“Brie, I would’ve been so excited for you. I would’ve been buying baby goodies in every boutique in Arizona.”
She turns abruptly away, making a fuss with putting clothes in the dresser drawer.
~
Dinner is soup and salad. Canned and bagged. I only have so much energy left after the nerve-wracking drive to the airport. I do have talent beyond “salades,” but tonight I have no need to impress, or so I think.
It’s so hot, and even though the air conditioning is pumped up (or is it down?) to 75, I still feel the moisture on my skin. I decide a chilled soup and light salad is perfect. Until, “This is what a chef serves? Don’t you have any meat…and potatoes, Momma?”
My first irreverent thought is how chunky, naw fat, Brie is. Remember, I’ve been pregnant three times. During my pregnancy with James I gained a lot of weight, nearly forty pounds. Devastated by needing over a year to diet and lose them, I was very cautious during my pregnancy with Julia. Twenty-two pounds max.
Allow me to digress. James and Julia were named after famous chefs, even though I wasn’t a chef or personal cooking type person then. Must have been something in my genes, or maybe a glimpse into the future. Brie was named after my favorite snack when I was pregnant with her.
“Ahh, meat and potatoes. Not on the menu tonight, Sweetie. I guess I was thinking about how hot it is…(hesitation) how you need to eat light being pregnant.” Oh, Lord, what happened to you helping me keep my big mouth shut?
We don’t talk much during dinner. It’s hard to converse with mouthfuls of Romaine, and I sense Brie is actually thankful. After helping me rinse off the plates, she bolts to her room. I’m guessing for candy sustenance. Yep, she lands on the sofa with a plop, an exaggerated sigh and a smear of brown around her lips. She reaches for the remote, but I lay my hand on her arm. “Honey, I know you’re tired, but don’t you think we should talk a bit? Catch up?”
“Not ready.” Her face, like polished stone, stares at the blank T.V. screen. Suddenly, she grabs a throw pillow and hugs it close to her swollen breasts, shoulders hunched over and nose buried in the pillow’s fringe. I don’t want to push her (oh, no?), but sharing her pain is supposed to be why she’s here. I’m also miffed she hasn’t once asked how I’m feeling, nor thanked me for picking her up at the airport. Especially the ride home. After all, she used to love Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride at Disneyland. I chuckle at that thought, and Brie swivels to face me, her watery eyes glaring at my baby blues.
“What is so funny? That really hurts, Momma, that you’d find my situation humorous.” Her comment knocks me off guard and I have the indecency to guffaw. Not my best Momma Dearest presentation.
“No, no, Brie. Not, hic, laughing at you. Ride, hic, home. Call me Mrs. Toad, hic.”
After a few more hiccups interspersed with a more concrete explanation, she gets it. The sneer she’s been sporting morphs into a shaky smile. “Oh, Momma, I guess we both needed that laugh,” she says as she flings her arms around me. She may be pregnant and fat, but she smells wonderful.
“Estée Lauder Beautiful Intense?” She nods to my wink. “A fav of mine, too.” I grin. “Today I’m wearing Jessica.” I hold out my wrist for her to sniff. She giggles, and we’re on our way. Who’d have thunk a mother-daughter relationship could be repaired by a high-falutin New York perfume company. I roll my eyes upward and silently repeat an old friend’s favorite phrase, “God is so good all the time.”
“Okay, Momma, I’ll spill the proverbial beans. Guess that’s why I’m here, huh?”
“You betcha, girl, and it’s getting late. Spill.”
TWENTY EIGHT
Derek is a wimp.
There are many other less flattering names I’m tempted to call him, but from what Brie tells me, he has no backbone. “No spine,” as my Nana used to say. I resist the temptation to phone his dad. That will be reserved for when Brie’s in the shower tomorrow morning. How does a man who was raised by a strong military-type father walk out on his pregnant wife? That question and others, such as who is the other woman, will be dissected and pondered the next few days.
I have a good talk with myself telling moi Brie’s life isn’t over, many women raise children alone (I did), and God can correct any dumb mistake man makes. I’m counting on Him to punch dimwitted Derek in the nose. I have this vision of a huge, mighty hand slamming against Derek’s perfectly formed Scandinavian nose and red blood spurting down his chin. Aw, Betsy, not nice!
“Brie,” I hesitate. “Now, please don’t be mad at me, but maybe Derek’s hurting, too.”
Her reddened eyes look like those individual pizzas sold in the freezer section that moms buy for their kids. I steel myself for the scream I know is coming. Instead, she crumbles in a heap on the sofa, sobbing, still holding the pillow. Am I insensitive worrying about my expensive throw pillow being smeared with mascara? I remember the cover has a zipper—why I bought it, so it could be dry cleaned. Interesting how the mind jumps around when confronted with stress. I feel like a total loser of a mother, the blue ribbon winner. Mrs. America Underdog, here I am.
“I guess that’s a fair question, Momma.” She swipes at her eyes with absorbent knuckles. We are making progress. “He was very contrite.” She swipes again. “The night he left.” This really is a pregnant pause. “Begged me to believe him that Amanda was chasing him, that he’d never done anything wrong. He said she must have been following him, turning up wherever he went—mostly bars.
“You know, even on all those cruises we took, we never drank. Once, eating at the captain’s table we were served a glass of wine. Derek took a sip to be sociable, then I did, too. We’re basically Diet Coke people, so why was he in bars?”
I need to get my head in gear for that question. It computes, and I answer with my limited experience, mostly from reading novels and watching television. “Uh, I think bartenders, and other patrons, are good listeners. You’ve watched Seinfeld?” Her head nods. “Maybe not the best example, but I remember Kramer and George going to places where they could spout off and get confirmation about how they felt. Does that make sense?”
Another nod, more lively this time.
“You think he just wanted someone to talk to?”
“Yep. I also think of that show ‘where everybody knows your name.’ You know the one where Sam the bartender listens to everyone’s troubles. Maybe Derek is like the mail carrier guy, or the shrink – needs confirmation about his life.”
“Okay, Momma, what do I do—to get Derek back?”
Losing weight comes to mind.
God, please help me.
~
We decide on a strategy.
We both slept soundly getting much needed rests.
Morning Number One: We make a list. All possible reasons for Derek leaving are jotted on the yellow-lined pad.
#1. He is scared, terrified. Why? Financial commitments, lifelong commitment.
#2. He is in love with another woman. Not a huge possibility since he’s never strayed before and still vows he loves Brie.
#3. He’s a screwed up, psychological mess. Very possible.
#4. He’s a fallen Christian. Not such a stretch since he has fallen and not fulfilled his Christian vows—marriage and otherwise.
We are scanning our list, eyebrows raised dramatically when the phone rings. “Gosh, Noel, your timing is…” I say under my breath, not finishing the thought.
“What did you say, Momma? Something about Noel?”
~
As it turns out it wasn’t Noel, but a client asking for salads for a corporate luncheon. I pencil it on my calendar and will email her an order form later. Repeat clients seldom order from my website, although I have a pretty impressive one. Most repeaters prefer to talk to me in person, hash over (perhaps “discuss” is a better word) the event they’re catering. Lily Anstol, president of the local board of realtors, wants a luncheon that’ll reflect both luxury real estate and the current R.E. market. I’m tempted to suggest to
pping the salad with nuts (to represent the realtors) and rings of black olives (zeroes, get it?). She keeps emphasizing the word “green.” Isn’t that the basis for most salads? Perhaps between now and the day of her event next week I’ll think of something clever. Maybe I’ll make three salads and name one “Market,” another “’Interest’ing,” and the last “High End” with a lot of rich cheeses sprinkled on.
Lily finally ends the one-sided conversation with, “Trusting you. Know how clever you are.” Yeh, so clever I haven’t given Noel a thought since Brie arrived. Poor man, my health-challenged “intended.” My excuse? I know he’s being fussed over by Bett and Consuela. He’s sleeping in a velvet-paneled room and using a silver-handled toothbrush. Also, he really isn’t that sick. Is he?
“Brie, dear, I really should call Noel. He just came home from the hospital yesterday.”
“Momma,” she whines, “you didn’t tell me.” Why does it sound like she’s accusing me of keeping some dark secret? “This is your special guy, right?”
“Well, yes.” I hear the hesitation in my voice wondering how much I should reveal. Her problems seem more looming than mine and Noel’s. Truth-sayer that I am, I blurt it out. Sometimes God uses my motor mouth to advantage. Like now when I see Brie’s angry face transform into soft sweetness. If she hadn’t been sitting right across from me at the kitchen counter, I’d swear someone had sprayed a nasty substance in her eyes they’re blinking so rapidly.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so self-absorbed,” she whispers while dabbing her eyes with a paper napkin. “When can I meet him?”
That is a loaded question.
TWENTY NINE
I arrange through Bett for Brie and me to visit at two. Thank goodness it will be past lunchtime and I won’t be expected to provide the meal. I could have called Noel on his cell, but I didn’t want to disturb him if he was sleeping. More likely I would have disturbed Snoopy if the huge feline was draped across his legs.
I am such a transparent mother—offering to lend Brie some makeup and helping her select an outfit. Not an easy task since she didn’t bring much more than maternity jeans and Derek’s old extra-extra-large T-shirts. He’s a big boy. We finally settle on a plain black one, sans baseball and football team logos. Her flip-flops will have to do.
Brie has a long, angular face with wide-set smoky eyes she inherited from her father, The Jerk. A few eye drops and a touch of concealer camouflage their redness, mostly. A bit of blush, a zap with my plastic lash curler and a dab of mascara, then a swipe of soft peach lipstick do the job. Her hair is more of a challenge. Perhaps pregnancy hormones have made it more curly than usual. She used to take almost an hour to flatten and straighten it with a special iron, but I’ve always favored the natural curls. I remember a technique I saw once an Internet site. I was killing time and browsing when I clicked on Seven New Hairstyles for Summer. I remember the kinky-curly one because I was so envious, probably as much of the model’s heart-shaped face as her hair.
I spritz the mass of curls with water, bend her head forward and set the hand-held hairdryer to low while pushing my fingertips laced with volumizer through the raw umber-colored roots—a retired Crayon color enshrined in the Crayola Hall of Fame in 1990.
I know way too much trivia.
I shush her whining about not wetting already kinky hair. Roots dry, I tip her chin up with a forefinger. “Eeeow! I look like a freak.” The bathroom mirror displays an angular face surrounded by kinky curls sticking out at least a foot. I swallow hard and pray.
“Not finished. Calm down. I took a course.” Sort of. I wonder if stretching the truth is lying. “Here, hold this.” I hand her an oversized plastic butterfly clasp I bought last year in a vain attempt to update my own hairstyle. Except I don’t have enough hair for the thing to clasp. The silly thing kept slipping down to my neck.
Standing behind her and grabbing a hunk of hair at both temples, I tug lightly—not too hard or she’ll look like she’s choking from a bad facelift. Satisfied with the effect, I clasp the bundle with the silver-coated clip. For the almost final touch I coax tendrils with the pointy end of a barber’s comb to form a fringe of soft curls all around her face. I spit on a finger and twist a few around it. Lastly, I saturate both my hands with hairspray and squish and squeeze the mass of corkscrew curls forming a shawl around her shoulders. Although I was a teenager in the sixties, our “spit curls” were plastered to our faces, simulating, I think, Elvis’s sideburns. Brie’s new curls are loose and soft.
“There—stunning,” I announce proudly offering her a hand-mirror. “You look like a famous model.”
“You think so?” Cautiously she turns around several times holding the mirror at different angles. “Is it too way out for me, being pg and all? I feel rather glamorous.”
“Honey, you are glam. You’ve lost some confidence being pregnant. After we visit Noel, let’s go shopping for maternity clothes.”
It takes some convincing, but she finally agrees, insisting she has plenty of money to pay for them. Praises, Lord, ‘cause I don’t.
~
Bett’s almost preppy appearance nearly knocks me off balance. I make a concerted effort to re-hinge my jaw. Surely, my chin is reaching the base of my neck. She gives me a subtle smirk accompanied by one raised eyebrow. Like, “Don’t go there. Pretend I always dress this way.”
I gaze from the white button-down collared over-blouse to the tailored black slacks. Then I notice the shoes. Black, square-toed penny loafers. Has she been taking dress lessons from Noel? I wouldn’t have been surprised to see Topsiders on her feet. She stretches out a perfectly manicured hand with rounded, white-tipped nails. “You must be the beautiful Brie,” she states in a modulated voice. My aren’t we refined! “Your mother’s told me so much about you.” I have not. Well, maybe some. “Come in, dear. Welcome to my humble home,” she urges as she opens the almost eight-foot high door with the polished brass handle wider. I want to slap her.
I nudge Brie across the intricate Italian tile floor of the foyer toward the kitchen, my usual bailiwick. Bett gives my shoulder a squeeze and practically shoves me in the direction of the formal living room. This is not an easy task since my cast hampers swift movement. Brie hesitates, not sure whom to follow. Who is Bett trying to impress I wonder…until I see the tip of a brown Topsider peeking out from a leather chaise. The back of the chaise is toward my line of vision and I don’t see any flecks of salt and pepper hair above it. For a second I think this is a cruel joke and Bett has propped the Topsiders at the other end to fool me. Not even Bett’s sense of humor is that bizarre.
“Noel, sweet man, look who’s here to visit,” she simpers. Like he doesn’t know. I notice Bett hasn’t used my name, probably because she isn’t sure what version Brie has heard. Or, maybe she still isn’t sure.
Noel has no such compunction. Any misgivings I had are erased by the sound of his deep voice saying my name. “Betsy, my love” almost does it for me. Momentarily forgetting my plastered leg I race toward him, trip on the edge of a probably authentic Persian rug and land head forward across his knees. “Ouch! Betsy you are the master at dramatic entrances,” he quips. What a guy! Still has his sense of humor. “At least your softest parts cushioned your fall.” That’s enough, Noel. My daughter is present.
Brie and Noel seem to like each other fine, although I sense some reservation in both. He is the epitomy of courtesy and kindness. His gentlemanliness and his gentleness still awe me. He answers Brie’s not too probing questions (she’s on her best behavior, no whining) about his profession and his health. He compliments her about how radiant she looks without once mentioning her condition. After a few minutes of Noel-Brie exchange, Bett declares tea will be served. I high-thumb her toward the kitchen even though I know Consuela will be serving.
“I’ll help you,” I say with deliberate firmness. “I insist.”
She gets it, although it’s clear from the scowl on her face she doesn’t like it. Clomping behind her in my
cast I steer her toward the walk-in pantry and practically shove her in, ignoring Consuela’s shocked expression. I leave the door slightly ajar so Consuela can hear our voices, but not our words. “What,” I hiss, “in Sam Hill is going on? Why the charade, the Ivy League clothes, the ‘tea will be served’ instead of ‘anyone want a soft drink?’” It takes every ounce of control not to shake her, especially since I notice she’s shaking. Dagnabbit, what have I done?
“I wanted you to be proud of me, classy, instead of looking like an overgrown butterfly. I know you think my outfits are extreme. I caught the expression on your face once, when I was wearing the purple one. Or, one of them. I have several.” Her mouth twitches into a sheepish half grin. I just notice the mop of blonde flyaway curls is missing its usual loops. Instead she is wearing an almost sleek hairstyle, mostly waves.
I debate how to reply. I want to tell her I love her no matter what she looks like, that it’s the beneath the surface woman I adore as a friend. I decide to do just that, and my honest words produce arms wrapped around me tightly.
“I love you, Betsy. Did I get it right this time? The name, I mean.”
~
Brie and I are rehashing the afternoon over Frappuccinos from Starbuck’s drive-thru. Mine is half-caf and hers decaf, both lite. Neither of us needs the extra calories. After lifting my cast leg onto the coffee table for support, she settles into the over-stuffed chair kitty-cornered from me. This way we can see each other without turning our heads or staring face on. Cozy.
“I like your friends, Momma. Bett is very elegant (I sense she’s leaving out the word ‘phony’) and,” she pauses slapping a hand over her heart, “Mr. Sheppard is velly, velly handsome.” She’s reverts to her childhood slang, a huge grin gracing her face. I feel heat creeping up the sides of my neck. It’s embarrassing to blush in front of my daughter, especially about a man.
Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance) Page 14