Page 77 of Husband of the Year
“But they don’t need me.”
“You take Lanie to her doctor’s appointments.”
“She can’t drive when they have to dilate her pupils. It’s zany. She looks like one of those little, oh, what are they called… they have giant eyes. Primates, I think. Big saucer eyeballs.”
“Lemurs?”
“Yes, lemurs. She looks like a lemur in a kaftan. Would you want to drive behind a lemur in a kaftan? Of course not. They probably couldn’t reach the wheel, let alone see much. And their arms would get lost in all that flowing fabric. Or maybe they have incredible vision with those giant peepers.”
“Actually, they have terrible eyesight,” I say. “They don’t see in color either, but they have excellent night vision.” Sarah cocks her head at me. “My class studied them a few years ago and, of course, I remember the most random facts.”
“Well, that’s Lanie. She can take a taxi.”
“Of course she can. But I’m sure she’d rather have her friend take her.”
“And you’re my son.”
“I am. But I’m an adult. And as much as I love having you here, I’m okay, Mom.”
The corner of her mouth turns up at my confession.
“But Olan’s not here.”
“Mom, he’s coming back. Soon, I hope.”
“Aren’t you lonely? Without him here?”
“Of course, but I have Illona. My friends. And honestly, sometimes a little alone time isn’t a bad thing. I enjoy it. And I always have my boyfriend to keep me company.”
Sarah’s eyes perk up and I quickly reach for Gonzo, who lies on the counter, waiting for attention. Cradling my kitty reminds me of the other topic I need to broach. I puff my chest and steady myself.
“Mom, I need to tell you something. And I don’t want you to get worked up about it.”
She puts her mug down and takes a breath. I notice the rapid blinking, a sure sign of my mother’s worry, so I quickly blurt out the words, barely pausing to catch my breath.
She sits still and listens. I tell her everything about Liam. Abby. The overdose. Greggie. The Stones taking custody. Olan’s closeness and connection with him.
Finally, when I’m done, I purse my lips and wait for her reply.
“Is he Jewish?”
“Mother, I’ve told you a million times, Olan isn’t Jewish.”
“Not Olan, the baby.”
My head juts forward, and I open my mouth, but my mother’s words leave me utterly speechless.
“Maybe the mother was Jewish,” she says. “You know it comes through the mother. If the mother was Jewish—God rest her soul—the baby is Jewish.”
“I don’t think so. And really? That’s what you want to know? That’s where your mind went first?”
“Just curious.”
I inhale a deep breath through my nose and blow slowly out of my mouth. Dear Lord, give me patience.
“Addiction is a nasty beast,” she says. Her voice does that thing where it’s lower, softer, almost like she’s changing her tone to make sure I’m paying attention. “Not everyone follows the same path toward recovery and many are consumed by it.” There’s a sparkle in her eyes, and she places her hand on my forearm. “Olan and I are the lucky ones. We learned to love ourselves more than drinking. That’s how you stay sober. Be patient as Olan navigates the situation with his family. He’s going to need you more than ever.”
And once again, without knowing it, my mother has gotten to the very core of what’s been eating away at me. Olan needs me to step up to the plate and be there for him. For his parents. For his brother. His nephew.
