True.
“Speaking of Tara…” She let the words hang there for several beats. “You need to call Jason and see if you can find out what the hell is going on.”
“I’m not going to check in on his breakup with his girlfriend. We don’t do that. He’s dated plenty of girls over the years and has never once come crying to me about it. I’m not going to start getting involved now.
She stared up at him, imploring, and when he didn’t acquiesce, she said, “She’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” Choking out the word.
She nodded. “Knocked up.” Then poked at her own massive midsection to punctuate the point.
“Jason’s the father?”
“The one and only.”
He scratched his head, looking not for the first time like talking to her was a puzzle. A big fat three-thousand piece jigsaw puzzle of the kind her mother would swoon over. “Well, they’re both adults. They can deal with it.”
“But she’s not dealing with it. She dumped him and then came here to dump all of it on our doorstep. She’s acting like it doesn’t matter if Jason knows because they’re ‘incompatible’.” Air quotes to show how ridiculous Tara was being.
“She hasn’t told him?”
“And isn’t planning to.”
His stone face was hard to read. Frustration? Disgust? Anger? All of the above? She’d hit a chord there. This was about a guy’s right to know he had a child and Fynn was firm on that score.
“She actually said she isn’t going to tell him?” he prodded.
“In so many words.”
“What words, exactly?”
“I don’t know the exact words! I just know what I heard.”
His expression was tight, like hearsay from his wife was too little evidence to go on.
“Come on! This is Tara we’re talking about! This is just like her to get pregnant and then go off half-cocked like she hasn’t just made the biggest mistake of her life.” Even worse, she was happy-go-lucky about it! Pregnant? Single? No problem. Easy-peasy.
And a slap in the face.
Catherine was still trying to get her sea legs with this new life she had, and hers was at least stable and legitimate. Tara was diving in headfirst without knowing the depth of the water. The only thing she had ever committed to before was hopping from like to like, guy to guy, and day to day. Now she was committing to eighteen years of raising a child? Alone? Perfectly fine with being babyful and guyless?
But Fynn still seemed reticent to do something about it. Or anything for that matter. Even worse, she was pretty sure that a shrug was about to happen. A c’est-la-vie gesture. A to-each-his-own motion. And all the other clichés about people live-and-let-living each other wherever it took them.
“You want to call your sister and ask her? Tara’s been living there. With them.” In case that part wasn’t clear enough. “Drew must know something.”
She saw the look on his face, chewing on all of it, calmly and rationally, the way he did things—the antithesis of her every instinct and reaction. As he saw it, she was always overboard about things. She preferred principled. Like when she got “all wound up” about them shrinking the size of the Oreos package as if it had no effect on loyal consumers whatsoever. In fact, it had ruined her ice cream cake for Fourth of July, because one package was no longer enough to make the crust right. Her cake was the victim of a dirty marketing trick, and she still hadn’t forgiven them. Hadn’t bought an Oreo since. Because she had principles. All while Fynn was in her other ear when she called to complain, telling her she should have just written the recipe out in number of cookies in the first place and avoided this problem. Thank you, Captain Obvious. Maybe you would like their blood-money coupons to buy some undersized packages to shove in your “meh” face.
The front door suddenly burst wide open as if by a strong wind, but the sounds that followed indicated a gale-force Cara instead. “Magnus!” she called out. The golden retriever’s paws fought for purchase on the wood floor as he was startled out of a nap. “We got you a treat!”
Fynn held a hand out to Catherine, hoisting her to her feet. “Please call him,” she begged. “Either that or she’ll end up living with us and having her baby right here, and our kids will grow up like siblings and Tara will end up being my sister-wife. And, no, you won’t get conjugal favors. It will be all pain, no gain.” She kissed him on the cheek to seal her request, then pulled him along out of the room and down the stairs to greet the home-comers.
“Hey guys, how was the ice cream parlor?” she asked jovially.
“Quintessional,” Cara said, holding a small plastic cup that Magnus had his nose in.
“Close,” her mother said. “Quintessential. Everything down to the metal bistro tables and chairs and the black and white checkered floor. It screamed ice cream parlor.”
“It screamed cold on my keester, those chairs did,” William added.
“What’s a keester?” Cara asked.
“Your bottom.”
“Cara wants to learn all of Pop-Pop’s old-fashioned words,” Gramma Lizzy explained.
Cara nodded along excitedly. “Here’s a riddle: what’s the difference between a cell and a cordless and an honest-to-God telephone? Only the last works a hoot,” she giggled, not waiting to deliver the punch line.
“That’s not really a riddle, though,” Catherine said carefully.
“It’s riddle enough for us.” Pop-Pop high-fived Cara.
“What’s that?” Fynn pointed toward the cup Magnus had already licked clean.
“That was a doggie sundae. It came with vanilla ice cream and a little doggie biscuit on top and everything,” Cara said. “They’re free. They say that you’re supposed to bring your dog with you to get one, but since they know who I am they know that Magnus is my dog, so they let me bring one home to him anyway.” So proud.
“That’s really great,” Fynn offered.
“I just hope that neither of you have spoiled your dinner,” Catherine said, hardly realizing how “Elizabeth Hemmings” that was until it was all the way out of her mouth. Passive-aggressive and judgy.
“We only had one scoop each,” her mother assured her.
“Call it an appetizer. I’m hungrier than ever,” her father announced. “What’s for dinner anyway?”
Catherine gulped. She had no earthly idea. She racked her brain to come up with something she could order in.
“We bought that beautiful boneless chicken at the grocery store. Why don’t you and I come up with something?” her mother offered magnanimously. “You have these impressive new appliances; we might as well try them out. I could teach you how to make my lemon pepper chicken.”
And there it was. Instead of just taking over, her mother was going to “help” her into line. Make her the housewife she was supposed to be as Elizabeth Hemmings’ daughter.
“But I was thinking about going out tonight.”
“We were just out, though. It would be so nice to have a family meal at home,” her mother nudged.
Catherine groaned.
“Come on, cooking lessons will be fun. Cara can help too. If I had insisted you help me when you were little, you wouldn’t be so lost in the kitchen today.” The backhand, administered with a smile. Her mother was diabolical.
“Don’t tell me this is what you are giving me for Christmas,” she grumbled. Even at her age, she preferred things that were wrapped in boxes and tied with bows. She preferred things she actually wanted or wished for too, for that matter.
“What do you mean?”
“Cooking lessons.”
“Honestly, Catherine Marie, it’s the thought that counts,” her mother admonished.
Friday, December 8th
-28-
“What are you doing?” Catherine asked, heading into the mudroom and catching her mother red-handed in front of the dryer, folding one of Fynn’s old shirts.
“Just making myself useful.”
The pile of clothes
on the dryer had been there since her parents arrived, and she imagined her mother had been sleeping fitfully just knowing about it, compounded by the fact that the hamper was now yawning open, filled beyond its capacity. But this was how things were done around here. Some days she did no laundry and others she did three or more loads. Sometimes she skipped several days—gasp! So different from Elizabeth Hemmings’ daily process of wash—dry—fold—iron—put away.
“That isn’t necessary, Mom.” Though she really wanted to rip the shirt out of her hands.
“Nonsense, you know I like to make myself useful, especially since you have to put up with me for the next couple weeks. Besides, it is a load of laundry, hardly anything overwhelming. I will fold them and carry them up in a jiffy.”
You can do everything in a jiffy, can’t you? Catherine smarted. Raise a family. Have a dinner party. Keep a house. But she squelched her frustration the best she could. “Actually, Mom, those are donations,” she corrected.
“Oh, well, they can be folded up nice for Goodwill. It is Christmas, you know.” Though of course Christmas had nothing to do with it; this was about a folding disorder in her mother’s brain.
“Let me find a box,” Catherine sighed, realizing she would not win.
“Catherine Marie,” her mother said, stopping her at the threshold to the garage, “this is the blouse I gave you for your birthday this year.” She dangled it in the air in front of her.
“Oh… yeah… that…. It doesn’t fit right anymore.”
“Well of course not, you are pregnant.” She looked over the blouse for the real reason her daughter would be getting rid of a perfectly nice gift.
And it was a nice blouse… just not quite her color and—
“It is missing a button,” her mother pointed out.
Bull’s-eye. A lost button. Not just fallen off in the wash, but completely MIA. And while replacing one button was possibly within her limited capabilities, the spare that had come with the blouse was AWOL along with its little baggy, which meant finding, buying and replacing a whole shirt’s worth because this “perfectly nice blouse” didn’t have the normal any-shirt kind of buttons. So, yes, she’d decided to pass that nice, hardly worn gift along to someone who needed it more… and could sew.
“You cannot donate a blouse that is missing a button,” Elizabeth Hemmings asserted as if it was written somewhere in the penal code.
“Since when?”
“Since forever. Donations should be in good condition.”
“It is in good condition. And anyway, donations can be in any condition. Holey, torn, ripped, whatever. People repurpose old and broken and worn-out things all the time. And anything they can’t use, they recycle. Even ratty old sneakers.” So there. A direct blow to the woman who used to weed out and throw out anything that wasn’t perfect before donating. Literally just threw the stuff away. Bam! Student surpasses the teacher.
“But really, Catherine, it is so wasteful to give away something just because you do not want to work on it. And on one income—”
Her mother’s words stopped and Catherine thought at first she must have blacked out from the rush of frustration, but she was still there and standing on her own two feet, ready to unleash her feelings on the matter about her financial business being her business and what she chose to waste her money on being her own cross to bear. She wasn’t going to darn socks or knit her own sweaters or use Fynn’s old T-shirts as dust rags. It just wasn’t her. And they would be perfectly fine in spite of all that—
“Let’s go out. Just the two of us. Do some shopping for the baby. Your father and I wanted to do something for you and rather than us buy you things you might not need, we could go together and get exactly what you want. We can get some lunch too. Maybe get Reubens at the diner—mine was delicious the other day.”
Whoa, what just happened? Catherine had never heard her mother back away from a point before. Giving in. Moving on… And proving in some ways, at least, they were very much alike.
“That sounds… nice.” The slightest upturned question.
“Good.” Her mother put down the blouse, conceding. “I could also use a little help shopping for Cara. What does she really want?”
Your guess is as good as mine. “I’m sure she’ll love anything you pick.” Catherine hoped the same went for Santa. They could just say he’s getting old and senile and quite possibly has Alzheimer’s and next year he will be forced to retire and be replaced with a better Santa who will bring everything she wants and more.
“I remember your sister…” her mother said, her voice wispy, her body leaning against the dryer now as if the memory was so heavy that she needed extra strength to hold herself up under it. “… when she was four years old all she wanted was purple presents.”
“That’s what that was about?” Catherine remembered the gifts under the tree; everything purple was for Josephine.
“She actually asked Santa to bring her purple presents, and we had to go out and buy all new paper and rewrap everything. Not a care in the world for what was inside, so long as they were purple.”
A sad smile played on her mother’s lips and Catherine almost let the cat out of the bag about her dilemma in regards to Cara, but then Elizabeth Hemmings stood up straight and tall again. “I am not trying to take Santa’s gusto. Whatever Cara has her heart set on the most should come from that place where it keeps the spirit of the season alive for her the longest. Kids learn the truth all too quickly. I just want to know the types of things she likes so we don’t just have a bunch of clothes under the tree for her. It is no fun being a grandparent if not to spoil your grandkids.”
-29-
As they pulled into the parking lot in front of Kohl’s, Catherine spotted a U-Haul and her hair bristled on the back of her neck. There was no chance it was anyone else, and exactly what she didn’t need.
Her mother’s foot hit the floor and she whipped her eyes forward. All clear up ahead, but at her racing speed of four miles an hour she was still going too fast for Elizabeth Hemmings, who engaged her optional passenger brake.
“Mom, why don’t we just go to the baby store instead?” she offered, because that store was halfway to the Mall of America, which meant in another town and well away from the frigging U-Haul a couple of rows over.
Elizabeth shook her head. “They charge an arm and a leg at places like that. If you can shop elsewhere you should. Frugality is a worthy trait. You know, the smallest things can have the greatest impact.”
Two fortune cookie lines in a few seconds’ time. A new record.
Her mother stomped the floor again as a car that was parked a few spaces ahead switched into reverse, and Catherine was pretty sure she also saw her invoke the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost in her periphery.
“I don’t know why you have to park so close to the store,” Elizabeth Hemmings nitpicked as her daughter continued down the aisle. “It never hurt anyone to walk a few extra feet.”
“Are you saying I’m fat?”
“I said no such thing! Pregnancy is an honor to cherish, Catherine Marie.”
“It’s a joke, Mother.”
But Elizabeth Hemmings wasn’t going to sink to her level, instead slipping into lecture mode about the parking spot. “It’s just so much harder to get in and out when you’re packed in close to the store like that. And people ding your doors and scratch up the paint. Besides, a little extra activity is good for everyone. You know, I always take the stairs even when there is an elevator. Walking is good, healthy movement. Your father and I aren’t getting any younger and we want to be around to spoil our grandkids.”
Successfully put in her place, Catherine finished the row and started up the next one, parking just outside the first island of planting areas, more than midway out, one side of the car protected by the curb. Turning off the ignition, she asked, “Happy here?”
“Quite.” And with that Elizabeth pulled her purse up onto her shoulder and got out.
“
What are we shopping for, anyway?”
“A layette for the baby.”
“What exactly is a layette?”
Before she could get an answer, a whistle sounded, then a Cat call, and there was Tara, heading straight for them, lugging two large gray shopping bags.
Just perfect.
“Wow, fancy meeting you here!” she announced.
“I should be the one saying that,” Catherine said lowly—as in, I’m the one who lives here. “Mom, you remember Tara,” she added through gritted teeth.
“Of course I do. I’m not senile, Catherine, we just saw her a few days ago.” She turned to Tara. “What a nice surprise this is. How are you?” Elizabeth Hemmings doing her thing, always the utmost polite.
“Good—great, actually. Just taking advantage of some terrific sales.”
“We’re out shopping for some baby things,” Elizabeth said, as if Tara needed to know.
Catherine cringed, hoping that her friend wouldn’t think it was an invitation to join them, and further that she would keep her mouth shut about her own state of conception. Catherine hadn’t told her mother about her unwed, unattached, very single, now-pregnant friend. Elizabeth Hemmings was not equipped for such conversations. Pregnant? That young woman I served French toast to last winter? Really, Catherine Marie, what kind of friends do you have?
Or maybe she should rat her out. A part of her wanted to, much like a big meanie of an older sister would do to her spoiled little sister in the name of justice (some would say vengeance). Catherine Marie was jealous as hell. Ugly jealous. She was tired of being judged and lectured about anything and everything while Tara went skating through life doing things completely contrary and getting away with it, all because she didn’t have an Elizabeth Hemmings in her life. You can have mine. Merry Christmas, bitch.
But of course her thoughts were hardly fitting for the season. This wasn’t Tara’s mom and Catherine had no right or reason to say a word. Drew, on the other hand, was going to hear all about it. Every. Last. Thing. What Tara had done. What she was doing now, or not doing, as it was. Nothing held back, because she had already weaseled her way into Drew’s life and if Catherine didn’t put a stop to it, Tara would infect her whole family, taking them over one by one. Next thing she might be offering herself up to Fynn or taking cooking lessons from her mother or buying Cara’s affections.
2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) Page 17