Page 11 of The Vacation Mix-Up
“I’m sorry, Momma,” I whimper, “but this is…. It’s a disaster!”
Slumping onto my bed, I cover my face with my hands and, through my sobs, release every ounce of sadness and regret I’ve been holding in, until a cool breeze blows in from the balcony and gently caresses my knuckles, a caress like my mother’s—reassuring, comforting. I blink and peer through my spread fingers, feeling her presence. Deep down, I know it’s stupid. She’s not here, even though I want her to be.Needher to be.
If she were here, she’d rub my back and tell me everything will be okay, that disasters happen, and that people live and die because that’s the way the world works. She once said to me thatwhen a plant perishes, sow a fresh seed, and when we make a wrong turn, we should explore our new surroundings and experience what we wouldn’t have if we had gone our planned route.
Mom believed life was a gift but that we don’t always get what we ask for, and when we don’t, smile appreciatively and make do, or… regift. That notion always warmed my heart, because she had a shelf in our linen closet that was stacked with presents she’d been gifted by friends, presents she didn’t warm to or simply had no use for. Presents she’d pass on to someone else: the doorman, the lady down the hall, the homeless guy in the park across the street.
My mother was a giver. An optimist. A realist, but also a dreamer. She saw light and love and grasped it with both hands, and she always did it without complaint. When she was delivered her terminal diagnosis, she didn’t kick or scream. She simply treasured what she’d already lived through and embraced what she could still give.
Me? I’d kicked and screamed. Repeatedly. I’d embraced hostility at life, God, abnormal malignant cells, and at my father. He was a ghost I’d never seen nor known—a summer fling Mom had willingly left on the beach in her early thirties. A nobody, as far as I was concerned, because at no time in my thirty-two years had he been a somebody. Momma was all I had, and she loved me irrevocably and unconditionally, as I had her.
Wiping the tears from my face, I push up from the mattress, cradling my waist as I walk around the bed to where my bag is sitting safely on my bedside table.
“Hey, Momma,” I say, gently taking out the urn, warmth once again settling over me. “Wanna see my cabin? It’s rather lovely, and surprisingly spacious.” I sniff back my sorrow, trying to sound upbeat and enthusiastic. “It has a desk, a closet, a sofa, and a TV.” Holding her out like a trophy, because she is one, I show her my surroundings. “The bathroom is modest, but there’s a bath, so I can’t complain. Not that I’m complaining, Mom, not atall. I’m ever so grateful. I’m sure this cruise will be incredible. But—” I swallow, my throat thick. “—I have to share it with a stranger. Amalestranger.”
She doesn’t answer, of course, but if she could, she’d no doubt say,“Is he handsome? Single? Does he have manners?”
I laugh. “I’m not sure about the last two, Mom, but he’s certainly handsome.”
The other Riley’s short brown hair and how he runs his fingers through it flickers into my mind. I like his hair: clean, neatly cut, a little product. A lot can be said by how a man keeps his hair. That he cares about hygiene and presentation. And that’s important. It’s not only courteous but also shows self-appreciation.
Thank God he’s not an odorous slob.
His kind, albeit mischievous eyes also flicker into my mind, and much like hair, a great deal can be determined by a person’s eyes. They seldom hide our inner truth. A lie detector of sorts. And so far, his eyes haven’t set off any alarms.
I try to recall if they’re gray or blue. Possibly blue. But every time I’ve been close enough to tell, I’ve looked away, embarrassed I’d be caught staring in the first place.
“Later, cookie.”
Ugh!
“On second thought, Mom, no, he doesn’t have manners. And he walked out on me.”
The thought of being roomed with an inconsiderate, pigheaded jerk churns my stomach. I won’t cope; I’m already fragile and at my breaking point. Just being here, away from work and everything I’ve ever known is a giant leap of faith for me.
Why did I agree to share? It’s a terrible idea.
“Mom,” I groan. “What have you gotten me into?”
Again, as if she’s in the room with me, I hear her loving rebuke.“Riley Alessandra Wilson, stop this nonsense. Any given moment is what you make of it, so seize and embrace. Stop sulking and unpack your suitcase. And don’t forget to eat something.”
I puff my cheeks and exhale. “Fine. Jesus, Mom!”
Scrunching my nose at her, I kiss the urn, place it back inside my bag, and remove my cosmetics bag from my suitcase before making my way to the bathroom. There isn’t a lot of room, but I set about my perfume, makeup, and hair accessories, confident Riley won’t mind if I occupy most of the space. He’s a man, after all, and even though he has well-kept hair, he’s certainly not Ralph Lauren billboard material, so I doubt he’ll own many toiletries.
But what if he does? What if he’s a hair stylist, or works at Ulta?
I recallthe standard man-texture of his skin.
No. He’s definitely not cosmetically confident.
Satisfied I’m one-hundred percent within my rights to commandeer the bathroom, I plop my toothbrush into the glass on the vanity, smiling satisfactorily until I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. Besides my red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, I look ready to take part in an editorial meeting, not a transatlantic cruise.
“I need to change,” I mutter, releasing the pins securing my hair to my head, the tendrils falling past my shoulders.
Had Georgia seen me in anything but my corporate attire when I stopped by the office earlier, she’d have been most displeased, disgusted even, and I couldn’t take that risk. Impressing her is a fine art I attempt to excel at despite the stress it causes me. But she is a means to an end, and I’m hoping that end is near.
Sighing as I massage the tension in my scalp, I kick my heels off, neatly place them in the bottom of the closet, and then unpack the rest of my things, hanging my clothes before settling Mr. Snuffles against the pillows on my bed. He’s been my “pet” since I was seven years old. Not the living, breathing puppy I always wanted, thanks to Mom’s allergies, but a comforting, synthetically stuffed confidant all the same.
