get these ideas of yours,” Mom says. “Listen, after this, let’s go home, get showered, and then go over to Paul Molé.”
    â€œThe barbershop?” I ask. I had all of my childhood haircuts there.
    â€œI’ve decided I’m going to get my head shaved beforethe surgery,” Mom says. “I don’t want any hospital intern cutting all of my hair off.”
    â€œFirst of all, it’s too cold to shave your head. If you really want to do that, wait until the summer. Second, you aren’t having chemotherapy; you aren’t going to lose your hair. You’re having a lumpectomy and then a few radiation treatments,” I say.
    â€œYou’re just saying that to make me feel good. Besides, I like the idea of getting my head shaved. It seems empowering,” Mom says.
    â€œOn second thought, don’t take my word for it, go get your head shaved,” I say.

Mothers and Daughters
    NANA AND I MEET at the mall. The stores open at ten. Management, very kindly, unlocks the doors to the main building for the loiterers at nine.
    â€œCan we walk slow today? I’m not in the mood,” I say.
    â€œOh, please,” Nana says, not slowing down.
    â€œI’ve taken a job,” I say.
    â€œGood. Wallowing is a waste of time,” Nana says.
    â€œWe haven’t been wallowing…we’ve been watching TV,” I say. “And making smoothies. Do you think the antioxidant burst is negated by the vodka we dump