In the Mix

by Jacquelyn Ayres

  “That was a long conversation,” Mom says and shakes her head. Don’t worry; I left all of the sex talk out. “Can I give you some advice?”

  “Sure! Because the last bit you gave me was so successful!” I reply snidely. She stays silent like she always does when I get short with her. “Please tell me,” I soften my tone.

  “Don’t text when you’re drunk.”

  “You are a wise woman, Mother.” I let my head drop to my folded arms in defeat . . . again.

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down for a few hours before the party?” She rubs my back.

  “I came early to help you.”

  “Help me do what, taste test all of the food?” She laughs.

  “Well, that’s my job.” I lift my head and smile warmly at her.

  “I don’t recall ever giving you that job. You took on the role of taste tester all on your own.”

  “I’m good at it.” I shrug.

  “You’re greedy, that’s all! You want to make sure you get to have all of your favorites before anyone even walks through that door.” She gives me that look that tells me she’s got my number. You know that “knowing” look all mothers give their kids. “Now march your butt up those stairs; you look like hell.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I rub my face and do as I’m told.

  “Morning, Dolly,” Dad says softly from behind me before planting a kiss on the top of my head. My dad has called me “Dolly” since I was a toddler. Apparently, I wanted him to carry me everywhere. I, of course, carried my doll everywhere with me, as well. So, one day he started calling me Dolly. When I asked him why, he told me that since he carried me everywhere like I carried my doll, then I was his dolly. It stuck and he’s the only one I don’t mind being called a pet name by. He’s my dad—an awesome one to boot—why would I mind?

  “Morning, Dad. Mom up?” I lean back.

  “She’s getting dressed. I’m going to take her to Charley’s to spend some time with the kids and get her mind off of things. Thanks for staying last night, honey. Mom really needed you.” He places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

  “Did you hear any of our conversation?”

  “I heard most of it. I’m glad she got it out.” He takes a seat next to me and lets out a big sigh. “You know, you’re the only one she can really talk like that to. Everyone else treats her . . . well, you know. I do it, too. I need to take a page out of your book, Dolly.” He shakes his head and looks down. I hate seeing my dad so defeated. I hate seeing them both this way. I know exactly what he’s talking about with my mom. Everyone walks on eggshells around her. I do, too—to a point. But when it’s time, I step up to the plate to listen to her speak candidly about her condition. No one else can manage to do it. They don’t know what to say. It’s not always about saying anything; it’s about listening. Twerps. Last night was pretty bad, though. I’ve never seen her like this. I replayed our conversation over and over again, all night. I hope what I said and what I didn’t say helped.

  We had just sat down on the couch, getting ready to watch The Little Princess with Shirley Temple. My mom loves Shirley and that is the only movie of hers I really like, so we compromised. I had just brought some popcorn up to my mouth when she said, “I’m scared, Carissa.” I turned my head her way, placing the popcorn in my mouth. I studied her and chewed. Mom looked as weary as she sounded. Her face was a little paler than usual, green eyes that were drowning in tears, and her chin quivering. I put the bowl on the coffee table. I had a feeling this was going to happen. She had been asking me to stay over for a few days.

  “Have you seen the doctor, Mom?” I asked as I turned, on the couch, to face her.

  “Yes . . . I’m no longer in remission,” she choked on her words. “I can’t do this again,” she softly cried. “I just can’t. I don’t have anything left in me.” She wiped at her eyes with the tissue I gave her.

  “Mom, don’t talk like that. You kicked it’s ass before, you’ll do it again.” I tried to encourage.

  “You can only kick MS’s ass so long before you’re too old, tired, and weak. Then, it kicks your ass. This is it, Ceese, I’m not going to make it through this round—I can feel it down deep in my soul. I’m not ready . . .” she trailed off, shaking her head before the shaking transferred to her shoulders as she sobbed silently.

  I grabbed my mom into a fierce hug, “I want to scream at you right now for talking like this. Goddamn it, Mom.” I didn’t though, because sometimes we just need to say what our fears are. Everyone thinks it’s bravery not to show that you are scared. Fuck that shit! I think when you are a strong person, like my mom, it’s much braver to say what scares the hell out of you. It’s also therapeutic. If you acknowledge your shit then you can move onto the other phases like anger and acceptance. How can you form a positive plan of action if you won’t acknowledge the very thing that needs a positive plan of action? “Ok, you’re scared,” I said as I pulled back from her, “Now tell me what pisses you off.”

  “That Goddamn wheelchair! I swore to Christ I would never sit my fat ass in it again!” she said angrily, balling her hands into fists.

  “Uh, Shannon?” Dad interrupted us from the doorway. “I happen to think you have a lovely bottom, sweetheart.” He gave her a wink. Mom chuckled and waved nonsense at him.

  “Alright, Dad, I love you, but go away.” I ordered.

  “Ok, Dolly. I’ll be in the den if you girls need me.” He blew us a kiss and went on his merry way.

  “So, we call Tom Kruse, the scooter guy.” I said and we laughed.

  “Poor bastard! Everyone must get so excited to meet him until they do and realize it’s not the actor.”

  “Yeah, but just think about how many scooters he sells with that name. I’m not sure I really feel bad for him or his suffering ego.” I shrugged, firing up the iPad to look at what Tom had to offer.

  “Now would you look at those? They are hideous!” She pointed and tapped at the iPad angrily.

  “Quit it, Ma! You’re going to end up ordering something by tapping the screen like that!” I pulled it out of her reach. “Now,” I continued, “look at this red one. It has a basket and side view mirrors!” I said in an exaggerated, excited manner.

  She held up her hands as if she was driving a motorcycle then started sounding off the backing up beeping sound. “Move out of my way, asshole, before I run you over! Can’t you see how fast I’m going?” she yelled out, looking in her pretend side mirror. I held my stomach, laughing.

  “Wait! Do the beeping sound again and I’ll be the robotic alert voice thingy.” I laughed.

  “Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . .”

  “Approaching douchebag in plaid shorts and hideous shirt in five . . . four . . . three. Immediate impact on douchebag in two . . .”

  “Beep! Beep! Beep!” Mom fell back, laughing harder.

  “Holy shit! Besides the obvious stuffed Toto dog, you need to put a foghorn in your basket. As you’re beeping, you should press that and make people jump!” I was getting so excited, I wanted a matching scooter just to hang and fuck with people all day. I mean, is that not right up my alley?

  “I could also just ‘accidently’ drive in reverse and run into people, claiming innocence,” she added thoughtfully.

  “We can take you to amusement parks and get to the front of the line.”

  “When my shakes get really bad, we can tell them I’m seizing and you need to get me through to exit. Then once we’re up by the ride, we’ll be cool as a cucumber and get on the ride, ahead of all the other gimpy bastards.” She points her finger in the air at her clever thought.

  “What if you get called out?” I widen my eyes in horror (not really, cuz’ we’ve done that before).

  “I’ll do what I did the last time—slap my bicep, uncoordinatingly, while flipping them off.” She imitated the action, reminding me of that day, the day I actually pissed myself. Luckily, I was in my bathing suit. I almost pissed myself again, right there. I had to run to
the bathroom.

  “FYI, Mom,” I said when I came back to the couch, “I don’t think uncoordinatingly is an actual word.”

  “Well . . . let’s look around and see if there are any Shannon O’Brien’s who give a flying fuck.” she suggested and turned her neck to look around the room. “Nope, I don’t see a single one.” She waved her hand around.

  I love my mom.

  She simply rocks.

  She took back her somber look. “I’m afraid I’ll never get to see you truly be happy, Carissa Catherine. That breaks my heart the most.” Her tears formed once again. I’ll admit it; mine did, too.

  “I’ve met someone, Mom.” I don’t know why I said that.

  “You have?” Her face lit up. Ok . . . maybe that’s why.

  “I’m scared.” That, too. Who doesn’t need their mama when they are scared?

  “That’s when you know it’s the real deal.” She smiled.

  “What?”

  “When you’re scared, that’s the real deal. There are two reasons why you’re scared,” she said before I could interrupt again. “First reason is that you’re afraid that it’s not going to work out and you’re going to get hurt. Second reason is you’re afraid that he’s the right one and your life will change. It will no longer revolve around you; you’ll need to make room for this other person. That thought is terrifying; to have someone consume as much of your life as you do.”

  “Mom,” my voice shook.

  “Don’t fight it, honey. He’s not part of your past, don’t force him there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t make him pay for what Drew did to you. Life’s too short, Ceese. You deserve to get over what happened to you—whatever that was—and have a happy life.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

  “I wish it was that simple, Mom. I want to get over the past but it’s always there, haunting me.”

  “I don’t care who it is, but you need to talk to someone about what happened. This is the biggest reason why you haven’t been able to move on . . . why you push men away.” Her eyes filled up and I know she was thinking the worst. I know this because she’s asked me so many times over the past fifteen years.

  “The next step is forgiveness.”

  “Yes!” She slapped my leg.

  “I’ll never forgive him,” I bit through those stupid fucking tears that were forming. Goddamn that son of a bitch! Every time I get emotional enough, thinking about what happened, and cry, it just makes me hate him all the more.

  “What did he do?” Her question paraded out of her mouth shaky and slow. She seemed to be trying to contain every emotion known to man.

  I changed the subject.

  “So, what is the doctor’s plan of action?” I grabbed the bowl of popcorn and began shoving it in my mouth . . . preventing me from talking.

  Mom eyed me. “I know what you are doing.” Nevertheless, she gave up and looked down at her hands. “Pills, diet, exercise . . . ya know, the usual. However, he did mention a different more pro-active treatment called Tsybari. It’s an infusion that I would have to do every four weeks. There are some risks and they are not sure if it works as well on people over the age of sixty-five like it does for younger adults. He usually doesn’t offer this as an option for people my age but given my long remission and my general health, he thought we could definitely consider it. Here’s the pamphlet.” She pulls up on the coffee table that actually works as a desk and storage bin, as well. That’s so mine when we split the goods up in this house! What?! No, I don’t want my parents to die. I’m just sayin’ . . . gotta stake your claim on this shit early! You’re still appalled? Try getting that stick out of your ass. There . . . that’s better. :)

  “Mom, you can’t do this. Nope!” I averted my eyes from the pamphlet to look at her.

  “Too risky?” She bit her lip.

  “Uh, yeah! For Christ’s sake, you can get Vaginitis!” I almost yelled.

  “But the vagina is all muscle! How do you get arthritis there? Oh, the pelvic bone maybe?” She widened her eyes at me.

  I stared blankly at her.

  Convulsing laughter fully equipped with snorting ensued after.

  “It’s an infection in your vagina!” I finally informed her.

  “Well, I can get cream for that.” She defended it.

  “Um . . . eww. Also, that shit stinks! I think Daddy would rather you doing your shaky shakes under him; might give him an extra . . .” I winked and clicked my tongue twice. “Vaginitis will only have him hurl whenever he’d try to get near you. Would you rather repulse him or re-enact the 70s when you two would stay at hotels with the vibrating beds?”

  “Shh . . . shh!” She held her finger to her mouth, frantically blowing—oh, the irony. “How is it you’re the only kid I know that doesn’t vomit in their mouth, thinking about their parents having sex?” She chuckled.

  “You’ve had five kids, Ma, I’m pretty certain Dad likes to hit that shit—”

  “—Carissa Catherine!” She gasped, cutting me off.

  “What?”

  “I love you. You’re crazy as hell, but, God, do I love that about you.” Yes, the tears started up again. “You need a good man who will love that about you, too.”

  “I . . . Kyle . . .” I hesitated. Admitting to anyone that Kyle was just that guy seemed (still seems) like defeat. Fuck, I hate this flip-flopping ‘oh, what am I to do? (spoken in damsel distress voice)’ attitude I’ve been having. This is not me! I hate that he’s affected me like this. I hate that I love how he makes me feel. Seriously . . . What. In. The. Actual. Fuck?

  “Kyle what? Is that his name?” She smiled.

  “Yes.” That was it. I grabbed the remote and pressed play. My mother patted my lap. I glanced at her a few minutes later only to find a small smile planted on her face. Her eyes fluttered over to me and she gave me a soft wink. I replied with a half-smile.

  Mothers are amazing, aren’t they? I’m always in awe as to how my mom just knows. She knows when to press me more and she knows just when to stop. When I’m off? She’s grilling me for the answer why. I could go on and on. No one knows me as well as she does—emotionally, that is. I used to hope that I would be half as wonderful as a mom that she is. I settled for the title of Aunt a long time ago. I do my best there and it’s pretty damn good, I think. That’s the closest I will ever get to motherhood. I’m lucky to have that. I don’t deserve to be a mom. I would suck at it.

  “What are you two up to?” Mom asks from behind me.

  “Just contemplating why the hell I’m up so early,” I say before bringing my cup of coffee up to my lips.

  “Because you’re an adult with a business to run,” she offers and kisses the top of my head.

  “Shit, I never got that memo on being an adult. When the hell did that happen?”

  “Come to think of it, you may have been overlooked,” she sasses.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “You’re welcome. So, how’s business?” she asks taking her cup of coffee out of Dad’s hand. She sits next to me with Dad next to her. Now’s a good time as ever, right?

  “Business is not that great. I’ve decided to sell my house and use that money to try something else to salvage it.” I sip my coffee, waiting.

  “What are you thinking of, Dolly?” Dad widens his eyes as if he’s anxious to hear about my newest scheme. You know what I love about my dad? This right here! My dad never flips out and throws his opinions at us. He waits to hear our entire plan before putting his two cents in. You know what I love even more about him? He never responds negatively. Nope, Happy Jack O’Brien tends to find his girls very capable and in return, he always hears us out. The only opinion he ever gives us is a thought on how to do something or another better. I asked him about that one time. “Dad? How is it that you never get impatient with us girls? Every time we have big plans and share them with you, you never flip out or tell us our thinking is all wrong.”

  “Dolly, even if I though
t your plan wasn’t solid, why would I ever make you second-guess yourself? That is the biggest mistake I think a parent can make. I’d rather support you and find the best ways to help you achieve what you want to do to be a success.”

  “So, if I decided to become a crack dealer, you’d help me find the best way to distribute the crack?” Because I’m a smartass.

  “Crack is whack, Dolly! Better off with the weed. It’s becoming legal in a few states now.”

  “The weed?” I chuckled.

  “What? They call it something different these days?”

  “Yeah, they dropped ‘the’; it took too long to say. It’s a fast paced business, drug dealing, they gotta keep the line movin,’ ya know?” I said straight-faced (well, I think I did).

  “Smarty-pants.” He chuckled.

  Yep, I love my dad. I’m very blessed in the parental unit department. They both have been (still are) wonderful parents. And that’s the top reason why Charley and I have stayed around here and do our best to help them out. That and the rest of the girls; they are our family. I can’t imagine going through my life without any of them nearby. It’s sad to say, but with the exception of Charley, these girls are more like sisters to me than my own sisters. I love Caroline, Colleen, and Caitlyn but bitches stepped out a long time ago. They are holiday and vacation sisters now. I can’t tell you the last time I picked up the phone to have a “Hey, sis, whatcha doin’” conversation with any of them. It’s sad, I know. Charley and I talk about it every once in a while; it bothers us. You know what, though? Every time we try to call and check in, they’ve done nothing but aggravate the piss out of us. The biggest problem? Well, it’s something that, I think, most older siblings go through. There’s always one (in our case, two) sibling that stays near the parents. While they are the ones taking the “rents” to dr’s appointments, checking in on them, and doing basically anything that they need, the other siblings sit half or all the way across the country, barking orders. Then they wonder why we get mad at them. Listen, I know that not everyone can handle taking care of their parents, watching them age. But either suck it the fuck up or don’t be a douchebag to the ones who are there day in and day out, handling everything. If you think you can do it better, put your swim cap on and dive in, motherfucker!