Page 16 of Best Woman
“Was he not feeling well?”
“Honestly, Julia, you hardly ever call me, you could at least pay attention when I manage to get you on the phone.” She isn’t wrong that I tend to zone out, but she can golongabout theweather, which in South Florida is some constant combination of hot and wet for eleven months of the year. “Did you bring enough socks with you? I can have Randy pick you up a pack from Costco.”
“I brought plenty of socks, Mom.” Already I can feel myself becoming sulky and whiny. Within under twenty-four hours of being in the same zip code as my mother, I will have fully regressed to fifteen years old.
My mother narrowly escapes causing a five-car pileup as she plows across three lanes to make our exit. “Have you talked to your father?”
“Yes, I once asked him to pass the ketchup at an Outback Steakhouse in 1997.”
“Very funny, Julia. I mean, have you talked to himrecently?”
I heave an imitation of her long-suffering sigh back at her, something I perfected before hitting puberty. “I haven’t talked to him in a few weeks.”
“You should call him more often, honey. He’s your father.”
“Hey,you’rethe one who married him.”
I can’t remember a time when my parents were happily married, but they must have been at some point, because once the post-divorce dust settled, Mom always insisted I try harder to get along with Dad, despite our mutual ambivalence toward each other. Still, I could tell she secretly liked that I preferred her, and her insistence that I have a better relationship with my father was more about some deference to proper parental respect.
We’re stopped at a red light, and my mother turns to look at me. No matter how old I get, no matter how much I learn and grow and change, no matter how different the person I becomeis from the one whose diapers she once changed, this woman retains the uncanny ability to take one look at me and know exactly what I’m thinking. Is this a special kind of telepathy intrinsic to motherhood, or is Dana just supernaturally snoopy?
“I’m so happy you’re here. All my babies are in one place, and one of them is gettingmarried!”
She honest-to-god pinches my cheek. “You know how much I love you, sweetie.”
Embarrassingly, my throat tightens and tears prick my eyes. “I know, Mom. I lo—”
Honk!“THE LIGHT’S GREEN, JERK-OFF!”
“Surprise,” I shoutinto an empty house. It’s a few months into my first year of college and, feeling homesick, I hoarded what I still can’t stomach calling my monthly allowance—I prefer to think of my mother as a patron rather than a parent—to make a weekend trip home. I took a taxi home from the airport to really complete the surprise, imagining walking in the front door to my family gathered around the kitchen table, sadly eating their dinner and mourning my absence, only to burst into smiles (the toddler twins), fake groans that hid fondness (Aiden), pleased bafflement (Randy), and weepy joy (Mom). But the house is dark, and the alarm is going off. I punch in the code—a combination of mine and Aiden’s birthdays—but nothing happens.
I drop my duffel bag to the floor and flip open the cellphone I’ve had for years, thinking enviously about my roommate’s shiny new iPhone back in New York. Mom picks up on the third ring.
“Hi, sweetie, I can’t really talk.”
Then why did you answer the phone,I think, annoyed. The alarm is still beeping in the background.
“Where are you,” I ask, stepping back outside to escape the noise.
“Do you want to tell your brother where we are, boys,” she says, voice turned away from her phone.
“DISNEY!!!!!” Brody and Brian sound strung out on sugar and character meet and greets.
“We’re just here for the weekend,” Mom says. “Aiden dragged me on to Space Mountain today and my ears are still ringing, but the boys are having so much fun. How are you, sweetie?”
“I didn’t know you were going to Disney.” My throat feels tight. “Was it a last-minute thing?”
“No, we’ve been planning it for a while. Brian, donotput that in your mouth! Honey, I’ve really got to go. Is everything OK?”
“Yeah,” I gasp out through inexplicable tears. “By the way, did you change the alarm code at the house?”
“What? Why? Brody, put your shoe back on!”
“Just wondering.”
“It’s the twins’ birthday, 1104. I’ve got to go, honey. Love you!” The call ends.
Back inside, I punch in the code and drag myself upstairs to my bedroom. It’s mostly the way I left it, although a few stray items without a proper home—the box for a new juicer, toys the twins have grown out of—have found their way in here. I bob and weave my way through them toward my bed, flopping face down and finally letting the tears fall into my pillow where no one, not even I, can see them.
