Page 53 of Husband of the Year
“He will always be my first grand-kitty,” Mom says, scooping Gonzo up and tossing him over her shoulder, where he balances like a stole. Thrilled for the attention, his purring immediately permeates the room. “But now, a granddaughter.” She takes Illona’s face in her hands again, rubbing her thumb across her cheek. “I’m kvelling over this face.” Without taking her gaze off Illona, she asks, “Are you going to offer me a drink?”
My eyes pop open. It’s a simple reflex.
Before I can say anything, Sarah clarifies, “Water, dear. Still sober. No plans for that to change. One day at a time.”
I knew that’s what she meant. Plus, she knows about Olan, and we don’t keep alcohol in the house. But when I hear “a drink,” my mind immediately goes to booze. Thank you, society, for the constant barrage of alcohol in advertising, TV shows, movies, and social media.
“Water. Of course. Regular or seltzer? Ice or no ice?” I ask, grabbing two glasses and some milk for Illona. “Grab a snack from the pantry,” I say to Illona, and she darts off.
“Regular. When did you get so fancy?” She lowers Gonzo to the floor and scans the first floor of the house, and yes, it’s a complete left turn from my apartment. “And ice, please,” Mom says, “I worked up a thirst walking from the ferry.”
Over the past few years, I’ve worked really hard to let my guard down with my mother. She’s been working hard to earn my trust, and I’m trying to let her in more. Our relationship is a journey, and we’re both putting in the work to strengthen it. Typically, that happens over the phone. Or via text. Not with her flying here on an open-ended ticket with no clue about her departure.
But her heart is in the right place. That’s what Olan would say. Fuck, I miss him. I didn’t think it was possible to miss him more than I already did, but with my mother here and him absent as a buffer, the ache for him feels sharper and more profound. It’s like I’ve unlocked a new level of longing I didn’t know existed.
“Do you want me to make dinner?” Sarah is up, poking in the fridge. “What does Illona like? Does she have any allergies? Martha’s grandson can’t come within ten feet of a peanut. Can you imagine?”
“I’m not picky.” Illona returns from the pantry with three single-sized bags of chips. “No allergies. And I like almost everything.” She hands one to me and one to Sarah, and says, “Have a nosh.”
My mother’s eyes open wide and a giant grin lights up her face. Shewraps her arm around Illona’s shoulder and squeezes. Illona opens her bag of chips, and the satisfying crunch of her first bite fills the room.
“Hmmm.” Sarah sets her bag down and opens cabinets and the freezer, lifting things, reading labels, and formulating a plan.
“This mustard expired two months ago,” she says.
“It’s mustard. It doesn’t expire.” I take the bottle from her and read the date, and of course, she’s correct.
“Until you’re trapped on the toilet from bad mustard.”
I throw the mustard in the trash, pop open my chips, and begin munching.
“How about hamburgers, a salad, and…” She pulls a bag from the freezer. “Tator tots. Gosh, I haven’t had these in years.”
“Mom, I can make dinner. You’ve been traveling all day.”
“Marvin,” she says. “I came here to help. Let me.” With ground meat in hand, she says, “Plus, I slept on the plane. Now let’s see… yes, still good. At least we won’t get worms from expired meat.”
“Worms?” Illona asks mid-chip.
“Rotten meat is no joke. I’m going to teach you how to read the expiration dates while I’m here. Your dads need a little help.” Sarah sets the ground beef and salad fixings on the island and begins searching for the various bowls, cutlery, and supplies to make dinner.
“Mom, I can do it.”
“No, sir. Go change. Relax. Watch some TV. Take a little nap. Do whatever you like. Dinner will be ready in one hour. Maybe sooner. I’ll call you.” Before I can reply, she adds, “Illona, do you want to stay and help? No pressure. You can go unwind too, if you like.”
I squint my eyes, attempting to tell Illona “run for the hills” with only my face, but she doesn’t look at me. She’s opening a drawer and pulling out the cutting board.
“I can make the salad,” Illona says. “My dad taught me how to chop carefully.”
“Of course he did,” Mom says. “Well, I’m right here if you need anything. And we can chat. Girl talk. Shoo, Mister Block. Leave us ladies to make dinner.”
“How nineteen-fifties of you,” I murmur. “What’s for dessert? A Jell-O mold?”
And with a wave of her hand, I’m a child again as my mother sends me to my room.
I wasn’t expecting an hour of free time, but I do as I’m told. Out of my work clothes and resting on the bed, I’m almost at a loss at what to do with my free hour. Maybe I can close my eyes for a few minutes. Power naps are like nature’s energy drinks. Sadly, knowing my mother is downstairs poking in every drawer has my brain spinning like a DJ at a club. Or a wedding. Crap, we probably need a DJ. I better mention that to Sheldon.
Taking his shot to snuggle, Gonzo leaps up and lies right on my groin—insuring I’ll have to pee in five minutes. Why is that his favorite spot?
