Page 64 of Marriage (Red, White &) Blues

My husband bit his lip to keep from laughing at me. “Go. Get to the bathroom. I’ll stay.”

“I can’t let you meet my mother for the first time while I’m literally being theparty pooper.”

Forget any lip biting for my benefit this time, his boisterous laughter filled the terminal.

“It’s not funny.”

“Honey, if you don’t see how seriously funny that is…” Letting that thought trail off he finished, “Once again, I’m so glad I married you, Gloria Parker.”

The gurgling grew worse. Thank all the gods and goddesses in the universe that anybodyin the historyof humanity ever worshipped, for allowing me to catch a glimpse of my mother’s thick mane of soft, brown hair bouncing down the walkway toward us. Carl rolled their carry-ons behind him.

“Can you hold it in a bit longer?” Blake, asked, snickering.

“They’re right there.” —I pointed out the pair— “I think I can make it a few more minutes.”

Carl waved and I lifted my hand and waved back, but that was a mistake because everything moved south. “Houston, we have a problem.”

“What?” Blake dropped his arm, taking a step away to check me over.

“I have to go,” I whispered to him before calling out, “Mom, Carl—this is Blake. I’ll be right back.”

Then I took off running toward the bathroom. I heard my traitorous husband making my excuses to our guests, and I wanted to die from the embarrassment.

Courtesy flush after courtesy flush, it just… kept… coming. Maybe I’d eaten something bad or caught a bug? Sweat dripped from my brow. I felt feverish. But eventually, the misery ended allowing me to leave the stall. As I washed my hands, a woman walked into the restroom. Immediately, she stopped short, wrinkling her nose.

“A woman changed her baby,” I lied. “She threw the dirty diaper in the trash.” I pointed to the trash can before hightailing it out of there. Yes, lying was wrong but that was why the universe granted us an exception clause: Thou may lie your way out of embarrassing situations without consequence. I might’ve paraphrased a bit, but you get the gist.

In the ten minutes I’d been gone, Blake and Carl appeared to have become best buds, laughing at something, the latter patting my husband on the back several times because whatever they laughed about required emphasis.

“How are you feeling, honey?” Blake asked when he finally noticed me.

“Humiliated.” Although that was the truth, I still managed to ask, “Mom, Carl, good trip?”

Carl dropped his arm from around my mother’s waist to hug me. A big ol’ bear hug. I sagged against him. Hedadhugged me. No, he wasn’t my dad. My dad had given the best dad hugs in thehistory of dad hugs. Still, it’d beensoooolong since I’d received a dad hug that it felt good. The best kind of good. Then I hugged him back.

“I’m glad you came,” I said, muffled against his royal blue Detroit Lions jersey.

It certainly would have been nice if the meeting between my mother and I had been that welcoming. Our conversation stalled just past, “Hi, Mom. You look good,” and her returning, “You, too.” Okay, so we still had some issues to work through.

We walked over to baggage claim, but since they’d waited by the bathroom for me, their large suitcase already rolled around on the conveyor belt.

The bag had a handle and wheels. Carl wheeled it and his carry-on behind him out to Blake’s car, while my husband rolled my mom’s. Blake unlocked the trunk and helped heft the bags inside. My mom and Carl took the back seat.

“Are you hungry?” Blake asked. “We can eat in or go out. Whatever you want.”

“There’s this Italian place that we love. Carl, do you eat Italian?” I asked, regretting once again that I didn’t know more about the man.

“Love it,” he answered. “Liz, you feel like Italian?”

“That sounds wonderful,” my mother answered.

“Looks like we’re headed to Amalfi, Blake.” I reached my hand over squeezing his knee to show my appreciation and my ‘we got this.’ Go Team Parker!

Amalfi found inspiration from the Amalfi Coast, which meant a plethora of seafood. Yes, you could get pasta, but they didn’t really do those heavily tomato-sauced dishes that people usually thought of when they heardItalian food.

Blake clicked on his blinker and took the turn that would lead us to the restaurant located in a strip mall in a suburbreminiscent to where I’d grown up in Michigan. We didn’tdofancy. We did good company, delicious food, and friendly staff.

“Where are we?” my mother asked, sounding just a little bit disappointed. Like, what? She expected a Michelin star restaurant?

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