I walked slowly behind Abbey. The sound of heavy panting noises grew louder as we got closer to the family room. At the threshold of the room I peeked inside. Mrs. Hulling was standing in front of the TV, bent over, and stretching her fingers toward her toes while wearing a bright pink and aquamarine leotard.
I immediately closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see that, and apparently, neither did Abbey. Abbey ran into the room and turned off the TV. “Mom. What are you doing?”
“Hey. That’s my Jane Fonda tape. Turn it back on.” Mrs. Hulling stood upright so her butt wasn’t in the air anymore. Her face glistened with sweat and her bleached-blonde hair was pushed back by a bright pink head band.
Abbey gave me a quick glance, but it was long enough for me to see the embarrassment in her face. “Do you have to do it now?”
Mrs. Hulling stared at Abbey for a couple seconds, then looked to me, and then back to Abbey. “Yes, I have to do this now. I’m not young anymore. Not like I used to be. I need to work harder to keep my body from letting go. Some day you girls will have to do the same . . . Now turn that TV back on.”
Abbey turned the TV back on then quickly grabbed my hand and pulled me upstairs to her room.
Abbey slammed the door behind us. “I really hate her sometimes.” She collapsed onto her bed.
I sat down beside her. “She’s just trying to keep in shape. It’s no big deal.”
“Does your mom do those stupid tapes?”
“Hell no,” I quickly replied.
Abbey jerked her head at me.
“I . . . I mean, not yet,” I said, in a softer tone. “But I’m sure someday she will.”
“No, she won’t. You’re just saying that to try to make me feel better. She doesn’t need those tapes. Your mom doesn’t have a big fat ass like my mom.”
I laughed quietly while imagining Abbey’s mom bent over, the way she was, with her butt high in the air. “Your mom’s butt isn’t that fat. She’s okay, I guess.”
“But she’s not as pretty as your mom.”
“My mom’s younger,” I said.
“And my mom wants to be younger.”
“Every woman wants to be younger,” I pointed out.
Mrs. Hulling used to be attractive. I knew this because on days when I was sure she’d been drinking, she’d pull out old photo albums, place them on her lap, and tap the space next to her, urging me to sit down. I’d go to her and look at all the snapshots of her younger, prettier years. She’d point to them and narrate the back story of every portrait, and I could sense the longing in the way she spoke of those times, and I knew those had been the best days of her life.
I had sensed it made Abbey feel somewhat resentful that her mother reminisced about a time she desperately wanted back that didn’t include Abbey.
“I think I really hate her sometimes,” Abbey said.
I scooted myself closer to her and watched the forlorn expression sink down her face. I gave her sleeve a gentle tug. “Forget about mothers. They won’t be able to tell us what to do forever.”
“Mine will.”
“No she won’t. It only seems like that now.”
“I can’t wait till I’m older,” Abbey said.
“Then you’ll want to be younger.”
Abbey shook her head and looked at me with a serious expression. “No way. I’ll never want to be young again. I want to be old cuz then no one will be able to tell me what to do anymore.”
“Okay,” I said. “Just make sure it’s always what you want. Otherwise, you’ll be just like your mom, always looking back.”
Abbey held my gaze with her own, and there was a flash of contentment in her eyes that I’d never seen before. “I won’t be like her,” she said softly, but with conviction. “I’ll make my own decisions and even if they don’t turn out the way I want them to, I won’t be so bitter.”
I knew what Abbey was referring to. She had overheard her mom on the phone one day crying to a friend, lamenting about why God had to make her have a child so late in life, and that now she was the oldest mother of all the mothers with kids our age.
“It took a long time for my mom to get pregnant,” Abbey had told me. “When she finally got pregnant with me she was thirty-five years old. She was having her first child when most women her age already had three or four.”
“Wait,” I’d said after doing the quick math in my head. “That means your mom’s forty-six.”
“Yep.”
“But she tells everyone she’s thirty-nine.”
“I know.”
“Damn! Even her fake age is older than all the other mothers’ real age. That must really piss her off.”
Abbey had laughed when I said that, but she wasn’t laughing now.
She looked determined to do all she could not to end up like her mother.
I WAS IN bed when the sound of my mother’s soft laughter roused me from my sleep once again. I threw the covers off me and hurried to the door. When I’d gone to bed that night, I had left the door slightly open so that if I heard my mom talking again, I could open the door without worrying about it making any noises. But now it was closed completely. My mother must have shut it on her way to bed.
“Shit,” I muttered under my breath.
I pressed my ear against the door, hoping I’d be able to hear her better than I had the night before, but still I heard nothing more than muffled whispering.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.
I knew I needed to get closer to my mother’s room if I was going to make out anything she was saying. I studied my door shut tight and thought how I could open it without making a sound and then walk across the hallway to her room in our quiet house, without her hearing.
Knowing how much my door screeched and the floors cracked, accomplishing this feat wasn’t going to be easy, but I needed to know who was making my mother laugh in the middle of the night. I hadn’t heard her laugh like that in a long time, and now, more than anything I needed to know who the hell was on the other end of that line.
I grabbed the doorknob and twisted the handle slowly, careful not to make a sound. I pulled the door open and waited, listening. So far all seemed well as my mother’s stifled voice spilled out into the hallway.
Although the sound of her voice was louder in the hallway, the words were still a mess. I would need to get closer to her bedroom door to hear what she was saying. I took one tiny step into the hall. No sound. Then another step. Still good. After three steps I was starting to hear a little better, but on the fourth step . . .
Creak.
My mother’s hushed laughter stopped. “Lyssa? Is that you?”
I was busted.
“Lyssa? What are you doing?” my mother called out from her room.
“Uh . . . nothing. Just going to the bathroom.”
“Well, hurry up. It’s late.”
I walked with heavy steps to the bathroom and slammed the door behind me. There was no use being quiet now. I was pissed at myself that I couldn’t sneak to my mother’s door without her hearing.
I didn’t have to go to the bathroom, but to keep up with my facade I filled a small rinse cup up with water and slowly poured it into the toilet to appear as though I was peeing.
I flushed the toilet and then ran the faucet a couple seconds, pretending to be washing my hands. I was careful not to miss one detail.
I walked back to my room, listening for my mother’s voice, but the hallway was silent. Whomever she was talking to before, she wasn’t anymore. I closed my door with a heavy sigh. I wanted to know who my mother was talking to so late—two nights in a row.
MY MOTHER HAD left early again that morning, and there was a note on the fridge instructing me not to eat supper. She’d be home in time to make dinner.
I glanced at the clock. It was almost four, and I was getting hungry. I hadn’t eaten since earlier that day when Abbey and I had found some money in the street and bought all the candy and chips we could afford with our discovered
treasure.
I was still standing in front of the fridge when Abbey called for me from the living room.
“Lyssa! Whitesnake’s on!”
I hurried into the room, and Abbey was standing on the couch playing the meanest air guitar I’d ever seen. I hopped onto the couch and sang along to the music.
Abbey bent over, clutching her stomach.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t feel so good,” she said.
I jumped off the couch. “Are you gonna throw up?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. But I better go home just in case.”
“I’ll ride with you to your house. Make sure you get there okay.”
“Nah, you don’t have to. I’ll be fine. My stomach just hurts.”
I walked her to the door.
She stopped rubbing a hand over her belly and clamped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened in panic.
“Run to the bathroom,” I shouted.
She ran down the hall to the toilet and slammed the door shut. After about ten minutes the door opened, and Abbey came out, holding a towel.
“You okay?” I asked.
She nodded. “I feel better, but I got some throw-up on your toilet. I cleaned it though. I cleaned the puke with this.” She held the hand towel up, but no way was I touching it.
“Just toss it on the pile of dirty clothes in the laundry room,” I said.
She went into the room and came back looking much better than she did before.
“Do you still want to go home?” I asked.
“I’m gonna have to leave soon for dinner.”
“Ask your mom if you can eat here.”
“I can’t eat anymore junk.”
I laughed. “No, my mom’s coming home tonight. She’s making something good.”
“WILL YOU GIRLS mix the salad while I take the chicken out of the oven?” my mom asked.
“I’ll do it, Mrs. Walker.”
“Thanks, Abbey.”
There were place settings for three. I walked around the table pouring pop into our glasses. My mom placed a bowl of mashed potatoes and a platter of roasted chicken on the table.
“Hey, easy on the soda. You girls drink too much of that.”
“That’s what my mom says.” Abbey set the salad bowl next to the chicken.
“Well, she’s right,” my mom said.
I rolled my eyes and sat down. My mom forked salad into each of our plates.
We began eating and Abbey was the first to praise my mom for the scrumptious dinner. She wasn’t being a suck-up. Abbey was right. The food tasted amazing. My mom was a decent cook when she had time to be a cook.
I shoved a forkful of creamy mashed potatoes blended with an extra juicy piece of chicken into my mouth and savored the taste of the delectable concoction.
I looked across the table to Abbey as she dug her fork into her dinner.
“This sure beats S’mores and bologna sandwiches for supper, uh, Lyssa?” she asked.
I sneaked a glance at my mom. Her eyes were concentrated on her plate, but I was sure I saw a patch of red flush over her cheeks before I turned my attention back to Abbey. All of her attention was still on her food. I knew her comment was a simple observation, not a direct hit against my mom.
“I used to make dinners and freeze it for Lyssa so she can have it on nights I’m working late,” my mom explained. “All she had to do was warm it up, but she never ate it, and when I got tired of throwing away freezer-burned food, I stopped making them. Why wouldn’t you eat the food I left you?” she asked me.
My mom slid a small portion of potatoes onto her fork, and then she turned to me, obviously waiting for a response.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just didn’t feel like eating that stuff.”
“You mean you’d rather eat bologna sandwiches than this?” Abbey asked.
“Sometimes,” I responded, somewhat harshly.
“I was only asking,” she replied, defensively.
I dropped my gaze to my plate and circled the food around the dish with my fork. I had once prepared the food my mom had pre-made for me, but eating homemade dinners alone made me feel lonelier than eating at a table surrounded by empty chairs did. Junk food felt more appropriate for the circumstances. So I stopped eating my mother’s meals, and she stopped making them, except for the nights she was home with me.
ABBEY AND I were lying on our backs, sprawled across my bed, side by side, listening to music.
“I noticed at dinner your mom doesn’t ask you a million questions about what you did that day. My mom wants to know every last detail and she won’t stop asking till I tell her. Most times I make stuff up just to shut her up.”
“My mom does that to me sometimes, too. But it’s only because she isn’t here as much as she wants to be and is curious what I’m up to.”
“I can see that, but even if my mom sees me for most of the day, she still asks her stupid questions,” Abbey said.
“Our moms are different, I guess.”
“You can say that again,” Abbey replied.
I turned on my side to face her. “Can I tell you something, but you can’t tell anyone. You promise?”
“Who would I tell?”
“My mom’s been talking to someone late at night.”
“Really?” Abbey propped herself up on her elbows and leaned closer to me. “Who?”
“I don’t know, but she woke me up two nights in a row laughing.”
“Laughing? Why was she laughing?”
“I don’t know. It was a quiet laugh, but it still woke me up.”
“What was she saying?”
“I couldn’t make it out. She was whispering.”
“Do you think it’s a boy?”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course it’s a boy. Why would she be talking so low if it wasn’t a boy?”
“Maybe she was just talking to a friend but didn’t want to wake you.”
“No, Abbey. She was whispering because she didn’t want me to hear what she was saying in case I was up.”
“Hmmm. She was whispering and laughing?”
“Yeah, but it was a different kind of laugh.”
“Different how?”
“Like the way Janet laughs in the halls every time she flirts with a cute boy.”
“Oh gross.” Abbey scrunched her face.
“I know.”
“I heard Sally say that Janet kissed all the boys in the eighth grade class and that now she was a big slut.”
I shot Abbey a look.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean your mom was a . . .”
“I know.” I buried my head in my hands and groaned. “I hope this doesn’t mean my mom’s gonna start walking around the house with the same dopey grin on her face that she had when she was with Gary.”
“Was he the one with the hair piece that flew away that one really windy day? Remember? We were sitting on your porch when he pulled into the driveway and as soon as he stepped out of his car, a gust of wind lifted that sucker right off his head.”
“And it flew all the way down the street,” I yelled.
Abbey and I were laughing so hard my stomach ached. “He . . . He . . .” I was laughing too hard to speak. “He had to run across four of my neighbors’ front yards before he finally caught that thing.”
“It looked like a little chipmunk, blowing across the lawns like that.”
I laughed even harder because Abbey had nailed it. My mom’s date’s hairpiece had looked exactly like a small furry animal, and I couldn’t believe he wore that that thing on his head.
“Your mom had a dopey grin on her face over that guy?”
“No. The hair piece guy was Fred. She didn’t stay with him very long. I think she only dated him because she was sad about Gary. He always wore a shit load of cologne.”
“Gary was the cologne guy?”
“Yeah.”
“He smelled so bad.”
“I know,”
I said. “I used to beg my mom to leave him on the front porch when he’d come to pick her up. But she always invited him in and he’d stink up the whole house. Even after they’d leave, his stench would linger in the house for hours. I couldn’t stand him. I was glad when he was gone.”
“He wasn’t so bad.”
“You weren’t around him enough.”
“I guess.” Abbey paused. “How come your mom doesn’t date more?”
“She dates enough,” I said.
“Not really. Gary was a while ago. I know if my mom was single she’d date all the time.”
“Do you think your mom would be like Janet? Flirt with every boy she sees?”
“Probably,” Abbey said.
I was glad my mom wasn’t a flirt. Sometimes at school functions I’d catch other fathers, single and married, checking her out. But my mother never gave any indication she was remotely interested in their attention, and I knew she was there for only me.
There was a knock at my bedroom door, and then the door opened, and my mom popped her head into the room.
“It’s starting to get dark. Abbey, you should get home. I’m sure your mom’s waiting for you.”
“Okay, Mrs. Walker.” Abbey scooted off the bed. “See you tomorrow, Lyssa.”
“See ya.”
“Do you want me to drive you?” my mom asked. “I can put your bike in my backseat.”
“No, thank you. It’s not that dark yet.”
“Call us when you get home,” my mom instructed.
Abbey nodded. “I will. Bye, Lyssa.”
“See ya, Ab.”
I listened to my mother’s footsteps as she followed Abbey to the front door. I heard them say goodbye and then the door slammed shut, and my mother’s footsteps approached my room until she was, once again, standing at my door, watching me.
“What?” I asked while still lying on my bed.
“There’s something we need to talk about,” she said.
I pushed myself up on my elbows. “What is it?”
She sat on the edge of my bed. “Will you please turn that noise off?”
I sighed and leaned across my bed and reached for the shelf where my tape player was and stopped the cassette.
A Penny on the Tracks Page 6