Page 52 of Husband of the Year
“Mom.” I do my best to muster up some enthusiasm, but the word flops out of my mouth like a huge turd. “What… Why… How… How did you get here?”
She’s standing on our front porch. There are chairs for sitting—lovely chairs Olan and I picked out online. They came wrapped in so much paper and Bubble Wrap, it took almost as long to excavate them from the packing material as to put them together. We sat outside in the summer sun and assembled them without arguing once, mainly because my job was to read the directions, and Olan’s job was everything else—another perk of being with an engineer.
Alas, my mother is not resting in a weatherproof chocolate wicker chair with striped cushions in muted earth tones. She’s standing, hand on hip, foot tapping, glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose, and loose curls blowing in the ocean breeze. Sarah Block has no time or patience for sitting. She’s ready to pounce.
I force a smile. Fake it until you make it. She’ll never know.
“I walked. From Arizona. My legs are killing me.” She throws her head back and lets out a sharp laugh.
“Mother.”
“I flew here, you silly goose. All the way from Arizona… and boy, are my arms tired.”
Another piercing cackle.
Illona gives me a confused look, not quite sure about the strange creature taking up residence outside our front door.
My mother and Illona have only met on a video call. I’ve only seen Sarah once in the almost two years since we’ve lived together. I flew back last summer. Alone. Olan offered to join me, but I wasn’t ready to introduce him to the whirling dervish energy of Sarah Block. I barely wanted to go. Asking him to come along didn’t feel like the best way to promote Olan’s faith in marrying me. My mom can be… a lot. For me. It was better to brave it alone.
“No, here.” I gesture to the house. “To the island. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I could have met you at the airport. Wait, why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Where were you when you texted me earlier? Why are you here, Mom?”
“I had a layover in Chicago. That airport is a zoo.” She’s digging in her enormous purse, searching. “Popcorn for sale every fifty feet. Do people in Chicago have a thing for popcorn nobody is talking about?” She yanks a bag of caramel popcorn out. “I took a taxi to the ferry. Charlie from Saco drove me.” Her pronunciation of Saco with a longainstead of the proper short vowel sends a chill down my spine. “Those ride-share apps are taking over, but I’ll stick to licensed taxis with trained drivers and proper insurance, thank you very much. Have you seen theDatelineabout what some of those drivers do?” She dips her chin and gives me her no-way-in-hell look over the top of her tortoiseshell frames. “I preferred arriving in one piece.”
Illona dances over, her feet barely touching the ground, and as I scan her face, I recall that she urgently requires the restroom.
“Mom, let’s go inside. Illona needs the bathroom.”
“Illona.” Sarah takes Illona’s face in her hands, ignoring the pee-peedance I know all too well. “Such a shaina madel. More beautiful in person than on the video chat or those pictures you sent me.”
I open the door and Illona darts inside, both to escape my mother and to the bathroom. My mom’s suitcase is enormous. An adult human could fit inside. Sarah Block doesn’t travel light. She brings clothes for every type of weather, every season, and any potential event. I’m not a betting man, but twenty bucks says there’s an evening gown in there.
“The walk from the ferry was easy.” She holds up her cell. “The man at the phone store showed me a map in here that will show you how to get anywhere.”
“How long were you planning on staying?” I ask with probably a smidge too much sarcasm as I drop her bag in the foyer.
“I bought an open-ended ticket.”
The kitchen counter is about ten feet away, and my feet move on autopilot. I need to lean… preferably sit and pour a cool drink of water. Over my head.
“Before you say anything…” Sarah pulls a stool out and climbs on. She tucks a loose curl behind her ear, and I notice her hair is shorter than the last time I saw her. “You sounded… lonely on the phone. You need help. A mother knows. When you were little, you were so tiny, maybe four, when you got scared or worried about something, you would crawl into the space my legs made when I took a nap on the couch. You called it your ‘nest,’ and you’d curl up and sleep with me. Consider this”—she aims both thumbs at herself—“your nest. Plus, I figured you could use a distraction while Olan’s away.”
I let out a quiet sigh, attempting to keep the dramatics at bay.
“Plus…” She opens her purse, takes out a small mirror, readjusts her glasses, and checks her face. “I knew you’d never ask for help.” She removes a tube of lipstick—Flamenco Red, her signature color, and the only hue bold enough for Sarah Block. “If I’d offered, you’d only havesaid no, so…” Sarah puts her mirror away and gives me enthusiastic jazz hands. “Here I am.”
Illona skips into the room, a big smile on her face. “Yes, I washed my hands.” She holds them up.
“Plus,” Sarah says, opening her arms as Illona approaches, “I wanted to get to know my future granddaughter. I’m finally going to be a bubbe.”
“A what?” Illona asks, letting my mother hug her.
Sarah pinches one of Illona’s cheeks. “A bubbe. Grandmother. I’ve been waiting a long time. This one’s entire life.” She nods toward me. “When Marvin was little like you, I’d imagine his wedding. Standing under the chuppah—that’s a canopy—and then, well, grandchildren would come.” Sarah squeezes Illona close, her voice softer, and says, “And here you are.”
I’m not sure when my mother realized I was gay. Sure, there were clues. Maybe it was when I asked for another Big Jim doll, so my original one would have a friend to bunk with inside the Big Jim Camper. Or maybe in first grade, when I had a terrible crush on Asher Stevens, and Mrs. Cooper had to call Mom and ask her to talk to me about kissing at school. In this conversation with Illona, she never mentioned the gender of the person she imagined me marrying. She simply wants grandchildren.
“Mother, be careful, you’ll hurt Gonzo’s feelings,” I say.
Never one to miss out on a commotion or attention, Gonzo strolls into the room and rubs against both Illona’s and Mom’s legs.
