Page 30 of This or That
Chapter 19
Heaven Upside Down
Mike
Sifting through the glass bowl where I keep my keys and miscellaneous items in the entryway for the umpteenth time, I grunt yet again. My murderous glare turns toward the staircase. “Mom! I can’t find my car keys,” I growl but doubt she can hear me from the guest floor where Chet Baker’s blaring. Oh well. No matter how much her scattered nature annoys me, I enjoy having her around. I haven’t seen enough of her since getting back from France… Well, Brazil. She got here while I was swamped at work yesterday, so I’ve decided to treat her tonight, even though I usually stay home on weekdays.
“Stop yelling, Michael. Will you? I’ll be right down.” As always, her voice is chipper, but collected. It has the ability to calm my temper and keep me grounded.
My colorful mother saunters down the steps with a wide smile plastered on her full face; she considers climbing the flights of stairs to the guest floor while having a phone conversation exercise. Colorful due to the mix of colors she enjoys wearing, although some might call it questionable. Seriously, though, I wouldn’t want my mom to be any other way. We call her style hippie chic to piss off my uptight father.
Standing on the last step to compensate for the difference in height, she pecks my cheek. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, I was reading another article about the recent murders in the Boston area. You fit the victim profile, so I don’t want you visiting me for a while.”
“Mom, come on. I’ve heard the news and it’s bullshit, folklore at best. There are things the media’s not telling us; no one can turn someone into a mummy nowadays! Can we move on with our lives and enjoy the evening?”
“Well, you shouldn’t take things for granted. Plus, I can’t help it! You know my morbid fascination with this headline news.” My mom touches her perfectly styled red hair and beams at me. “Okay, I’m ready.” She sighs and ruffles my hair. “You’re even more handsome with your hair this way.” Before I have time to dismiss the compliment, she asks, “So, where are you taking me?”
“There’s a new bistro nearby I thought we could give a try. Maybe afterwards, we can hit a jazz club that Matteo and I discovered.”
“Perfect idea, Michael. You’re so thoughtful.” Yeah, she’s well aware that jazz isn’t my thing. Thanks to Troy’s influence, I’ve broadened my horizons music-wise, amongst other things. His patience wears thin whenever I can’t make it through a full electro or country song. At first, I wondered if the cowboy hat was an act. In time, I fathomed that it was a part of him he usually hides and his penchant for techno overshadowed his diverse tastes in music. His passion for country music shocked me, although I knew he grew up in Texas. Not all Texans enjoy country music, right? He blushed when he said that he trusted me enough to disclose it, which made me laugh.
Sharing my childhood trauma with Troy was liberating, and our relationship took another step in the direction of steady. He may fight the evidence, but it’s useless. I found it utterly endearing when he eventually stopped hiding his natural twang. He claims that the world’s a stage, so he practiced hiding his accent and sometimes forgets how he originally sounds. It’s pretty funny when it slips. Why am I not surprised that my thoughts are drifting his way yet again?
I rub the back of my neck, avoiding her gaze. She’s immune to my poker face and can read me like an open book. There’s so much I’ve kept to myself. There’s so much I’m debating whether to confess. There’s so much I need to get off my chest. I’m so hyper lately that she must think I’m a nervous wreck because of my new job. “It’s been a while since we’d been on a mother and son date. I’ve missed you, Mom.”
“I’ve missed you, too.” Her spontaneous embrace is as big as her heart. “Here.” Releasing me, she searches her pants pocket and proudly produces my key, lifting her arm so they hang at eye level; I can’t remember when she was taller than me! “You do the driving. I took a spin to the charity auction while you were at work, but meh… It seems that I can’t handle New York traffic after all. My area’s much quieter.”
“How can you even compare a residential area of Boston to Manhattan?”
“My point exactly. Come on, I’m starving,” she declares and steps down to the hardwood floor, leading the way to the garage.
Technically, we could have walked to the bistro and the jazz club, but the drizzle that’s lingered these past few days is plain annoying and I’d rather stay dry.
You see, I made plans to surprise Troy for his birthday weekend, including ordering a carrot cake from a bakery; I learned that it’s his favorite thanks to his ridiculous this or that game. How could he know that I shamelessly studied the ID he discarded on the island counter when we stayed at his place last weekend? We were too busy making out all day.
Thoughtful, I follow my mom after grabbing both of our coats on the way. A smirk reaches the corner of my mouth as I remember how my evening with Matteo unfolded. Per usual, my friend saw right through me and didn’t buy any of my initial pretenses. In a way, he resembles my mom. Trustworthy. Honest. Loving. But will coming out to her be as easy as it was with my best friend? Nah, strike that, that wasn’t easy,Matteomade it easy.
When I pull out of the garage, my mother glances my way and asks if I’m all right. “I’m fine, Ma. It’s the brutal cold.”
“Right…” I don’t miss her dubious tone, but play dumb.
Once we get to the restaurant, my inner turmoil takes over, and when I’m rendered speechless, my chatty mother gladly fills in the blanks. Her uneventful second marriage. Her life in Weston, Massachusetts. Her lack of regrets regarding Edward Clayton, who gave her a son that she adores. Half a bottle of wine later, she confesses that I was a surprise baby; for the first time, she mentions a specific health condition that made her less likely to get pregnant.
“You were a miracle baby, Michael. I love you with all my heart, and I sincerely hope that you’ll become someone else’s miracle. Finding that one person that matters. For real.”
While indulging in a piece of delicious cheesecake, we discuss ordinary miracles. Before I know it, my busy mind drifts to the person who barged in on my life without so much as a warning label.
I eventually feel the weight of my mom’s stare and venture, “How do you know when you’re in love?”
Her hand covers mine and squeezes it before her gaze flicks my way. She offers me a wide smile that reaches the corners of her blue eyes. “Oh, Michael…”
“What?” I narrow my gaze to decipher the emotion behind her strangled voice.
She clears her throat and gulps what’s left in her glass. Sighing, she releases my hand and pins me with her penetrating gaze. “There’s no universal definition. There’s hunger, attraction, and chemistry, of course, but as far as I’m concerned, ‘in love’ is slightly different.” She air quotes the expression. “Beingin lovewith someone is putting the person first. I’m not saying that you should deny who you are, quite the opposite… It means that someone else matters in your choices. For no apparent reason, you know and love their little idiosyncrasies. Things that might bother you if it were anybody else, you know. For example, you’re so attuned that when the person enters the room, you sense it without looking. It’s not about compromising, taking things for granted, or needing the person to complete you. It’s about no-brainer agreements, easy communication, and effortless balance.”
What a wise and wonderful person my mother is! I nod, wishing I could order some alcohol to process her answer and instantly regretting that I’m the designated driver. “Thanks.” I wrongly think that this concludes the topic.
Her fingers drum on the small round table. “Are you in love with someone, Michael?” Her voice softens and her eyes glisten.
