Having dinner together was worse than I would have expected. Apparently, we’d forgotten how to talk to each other. Attempts at chatting just flared and died. “This town is too cute to be real,” I’d say. And she’d say, “I agree.” And then we’d listen to the wind creak the house until somebody came up with another idea.
All of it made worse, in my opinion, by the fact that it never used to be like this back when she was my mother.
We’d been close, before. We’d watched every movie Jimmy Stewart ever made, side by side on the sofa. She hadn’t been like the other moms, all rules and criticism. She’d been more like a friend than a parent. No minivan, for example: She drove an emerald-green, highly impracticalvintage Volvo that she’d named Barbara. It was in the shop half the time, so we had to take the bus, and when I begged her to get a better car, she responded that she’d had Barbara longer than she’d had me. Case closed.
“Do you still have Barbara?” I asked her then.
“Yes,” she said, “but she’s in the shop.”
“As usual,” I said, and it was nice to share the memory.
My mom had married my dad, she’d once told me, because he’d told her she was fascinating.
“Who doesn’t want to be fascinating?” she’d said.
But they weren’t much alike. She was a dreamer who had trouble keeping straight what day of the week it was, and he was a high school math teacher with a buzz cut—all practicality—who coached basketball. Still, he was kind, and fair, and loyal.
I had not seen it coming when she left. Neither had he. We had thought we were happy.
It was on my list of things I would definitely never ask her about.
Across the table, Diana made another attempt. “I know it’s a big change, coming here. I’m glad to introduce you around town.”
I waved her off. “No thanks. I’m good.”
She frowned. “Just a little jump-start on making friends.”
I shook my head. “I’m not here to make friends.”
I sounded like a contestant on a reality show. She held on to that frown. “Whatareyou here for?”
“I’m here to”—I paused a second. “I’m here to do my duty.”
“Yourduty?”
“Yeah,” I said, not appreciating her mocking tone. “You’re old, you’re half blind, you’re broke, and it’s my duty to come here and help you.” Okay, I’d also come to avoid getting fired. But the truth—the real truth—is that I would have come anyway. I would not have held to that no. Eventually, guilt would have prodded me into doing the right thing, even if the threat of being terminated had sped things up a bit. “I’m here to help you, as requested,” I said. “For one year.”
She looked disappointed.
What more did she want? I’d shown up, hadn’t I? Did she really haveto guilt-trip me for not being happy enough about it? “What?” I demanded.
“It just doesn’t sound very fun.”
“I’m not here to have fun.”
Her shoulders went up in a little shrug. “Is fun out of the question?”
“Yes,” I said, with a decisive nod. “Fun is out of the question. I have too much to do. I have to take care of you. I have to get in better shape. I have to prove myself at a firehouse that already hates me. I have to rebuild my life.”
“Without fun.”
She was like a terrier with this “fun” thing.
I stood up, pushing my chair back with a scrape. “Time for bed,” I said.
She looked at the clock on the wall, then raised her eyebrows. “It’s seven thirty.”
I wasn’t letting her win. “I’m an early riser.”
