Page 73 of Santa Has a Six-Pack
“I judged you unfairly when we first met.”
“How so?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Could I retract my next statement if it’s offensive?”
“Yikes!” I chuckle. “Should I brace myself?”
“Maybe?”
“Well, let’s hear it. And no. No retractions.”
She hesitates.
“Go on,” I say.
“I guess you seemed a little bit like a… Gosh, I assumed you were a…”
“Spit it out…”
“A meathead,” she blurts.
“A meathead?!” I place my hand on my heart. “You thought I was a meathead?!”
“I’m sorry!” she laughs.
“What do you even mean by meathead?” I’m laughing right along with her.
She groans. “Don’t make me explain!”
“Oh girl, you’re going to explain!” I say, still laughing.
“I’m not proud of this,” she says. “But I guess because you were so focused on your physical muscles, I thought there wasn’t much going on?—”
“In the muscle between my ears?” I fill in the blank for her.
“Yes. But the brain isn’t actually muscle,” she corrects.
“I know that, Pennywise. The brain is an organ. Though I’ll have you know that exercising your brain is a real thing.”
I know this better than anyone after everything I’ve seen my mom go through this past year. I did so many doctor-recommended exercises with her when she first got diagnosed: card games to help with her memory and concentration, sudoku to keep up her strength with numbers, cooking and baking to offer her the sensory stimulation a healthy person needs. The list of what we tried goes on and on. I still do those things with her when I visit her at her new home, but it feels different. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a certain amount of guilt that goes along with outsourcing her care.
“Okay,” I say. “So you initially thought I was a meathead. And this has not proven to be true?”
“No. Like I said, I think you’re lovely and it’s clear you’re a very well-read, not to mention thoughtful person.” She lifts the bag of root beer candies like it’s evidence of my thoughtfulness.
“What’s your other confession?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“You said you had two confessions,” I explain when her face looks blank.
We’ve reached my mother’s building now, and Penny instinctively stops next to it. This is the third time she’s walked me this far, so I guess she knows the drill by now.
Her cheeks turn pink, just like mine did a few minutes ago. “My other confession is, I really wanted to text you the other day, but… I guess I got shy and wanted you to text me first.”
“Done!” I say, grateful for the uplift in the conversation. I pull my phone out of my pocket and dash off a text.
Her phone dings. She reads the screen, then tilts it in my direction like I didn’t just send it myself and know very well what it says.
