Page 66 of Enemies to Lobsters
It’s the voice crack that does me in. Grandma’s voice can’t quite say the word daughter without breaking, but she fights to remain stoic. And now I’m angry, too. How dare my mom show up here after a decade and cop an attitude? She’s the one who left, and no one forced her to come back.
Sure, my grandmother insisted on mailing an invitation to her last known address, despite my reservations. Everyone knows Charlotte York’s opinions on marriage. Coming from my grandmother, the intentionally-worded invitation must’ve felt like a trans-Atlantic slap in the face:
Charles and Patricia York request the honor of your presence at a reception honoring the marriage of their granddaughter…
No mention of Charlotte York.
But what did my mom expect after so many years? Now I’m the one seething, and my eyes are hot. Wet. I blink a dozen or so times. I refuse to cry right now.
“You must be Diana’s mother.” Ike steps forward, extending his free hand. “I’m Ike.”
I’m grateful when he doesn’t unlace our fingers. I can’t do this without him. I’ve felt like I’m in the center ring of a circus all night. I was barely holding it together before my mother turnedup, and now? Now I don’t know what I’m feeling. This is all so much.
My mother’s smile is catlike. “Charlotte York. Nice to meet you.” She takes his hand, and a stack of gold bracelets clink on her wrist. I know the brands of that jewelry: Van Cleef. Cartier. David Yurman.
At that moment, my mother’s unsettlingly predatory smile at my husband makes me realize that I don’t know her at all. The woman whose faded ideas and opinions have been my north star for so long might be a stranger. I hate that I know the brands of her jewelry, but I don’t know the woman wearing them. So much for living theMamma Mialife in some lighthouse in Greece, huh, Mom? It looks like she traded in the bohemian dream she peddled to me for something that can afford a sixty-thousand dollar stack of jewelry. Why have I let her be the voice in my head for so long?
I had a mental picture of my mother’s life that excused her absence. Intercontinental travel isn’t cheap, and she’s been living in her own lighthouse, after all. But I’m listening to her make small talk with Ike, and it turns out that she hasn’t been anywhere near Greece. She’s been in California—Presidio Heights, to be exact. And she assures Ike that the weather is gorgeous there.
Who is this woman?
Grandma leans in on my other side, but doesn’t say anything. She loops her arm through mine, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze.
“You’re going to save a dance for me,” my mother warns Ike. “I need to know how all of this happened.”
Heaven forbid she pick up a phone and ask me about my life directly. No, she’d rather fly here and grill my husband herself. She wants to know how her daughter ended up marrying the man she used to complain about. Well, she and Shelly couldcommiserate, I’m sure. My stomach tightens at the thought of Shelly and my mother forming an alliance.
I really don’t want to be here. It’s been a while since I thought about my apartment. The funky smell of trash in the hallways, and the climb up the stairs with my laundry suddenly doesn’t sound so bad. But bailing in the middle of a reception to drive to New York would be poor form.
While I’m thinking about my dinky bed in the city, my mother wanders toward a table full of York cousins, and the tightness in my gut eases.
Ike moves closer, dropping my hand to curl his arm around my back. “Don’t run,” he murmurs.
“I wasn’t planning on it.” I add a manufactured laugh.
He chuckles like he knows better. “So, that’s your mom, huh?”
“She matches the description, anyway.” I shrug. “I didn’t think she’d show up.”
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
I sift through memories. It’s hard to nail down a date. Her visits grew less frequent as I got older and more attached to my grandparents. She knew I was in capable hands, but still. Didn’t she want to see me? As I became an adult, even the phone calls tapered off. Then nothing. “It’s been… I was a teenager, I think?” Why am I embarrassed to admit this? My mother should feel this, not me, right?
Painful thoughts pelt me like a tiny, invisible hailstorm: I'm easy to walk away from. I’m not wanted. I’m difficult to love. Oh, and I’m also a witch. I wonder if my mom has heard that one.
“Geez,” Ike mutters like he read my mind. His arm tightens around me.
In the corner of my eye, Shelly’s face snaps in my direction. Her eyebrows are furrowed. Grandma is twisting her hands together as she watches her daughter filter through the crowd.Our reception line has dwindled to us, my grandma, and Ike’s mom. Any guests straggling in at this point can find me in the buffet line. I need food in my stomach.
Ike reads my mind. “I’m ready for some food, how about you?”
“So ready.”
A while later, Ike and I are seated at a round table, thoroughly overdoing it on the food. I’m so glad I talked my grandma into the squash ravioli. I must’ve known I would need the comfort of pasta on a night like this. The heat lamps and dripping taper candles are helping, too—as well as the fact that my mother has kept her distance.
I’ve kept an eye on her, and so has Ike. His parents and my grandparents are seated on either side of us like sentinels. I don’t know how they know I need them, but they seem to know. They’ve hovered around me all night.
I stab my last, pillowy ravioli with my fork and wonder if I can make another trip through the buffet line before the dancing starts. My grandmother insisted there would be dancing tonight. Ike agreed quickly, picturing something less formal that what my grandma envisioned, I’m sure. I bet the man does a mean Hokey Pokey, but I have no doubt that the DJ my grandmother hired has a bunch of waltzes queued up.
