Page 13 of After Happily Ever After
“Fine.”
She takes chicken breasts and vegetables out of the refrigerator. “Can you give more than a one-word answer?”
“Sorry. I’m just thinking about the session notes I need to do before I forget everything.”
“Oh,” she says, disappointed. “I can call you when dinner’s ready.”
“Thanks.” I kiss her on the cheek and walk away. I’m probably destroying my marriage with each step I take.
CHAPTER 4
Iwas cleaning up the breakfast mess that was my kitchen when the usual morning phone call came in. “Hi, Mom,” I said.
I let her go on for a few minutes about how excited she was that Jerry was made partner; then I lied and told her how happy I was for him and got off the phone. I wondered if she ever called him to brag about me. I was sure there was something I’d done that she could brag about.
Gia came into the kitchen to get her lunch for school. She rifled through the bag, complaining that I put in a tuna sandwich and not turkey. She also chided me for not remembering to put in Oreos the last couple of days. After her litany of complaints, she hurried out the door, forgetting to say goodbye.Is this what I’ve been reduced to? A food servant? Is that even a thing?I hated packing lunches, but next year when I had no one to pack for, I would be sad. I was going to have a constant reminder that I was a vacation mom.
I used to be an important person. My boss at the publishing house would tell me that my insights and creativity were mind-blowing. I would do research for various authors who were impressed by the intricate facts I’d find. The last time I got a compliment around here was when Gia said I did a good job braiding her hair. Not exactly what I wanted my epitaph to read.
The last time I felt significant was the day that Gia was born. I loved being the main attraction, but as soon as she popped out, it was no longer about me. I wanted it to be about me again. Our bookshelves were filled with Gia’s trophies: tennis, soccer, and one just for showing up for the baseball team in second grade. I wished someone would give me a trophy for showing up. I go to every event, even when I’m sick; I have dinner on the table every night, even when I’m going out. The least I should get is a ribbon for all the laundry I do.
The phone started ringing, which was a good thing because I needed to get off this self-pitying mind merry-go-round. The caller ID told me the call was coming from my dad’s room at Brooklawn.
“Hello,” I said. I heard a loud thump through the receiver. “Dad?”
He had dropped the phone. There was fumbling, and I imagined his shaking arm reaching down to the ground. I hoped he didn’t fall out of his chair. “Give me a second,” he called out; at least I thought that was what he said, but the phone was too far away to know for sure. A nurse was talking to him, and then he was back loud and clear. “Sorry about that. I’m so clumsy.”
“That’s okay. Everything all right?” I asked.
“Yes, I just wanted to hear your voice. You wouldn’t believe what your dumb father did this morning. I got lost coming back from the activity room. One of the nurses saw me looking at the room numbers and led me back to my room.”
“You sure you’re okay?” I sat down at the table and waited for him to speak. For a moment I thought he had hung up, but then he finally answered.
“I’m fine. I just got thrown that my room number went right out of my head.”
“I’m younger than you, and I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning,” I said, trying to ease his worry.
“Lately, I’ve been feeling my age. I sometimes forget stupid stuff, but other things that happened years ago I can’t get off my mind. Remember when you were eleven and fell off the bench during your piano recital?” Great, the most humiliating moment of my life he remembered.
I didn’t want to talk about all the embarrassing moments of my past, and there were a lot of them. “I think that happens to everyone when they’re your age,” I said, which was true. Dad was still as sharp as ever.
“I guess, but don’t mention it to your mother. It was really embarrassing.” He asked if I had seen my mother lately, and I told him I was planning on stopping by that morning. I knew that would make him happy, and I would do anything to make him happy.
Mom and I didn’t have the relationship I would have wished for, but I had come to terms with that years ago. When she gave birth to me, she had complications and was unable to hold me for four days. Dad spent hours cradling me and talking to me. I wondered if she blamed me because I never looked at her the way I looked at him. I was sure it drove a wedge between us, because I’d never been able to please her. She’d judged every decision I’d made, every action I’d taken. My father, on the other hand, had always been in my corner, never faltering in his support for me. I wondered if that bothered her also.
I didn’t give up trying with my mother until after Gia was born. When Gia was two months old, my mom called and asked if I’d come over to her house and help her pick out a dress to wear to my dad’s office Christmas party. I was surprised and touched that she wanted my opinion, so I used my hated breast pump, left Gia with Jim, and rushed over to my parents’ house. When I got there, she’d already selected the dress and was on her way out to lunch with friends.
I pulled up to my childhood home. My parents had lived in this house for forty-seven years. Nothing about the exterior had changed, not even the paint color. From the street, I could see the window of my old room, and I pictured ten-year-old me watching the neighborhood kids playing outside on days when I was grounded.
I rang the doorbell, even though I had a key to the house. It would’ve felt as if I was invading her privacy if I’d used it. She opened the door with her wrists, carefully holding her hands so as to not actually touch the doorknob. This was how she was after having just handled raw chicken. Even though Dad had been in assisted living for almost a year, Mom still cooked a full meal every night. There was always enough food for five people, but except for Jerry, she didn’t have people over, so God knows what she did with all those leftovers.
She was wearing her black-and-white polka-dot apron that screamed “fifties housewife,” pulled taut around her large form. Mom had gained a lot of weight over the years, but she never seemed to care. Her hair, while almost completely silver, had two inches of brown at the ends. She’d stopped dying it a while ago, but it was as if those final brown strands were hoping she’d change her mind. Every time I saw her gray hair, it made me sad. It reminded me that I was getting older too, although I planned to dye my hair until I was on my deathbed.
“Come in before the flies get past you,” she said, kicking the door closed and going to the sink to wash her hands. She took my coat from me and threw it on the couch. The kitchen hadn’t changed much over the years either. Its warmth made me wish I still lived here, where I had no responsibilities. Then again, if I lived with my mother now, it would do me in.
The walls were still the same pale yellow as decades ago. The kitchen had been painted over the years, but she always used the same color, “Cloudless Summer.” She picked the paint as much for the name as for its hue. Mom had always liked happy things. When I was young, I thought she loved yellow because it reminded her of the sun. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I found out that yellow reminded her of the bikini that she’d worn the summer before eleventh grade. She said all the boys told her how pretty she looked in it, and from that moment on, yellow had been her favorite color, and summer her favorite season.
I hugged her, but hugging had always been awkward with us. I would wait for it to end and then feel guilty for feeling that way. I moved away from her and plopped into a chair at the kitchen table. It was the same one we’d eaten at when I was a kid. The pine had dings and scratches, and crumbs were deeply embedded within the cracks.
