Marie’s face falls.
“And you know Declan will jump at the chance if I even whisper that word once,” Shannon adds.
“I don’t know what to do with you!” Marie says with a sniff, playing the wounded mom. “You’re so selfish that you won’t have a bridal shower—”
“Selfish? I asked everyone to donate to charity in lieu of gifts and a shower, Mom!”
“—and now you’re joking about elopement. It’s as if you don’t want a big, fancy society wedding with all the glamour and mystique and thousands of eyes on you.”
“I don’t! That’s the point!” I can see Shannon’s getting wound up in a way that only Marie can wind that key in her back.
Marie turns to me and, as if it weren’t at all a non sequitur, asks, “Andrew is stringing you along again?”
I burst into tears.
Marie is a pro. Shannon’s so outclassed.
“I slapped the CE—, er, a major client! Greg is going to explode when he learns what I just did to Andrew!” I wail, my tears curling down my jawline as I shove a cookie from a tray that Marie made into my mouth.
That’s it. I am done. He has firmly taken every cell of my body, melted it, turned it to dust and shaken it so hard I am now just particles on the wind, clinging wherever I land.
“Greg?” Marie and Shannon exchange a look, then burst into laughter. “Your boss?”
“Honey, Greg doesn’t explode,” Shannon says with a quiet mirth. “He’ll just bumble along and say nothing about it. Besides, Andrew kissed you without your permission.”
Good point.
“But she let him. I saw that. They were evenly matched, tongue for tongue,” Marie counters.
“Ewww, Mom!”
“What? Like you and Declan couldn’t see it? You don’t get close up views like that watching The Bachelor on an iPhone while maximizing the screen.”
I stop crying and stare at her.
“Not that I do that,” she mutters, shoving a rescue cookie in her own mouth.
“That was so unprofessional,” I say, chiding myself. “He’s a major client. I need to keep my tongue in my mouth.”
“And your hands off his ass,” Marie adds.
“And my—what? I did not touch his...oh, no.” A vague, yet remarkably visceral, memory of my hands scraping against the fine fabric of his trousers, the cashmere turning into butter as my fevered palms met his hot marble thighs and ass makes me pant.
Shannon’s frown is like a nonverbal tsk tsk tsk.
I guess I did take the opportunity to explore the, uh, terrain.
His spin trainer should be given a Nobel Prize for Sculpture.
My phone buzzes, jolting me. I look at my text messages.
“My mom,” I groan. As if the night couldn’t get any worse.
“Has Pam learned to say the words ‘toilet paper’ out loud yet?” Marie asks with a snort.
I sigh. “She can’t even say ‘menopause.’”
Marie goes quiet and eats another cookie, then mutters, “Can’t say I blame her.”
It’s 11:06 p.m. You said you would be home by eleven, the text reads.
You know where this is going, right? So do I.
I’m at Shannon’s place. I am fine. I am running late, I text back. But the text just says Sending, and doesn’t go through.
“Has she microchipped you yet?” Marie jokes. I look at her, all blonde and coiffed and smiling. Marie is the opposite of my mother in every way, from energy level to assertiveness, and while I know I should answer my mother’s worried missives, and I know she’s struggling tonight, I can’t. I just can’t. Andrew has tasted me, again, and that takes precedence.
Speaking of tastes, I reach for a rescue cookie. At this point, I need a rescue buffet. Where the hell is Declan with my Cheetos and marshmallows?
And...pause. Because I know, right? Cheetos and...marshmallows? Here’s the trick: you make rice cereal marshmallow treats. The kind with a box of rice cereal, a bag of marshmallows and a stick of butter, all mixed together and pressed in a greased pan.
Except instead of the rice cereal, insert crunchy Cheetos.
Unpause so you can marvel at the amazement that is this delicacy. I know! It’s like you’ve been living a culinary lie all these years.
You’re welcome.
Marie waves another cookie at me. “Earth to Amanda!” She points to the dining table. “Declan was just telling me that he loves the idea of a wedding cake in the shape of bagpipes.” On the table I see schematics of wedding cakes so complex they look like an architecture firm has designed blueprints for them, complete with pulleys and fire sprinkler systems.
Shannon gives me a look that says anything but. “No, Mom, he was saying the opposite.”
Marie inhales, the air whistling past her back teeth. “No, he didn’t! He said he’d love a cake made in the shape of bagpipes as much as he loves me.” She gives Shannon a doe-eyed look. “There’s only one way to interpret that comment.”
Shannon and I exchange a look and say, in unison, “Right.”
My phone buzzes again. I look.
Mom.
Please respond before I call 911, she texts.
Declan walks in just as I’m texting back the words, I am fine. Will be home late. This time, the text goes through. Whew.
He plunks the marshmallows and Cheetos on the counter. Shannon opens the refrigerator door, bends down, and searches for the butter.
Declan “bumps into” her from behind and bends over her, whispering something I imagine is quite dirty in her ear, given the Lauren Bacall laugh that emerges from her.
I watch them, my earlier beers fading, the taste of Andrew McCormick lingering on my tongue, the burn of his cheek etched into my palm.
Shannon gets it all. The awesome, charismatic mother. The billionaire fiancé.
A father.
I don’t even have that. Mine left when I was five.
The green cloud of jealousy that fills me feels like a smoke bomb, as if emotional terrorists appeared out of nowhere in a flash mob and pulled the pins, tossing the bombs like hail in a sudden storm cell.
I’m jealous. I can admit it. It’s not as if there’s something wrong with that. I can hold two opposite emotions in my heart at the same time. I am capable of feeling joy for Shannon and her new life and sorrow for my own trainwreck. Life doesn’t have to be either/or. It can be both/and.
As Declan nuzzles Shannon’s neck and touches her ass in ways that make me feel like I’m watching the opening to a Showtime after-hours special, I text my mom back with a single line:
In twenty minutes. On my way.
“I have to go,” I announce.
Marie’s face falls. Shannon and Declan are butting up against each other like horny goats in springtime. I’m seriously worried about how they’re both eyeing the stick of butter in her hand.
“But we were just about to look at the plaid gel nails for the bridesmaids!” Marie whines, holding up a full-color brochure from a local spa with—yep—plaid gel nail fills.
“You seriously want the bridesmaids to have fingernails that look like kilts?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“Everything will look like kilts!” Marie gushes. “I’ve even found plaid matching bra and thong sets for the bridesmaids. And a garter for Shannon.”
I swear I hear Declan mutter the word elope. Then he distinctly says, “Garters?” in a gruff voice.
“Will we throw plaid rice?” I joke.
“Is there such a thing?” Marie gasps.
“Check out Etsy,” I say as I walk toward the door, trying to ignore the lustfest going on in the kitchen. My phone buzzes over and over. Probably Mom, whipped into a panic. “You can find anything on Etsy.”
Even if you shouldn’t be able to.
“Hey! What about the Cheetos and marshmallows?” I hear Declan call out as the elevator doors close.
I close my eyes and slump against the elevator wall, wondering how my night opened wit
h dog butts and ended with plaid fingernails.
4
Living with Pamela Warrick is a physical, and emotional, landmine. She’s always been high strung. Neurotic. Tightly wound. A Museum Mom. So anal retentive you could put coal up her butt and get a diamond.
But only in private.
Mom’s OCD is like tree pollen in Massachusetts in May. It is just there, a fine layer that coats every surface, appearing with a spectral green hue when it is at its worst. It makes your eyes water and your throat itch, a malady you can’t escape. No amount of drugs can stop it. Trust me. I tried, back in high school. And not the kind you buy at a drugstore.
I have heard—and told—all the jokes about her uptightedness.
But when you add the fibromyalgia that hit her my senior year of high school, it’s like taking obsessive compulsive disorder and living with that on double speed.
With pain.
When she’s so picky I can’t do anything right, including breathing, I remind myself it’s not her fault. And it’s not. Getting rear-ended in a compact car by a guy driving the biggest SUV on the market and who didn’t even apply the brakes isn’t something anyone causes.
Except for the asshole driver who was—that’s right—texting.
Sexting, we learned, in the trial. You really do not want to watch those exhibits being paraded around a courtroom.
Neither did his wife.
Because the sexy pictures he received while texting weren’t from her.
Mom’s settlement covered her medical bills, some of her ongoing massage and physical therapy, and about half my college tuition.
But there’s never enough money to cover the change in her.
I extracted myself from Shannon’s place with promises to return tomorrow. They’re not empty assurances, though Declan’s look of appraisal made it clear he didn’t care so much about the fool’s errand of buying weird grocery items at the buttcrack of the day, but did find my flimsy excuse for leaving to be about as sturdy as an MRA’s sense of feminist principles.
I get out of the cab and walk up the front steps of our house, a rented duplex in Newton, the journey familiar and comforting in a damning sort of way, as if my life is on infinite repeat and all I can do is march along the deep grooves that my own feet created long before this moment.
“Amanda? Is that you?” Mom’s voice is a mixture of concern and anxiety.
“Who else would it be?” I say, realizing my mistake as the words come out.
“Who else? You could be a robber,” she answers, outraged at my insouciance. “A rapist. Someone trying to steal that nice computer your boss gave you.”
“Right.” The less said, the better. Did I mention what my mother does for a living?
She’s an actuary. Working right now on terrorism insurance for large corporations. It’s like having Josh Duggar work in costume design for Hooters.
Nothing like picking a line of work that feeds into your greatest source of weakness.
“It could be Tommy Lee Jones,” she says.
“Right—wait, what?”
Mirth fills her voice. “Hah. Gotcha.”
One joke. One little, not-funny joke is all it takes for me to understand her mood. I’ve cultivated a series of coping strategies for understanding where she is emotionally at any given time.
“You got me,” I say, walking over to her old vinyl record player and putting on some Thelonious Monk, the neat, orderly steps to start the machine done by rote memory, a soothing ritual that cuts through today’s craziness.
Mom’s passion of vinyl carried over to me. The scratches and bumps make the music gritty and real, and jazz helps her to mellow out.
“What were you doing?” she asks as the music provides a backdrop for our talk.
“Kissing a billionaire,” I blurt out.
“Really? There certainly are plenty of billionaires going around now. Shannon got one. Are they handing them out like free samples at Costco now?”
“Hah,” I pivot. “Gotcha.”
She believes the lie. Wouldn’t you?
“Oh, Amanda,” she says, moving with great effort. Where I’m taller and rounder, Mom is a pixie. Tiny and high-strung, she says the fibro turns her into blocks of concrete shoved inside a flesh set of tights. Her pain level must be manageable today.
Some days, she can’t even joke.
“You’ll find your billionaire someday, honey,” she says, yawning.
I already have, I want to say. I pinch my own forearm, willing the thought to go away.
Spritzy runs into the room, collar clanging.
Mom winces. “We need to do something about that collar. The metal against the metal makes my silver fillings hurt.”
Sound sensitivity comes with her fibro, too.
I pick up the little teacup Chihuahua, giving him some love. Spritzy shakes in my arms with an unremitting joy that makes me wonder why on earth I keep spending so much time obsessed with worrying about whether I’ll ever find true love.
I’m holding it in my arms right now, all 2.7 pounds of it.
Too bad you can’t really date your dog. At least, your dog’s personality.
“I can order the plastic tags, Mom. He doesn’t need the metal ones.” As if he agrees with me, Spritzy nods his head. Then I realize he’s licking my hand over and over, his head bobbing. He must taste rescue cookies.
Verbal Mistake Number 2 with my mother. We’ve been through this before, and....
“It’s a waste of money to swap them out. I just need to learn to live with the sound.”
And 3...2...1...
Cue a big sigh.
Am I callous for thinking about her fibromyalgia in terms of a rubric? It’s like when I create and implement a new mystery shopper’s questionnaire for a new marketing campaign. Study the objective. Determine the best way to meet the goal. Meet customer expectations. Exceed customer expectations.
And always, always, manage expectations.
But the true measure of success comes in predicting what happens next.
“I can see you’re having a tough time, Mom,” I say. My compassion is real. I remember the mom she was before the car accident. I know she doesn’t want to be like this. I know pain can change a person.
“I am,” she says. Her voice is filled with a thousand regrets and a million feelings she wants to convey but can’t. I get it. I understand. I’m a fixer. I can detect nearly any problem in a person’s voice, in the way they bounce their legs, in the nervous twitch of an eyelid.
In the taste of a man’s kiss when he’s trying to silence me from detecting exactly what I’m trained to do.
Spritzy’s licking my face now. It’s cute, but he’s no substitute for Andrew.
“Can I help? Heat up a rice sock for you? Run you a bath?” I ask Mom.
Her voice starts to tremble, the ripples of sound an apology for something she feels sorry for, though it was never her fault. “Thank you. The rice sock sounds lovely.”
I plunk Spritzy down on his impossibly tiny dog bed and make my way to the kitchen. It is spotless. Crumbs on the counter are like germs in an oncology ward: carefully exorcized and kept at bay at all costs, as if the punishment for a breach is death.
In my mom’s world, it is.
The rice sock has lavender in it, and as the microwave performs its magic, I lean against the counter and take a deep, cleansing breath. The adrenaline from the night’s events drains out of me, the mild rush now turning into the mind-racing of the damned. The entire evening replays itself like a digital film reel being edited on a computer, going in reverse in 2x, 4x, 16x. Then back to the beginning with Ron the Dog Butt Masseur, to my own massaging of a much more appealing ass.
What have I done?
Ding!
Spritzy comes flying into the kitchen at the sound of the microwave alarm, his little body too fast for his impulses, his nails so long he slides across the kitchen floor and crashes into the wall, jumping up and blinking like the wall att
acked him.
He actually growls at it.
Watch out, wall!
I laugh and reach into the microwave, the soothing warmth and waft of lavender giving me some gentle clarity I really need.
Mom’s grateful response as I set the rice sock on her shoulders fills me with a kind of sadness I’ve come to know all too well. It’s the sense of a life lived for everyone else. Everything I do involves fixing problems for other people—for my boss, for our clients, for the mystery shoppers I manage, for my friends, for my mom, for the world.
I can’t let it go.
Spritzy is on the carpet in the living room as I take a step to go upstairs and put the day behind me. He looks at me, eyes beseeching, and then he plants his little ass on the carpet and uses his front paws to drag himself across the carpet.
Oh, no.
My phone buzzes just then as my horrified eyes take in the dog’s obvious, uh, clues.
It’s a text from a private number. One I haven’t seen before.
And all it says is:
Meet me tomorrow in my office at eleven. Your discretion is required. Lipstick is optional. AJM.
AJM?
I frown at the screen while Spritzy violates the carpet. I reach the top of the stairs and it hits me.
Andrew. Andrew James McCormick. AJM.
Andrew is finally texting me. Nearly two years of wondering and waiting, of late nights talking with Amy and Shannon, of dissecting and analyzing and giving up.
I had to slap him to get him to contact me?
Men.
5
The next morning, I park my Turdmobile in the employee parking lot and click my remote to lock it. Then I unlock it. I only lock it out of habit, from when I used to own my own car.
This one? I hope someone steals it.
My boss, Greg, got an account where we drive advertisement-covered cars all over town. I inherited Shannon’s car when she was offered the ideal job at Anterdec by Mr. Flawless Billionaire and she decided to reach for perfection and we crabs in the pot that is called Consolidated Evalu-Shop couldn’t grab her ankles fast enough to pull her back in.
Er, I mean...I’m happy for her.
And I got her car.
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 173