Page 25 of Pucker Up
“Why? What’s so important? What’s going on?” The phone was muffled as she placed her order.
Was I going to jinx it if I told her? I shook my head and reminded myself that a scientist, like myself, doesn’t believe in that stuff. “I have a potential team for my study. I’m just waiting to hear back from my advisor for approval.”
“Oh. The Tigers? Did that come through?” she asked.
I paused. How the hell did she know? “Maybe. I don’t want to confirm anything before it’s in writing. How did you know?” Mel was well aware that I did not want to use my father’s players.
“Um. Just a guess.” The barista called out her name and her coffee order, Mel’s usual, a misto, and a black dark roast with cinnamon.
“Who are you meeting?” I asked.
“Sorry, Goldie Girl. Meeting a client. Gotta go. You’ll have your answer by five, I’m sure of it. When you do, we can go out and celebrate.”
The line went dead and I was left staring at the black screen of my phone. I checked the time once more for good measure, and was met with my screensaver, a shot of Morton standing in the shallow water at the beach.
I sat on my threadbare office chair, watching the clock tick while repeatedly wiping my clammy hands on my jeans, knowing it wasn’t going to make the answer come any faster. I shoved my computer and the leather-covered notebook that I’d carried since I was fifteen years old into my messenger bag. A walk with Morton was the best way to pass the time. I exhaled, trying to stop the excitement from building in my body. I needed to set my expectations low. I had to be prepared for the possibility that working with the Tigers might not be approved.
An old-school phone ring interrupted me before I could leave. I stared at the pile of papers on my desk where the sound seemed to be coming from. It took me another couple of rings to realize that someone was calling my office line, something I often forgot existed. I wasn’t going to answer it, but I couldn’t risk missing a call about my study.
“Hello?” I was ready to decline a duct-cleaning offer.
“Goldie!” The voice at the other end of the line was faint, and the connection filled with crackles, but there was no mistaking it, the mystery caller was not a duct cleaning scammer; it was none other than Fern Lauper. My mom.
Her real name was Jane Swanson, but when she left my dad and fully embraced her hippie lifestyle, she decided to change her name. “I’m like a fiddlehead fern, unfurling to the world,” she’d explained to me. She had undulated her body and spread her arms, wiggling her fingers, each of them heavy with turquoise rings.
When I’d questioned her about Lauper, she’d shrugged like it was an afterthought. She said she liked Cyndi Lauper, the singer. I was surprised she didn’t launch into a rendition of “Girls JustWanna Have Fun” while pulling out some more Deadhead dance moves.
“Hi, Mom.”
“You’re a grown woman, Marigold. Call me Fern.” I was grateful she hadn’t embraced facetime technology or else she’d have witnessed my giant eye roll.
“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, Goldie Swanson.”
I unzipped my coat. My mom knew things that she couldn’t possibly know. She called it clairvoyance. I would’ve called it bullshit, except the fact that most of the time she was right. When I closed my eyes, I saw that she was wearing a poncho and had her hair tied into two long braids. If I squeezed hard enough, I could get the imagery to go away. I wasn’t like my mom and there was no such thing as clairvoyance, or clairsentience, or whatever. The only “clair” I believed in was the classicalClair de Lune.
My thoughts returned to my study. If I got turned down, maybe I could propose a new area of study, debunking all the “clair” stuff. There had to be a scientific reason for all the stuff my mom got right.
“Where are you?” I wasn’t about to call my mom Fern. I just couldn’t do it. “How did you get my office number?”
“Oh, I have my ways. You tell me where I am.”
I didn’t hide my sigh. My mom was always trying to get me to “nurture” my gift. I didn’t play along. “I don’t know.”
“Yes. You do.”
I closed my eyes. My mom was standing at a phone booth. The sun was high overhead and it looked to be about noon where she was. A palm tree swayed above her head and waves crashed in the background. My guess was that she was somewhere in California. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of playing her game. My mom loved to surf and there were waves in thebackground. It didn’t take a brain scientist to figure it out. “Maine,” I replied.
A seagull cawed. “Be serious, Goldie.”
For someone who was the antithesis of serious, it was pretty damn funny. “How are you?” I steered the conversation away from her psychic game.
“I’m great. The weather here in Lodi is perfect. How are things in Canada?”
The wind outside my office building howled, whipping the dormant branches of the maple tree against the window. Sleet started to pelt the glass. “It’s beautiful here. I love the winter.”
“Brrrr. I suppose that’s why you need that big coat.”
I was starting to sweat in my down parka. “I was just on my way to take Morton for a walk.”
