Page 5 of The Hampton Beach Café 2
Silence was not satisfying.
“Oh baby,” her mom finally said. “I'm so sorry...was it a woman?”
A twist of her stomach at the thought made her wince, but honestly, the truth was almost worse.
“I...I don't know.”
Her mother's patented tutting again. This was a large part of why she hadn't spoken to her in person in over four months. They texted and emailed occasionally, but...
That should change,Frances decided.
“What, no proof, or you really don't know?”
Frances sighed.
“I have no idea. He divorced me via bike messenger…” she explained, “…got a letter, congratulations, you won a divorce.”
Her mom drew in a sharp breath. “He didn't really?”
“Well, not the congratulations bit, no, but the bored teenager who chewed gum the whole time I read the thing waiting for a tip––yeah.”
Frances sat down hard on what was quickly becoming her favorite chair in the café––a tall, dark green wingback chair with brass studs holding the upholstery. She threw her leg over the arm like she had always imagined sitting in one of these but had never dared to. It was nowhere near as comfortable as she had imagined, but she didn't care.
Her mom was fussing, she could barely hear what she was talking about, but it sounded comforting, which was unsettlingly rare. Since her dad had left them, she and her mom had always been at odds, even though she hadn't really wanted to be.
“Hey, mom?”
“Yeah. What is it, sweetie?”
“Do you have any of my stuff still? I kind of moved back home unexpectedly, and ..well I'd like to see you, and maybe get some of my old stuff if it's still around.”
“Of course it's still around...I don't know exactly where. You know I put that stuff away when I turned fifty,” her mom said.
Frances smiled. She did know that though she had almost forgotten until now.
“You remember why?”
Frances opened her mouth to recite the answer, but her mom talked over her.
“Because I'm going to live to be a hundred years old, die on my birthday, and that man stole half my life. He wasn't going to get one minute of the second half.”
“I know, mom,” she said quietly. “How about this weekend? I'll drive down.”
Even as she spoke and she heard her mom agree and say her goodbyes, Frances realized that she had done something remarkably dumb. She hung up and reentered the kitchen to see Alex doling out the pizza. The arugula salad had been upgraded with a fancy dressing, tiny pearls of mozzarella cheese, and something that looked like crispy fried bacon.
“You alright? How is she?”
Returning to her abandoned stool, Frances laughed quietly.
“Well, you know how she used to say she was going to live to seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two etcetera etcetera––so she could have at least half her life without thinking about my dad?”
Alex nodded, but Frances ignored how sad he looked. She felt guilty that after a few years, they simply stopped talking.
“Well, she's upped it to a hundred now.”
“She's got to be older than fifty?” he commented. “That's impossible...”
Frances laughed. “No, she's not fifty. She's sixty-two. So I figure she's either realized living beyond a hundred is unlikely, or she's been doing pretty well not thinking about him for twelve years.”
