Page 12 of Apple of My Eye
Lily cackles. ‘I can’t believe you have the balls to make fun of me for my regency novels while you’re binge-reading every rom-com under the sun.’
Our plates aren’t cleared from dinner when Mom brings the Parkers up. The pit of dread and guilt that’s been sitting in my stomach resurfaces with a vengeance. In the few days I’ve been home it’s only been absent when I’ve been with JJ.
‘I just don’t know what they’ll do.’ Mom sighs at her dinner plate.
Dad glances to his left, out the window towards their farmhouse, lights twinkling on the hill that overlooks our house.
‘They’ll figure it out. They always do.’ Dad pats his belly. ‘That was amazing, Haze.’
‘You don’t think they’ll sell? Aren’t they worse off than we are?’
Mom arches an eyebrow at me. ‘Let’s not dwell too much on other people’s misfortune,’ she says, her intonation reminding me of my late, very Catholic grandmother, and sounding just like the tone she used when I accidentally let a ‘Jesus Christ!’ slip around her.
‘Sorry,’ I grumble.
After dinner is cleaned up, we retire to the living room, Mom immediately settling into her favorite chair, a stained-glass Tiffany lamp glowing colorfully next to her.
‘That book club of hers has been reading a lot of “romance” lately,’ my dad whispers to me, air-quoting ‘romance’, as he deals out a hand of gin rummy.
‘Romance is really in the air today,’ I murmur.
‘What?’ Dad asks, peering over his hand of cards.
I glance at Mom, who’s so absorbed in her book she hasn’t heard him.
‘Is she reading likeromanceromance?’ I ask.
He raises his eyebrows in confirmation and nods.
‘EW, Dad!’
‘What?’ Mom asks, looking up from her book.
We both break out into laughter.
A knock on the front door startles all of us. Dad looks at Mom. ‘Are we expecting anyone?’
‘Hi!’ Betsy calls from down the hall. ‘I thought I saw Lou walking through the fields yesterday and we wanted to welcome her home.’
A confusing mix of affection and guilt coats my stomach as Mrs. Parker sweeps me into a tight hug. As usual, she smells like rosewater and jasmine.
‘Let me look at you,’ she says, grabbing my shoulders and stepping half a foot back. ‘Every year you get more beautiful. How is that possible?’ she asks, looking to my mom for her agreement.
She gives it in spades. ‘I know. I pinch myself every time I see her.’
I blush bright red.
‘Lay off, Betsy,’ Joe chides his wife affectionately. He steps around her to encircle me in a hug.
‘So tell us.’ Betsy makes herself comfortable without needing to be invited. She sits down at our kitchen table and drums her fingers across the weathered oak. Mom puts a kettle on for tea. ‘How was school?’ We chat until the conversation turns to our farm and the air in the room stills. Usually this is a practiced topic, one we all resort to when we small talk, but considering I’ve hardly talked to my parents about them wanting to sell, I don’t have much to say.
‘It’s fine,’ Mom offers, her voice going up slightly.
Dad grunts from his chair. Joe does the same, both of them an echo of the other, hunched over the wood ever so slightly.
‘How are the girls?’ I ask Betsy, taking advantage of the silence as an opportunity to change the subject. She smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘They’re good. Don’t see them much. Big city living and all.’
This, I think,is why I didn’t want to leave my parents.It’s tangible, the feeling that Betsy is exuding, the acknowledgement that her kids aren’t trying nearly as hard as they could be to stay in touch. I never want my parents to say about me,We never see her. She’s in the city now.But look where that got me.
