Page 15 of Best Woman
I jolt awake as the plane touches down. Home sweet home.
The oppressive Floridahumidity settles directly under my (itty bitty,Daytona’s voice in my head supplies) breasts as soon as the automatic airport doors slide open. I should’ve worn a bra. My phone buzzes,mother!flashing on the screen.
“Hi, sweetie. Are you outside?” Bon Jovi is blasting at full volume in the background. Mom likes to multitask.
“Yeah, I’m standing under the Delta sign. The second one.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Of course. Dana Esterman is perpetually twenty minutes late. In middle school, I set the clock in her car back in an attempt to trick her into punctuality, but all it did was assure her that she hadmoretime to dawdle. Thanks to her, I am chronically fifteen minutes early to every dinner, date, and doctor’s appointment out of pure spite and lingering trauma.
I charge my phone inside and send my saucy selfie to our group chat, Diva Coalition. River sends back an answering ass shot. Kyle sends a meme of such esoteric humor it’s funnierwithout context. Daytona, who checks her phone maybe once every four days and mutes every group chat the moment she’s added to it, does not reply.
Here,Mom texts. I drag my battered luggage through the automatic doors and there she is, standing next to her neat little sedan, completely ignoring the traffic guard loudly insisting she actually can’t park there.
My mother is five foot two and about a third of that is an intricately highlighted blond blowout. She’s dressed like something straight out of a Nancy Meyers movie, all cream-colored, loose-fitting linen and expensive jewelry. Her skin is aggressively tan and freckled from the sun—I don’t think she’s ever applied sunscreen in her life, no matter how often her dermatologist insists she’s going to wind up with skin the texture of a Louis Vuitton bag. She still looks like Goldie Hawn inThe First Wives Clubon a good day, and today is averygood day.
She holds out her arms to wrap around me. “My baby!” Her head—well, hair—reaches my neck. She smells like Big Red gum, vanilla coffee creamer, unleaded gas, and gardenias. She pulls back to rake sharp eyes over me, her eyes—my eyes—warm and welcoming. I realize, suddenly, how much I’ve missed her.
“I can’t believe you’re not wearing a bra.”
Well, maybe notthatmuch. “Good to see you too, Mom.”
“Do you need help with your suitcase?” she asks, already climbing into the driver’s seat, as if my carry-on doesn’t weigh more than she does and as if she’d risk an acrylic nail attempting to lift it.
She does, however, pop the trunk, alarmingly full of Nordstrom shopping bags, which in turn are full of things she’s bought and likely never even taken out of the car. In six monthsshe’ll remember they’re in there, return everything, and buy another trunkful of shopping bags she’ll return six months afterthat.
In my tote bag is a wallet stuffed with every receipt I’ve acquired over the past six months, meticulously indexed and alphabetized. It’s funny how we are either a reflection of or reaction to our parents.
Inside the car, Pearl Jam Radio is playing on SiriusXM. I drop into my seat, exhausted from a day of traveling and the four parties River dragged me to last night. My mom looks over at me, smiling sweetly. Something inside me that’s been knotted up for months unclenches.
“How was the flight?”
“It was fine. I watched movies and slept.”
“Good, you look tired.”
“Thanks.”
As it has for the past twenty-nine years, the sarcasm completely escapes her attention—yes, I was even a sarcastic baby. There are photos to prove it.
“I’m so happy you’re home, my honeybun.Watch where you’re going, motherfucker!” She honks at an SUV that has made the crucial error of being in a lane she wanted to enter. “Brody and Brian are so excited to see you!”
“Why, do they need a body for an autopsy?”
“Don’t talk about your brothers like that! They’re very sweet boys.”
On the day of their b’nai mitzvah, Rabbi Hoffman had cried in front of the entire synagogue when my brothers finished their haftarah portions. Everyone chalked it up to pride at their accomplishment, but I’m guessing it was a mixture of terror andrelief after three months of private lessons. They probably visited him in his dreams to tell him the exact hour and manner of his death.
“The guest bedroom is all made up for you. You’re going tolovewhat we did with the bathroom.”
“Didn’t you redo the bathroom last year? I distinctly remember you referring to it asUnder the Tuscan Sunchic.” However, in reality, the aesthetic was decidedly Olive Garden.
“Well, it turns out Tuscany isn’t as chic as it used to be. We decided to go a bit more Spanish. The tile is todiefor.”
I turn down the radio, which is still at an earsplitting decibel. “I can’t wait to see what country you journey tonextyear. I’ll get my passport renewed.”
We’re soaring up I-95 approximately twenty miles over the speed limit, weaving in and out of traffic like this is an action movie and a shady government organization is after us. An air freshener in the shape of a hamsa—which likely hasn’t smelled like jasmine since 2003—hangs from the rearview mirror, and a McDonald’s cup with an inch of watery iced Diet Coke sits in the cup holder.
“I’ll leave you my car tomorrow if you want, but I’ll need you to pick my rehearsal dinner dress up from the dry cleaner’s and get the boys from school. We’re having dinner with Grandma and Grandpa tomorrow night, so you’ll be able to see them before all the wedding festivities kick off. Grandpa is feelingmuchbetter, by the way.”
