by Beck, Jamie
Anyway, I’d never believed much in guardian angels, but who was I to question that when I still clung to faith in my faithless husband? My mother obviously needed something to believe in while vulnerable. “Mom, what happened with the spatula?”
She looked at me, brows knitted in confusion. “What?”
“The pan in the sink. It looks like the spatula melted.”
“Oh, that.” Her cheeks flushed. “It’s nothing.”
“Did you forget to turn off the stove?” Was that kind of thing happening regularly?
“I got distracted by Dodo. She called and we started talking, so I forgot about the pan.”
Mom’s sister, Dorothy—the one person who had even higher expectations of people than my mother had—enjoyed lording her superiority over the rest of us whenever possible. “Please don’t tell Aunt Dodo what’s going on.”
Mom’s eyes nearly bulged out of her skull. “Of course not. It’s nobody’s business but ours.”
The part of me that heaved a sigh of relief also cringed for being happy that my mother would suffer in silence rather than seek comfort from her sister—a dynamic I understood too well. If only Erin and I had learned to lean on each other instead of circling each other like defensive porcupines. Unlike Erin and me, Dodo and my mother spoke daily, but my mother did share my reticence to confide in her sister.
Regardless, I shouldn’t be selfish. “But, actually, if you want to talk to her about it, I’d understand.”
“Good grief, Amanda. If she thinks I can’t manage my affairs, she’ll swoop in and take over like she did with George.”
Dodo had had their elder brother declared incompetent before assuming control over all aspects of his life. My mother had never believed that George’s Parkinson’s had diminished his mental abilities to a degree that required that humiliation. He died a few years ago, so it was moot now except for the lingering unease it instilled in my mom.
I should be grateful that Erin had no interest in controlling anything. Instead I felt sad that my mother’s dysfunctional sibling family history seemed to be repeating itself.
Mom pointed a finger at me. “Not one word of this to anyone but Erin.” The childhood scars from her father’s highly publicized addiction and professional meltdown had left our mother paranoid about scandal. When working as a federal prosecutor, he’d mangled some high-profile white-collar criminal case while drunk and quickly become the talk of Pottstown, Pennsylvania. The media circus around that had dogged the family. After my mom and her siblings were subjected to playground ridicule, Grandma finally divorced him and moved to Baltimore with the kids, where she eventually remarried.
“Okay. But if things like that—with the pan—keep happening, you’ll tell me, right? In fact, would you like to stay with me for a few days?”
“No. I like my house. My things.” She wrung her hands, her voice tightening.
“Okay.” Truthfully, I would’ve enjoyed company in that cold, empty house, but I didn’t press. “Would you like me to stay for lunch?”
“No, dear. You go home and keep trying to reach Lyle. You’re not the only one who’s had to fight for love, so don’t give up.”
I’d always disliked those not-quite-veiled remarks about her being Dad’s second choice. So what if her sorority sister, Patty Pollack, had broken his heart first? I’d witnessed the little kisses he’d planted on Mom’s temple and the soft smiles shared across the dinner table. He might’ve been intrigued by the devil-may-care Patty in the beginning, but maturity made him value my mother’s steadiness in the end. “I won’t.”
She patted my cheek. “I need a nap.”
“Okay.” Fresh out of excuses to linger, I gave her another hug. “Get some rest.”
God bless her if she could sleep.
When I got home, I went straight to the computer to look up our credit card account to figure out exactly where Lyle was today, but there hadn’t been any new charges in days. I went back several months, looking for evidence of the affair. No hotel room charges. No jewelry store purchases. Nothing obvious or attention-grabbing. I groaned. What did it matter? He wasn’t denying the affair, so proof was pointless.
I shut it down and walked through my soundless house, room by room, while dialing Lyle again. Invisibility wasn’t unfamiliar. When you don’t toot your own horn, your good deeds can go unnoticed—or at least underappreciated. Swallowing my pride and fighting for love had been my life’s norms—even with my mom, I’d worked to be her pet.
Lyle had been the only exception. He’d pursued me. Loved me. Admired me. Appreciated me.
Now he wouldn’t answer my calls.
Given his note, I hadn’t actually expected him to. But this limbo would make navigating the coming days at work and in town difficult.
His voice mail beeped.
“Lyle, it’s me. I’ve given you a couple of days since getting your note.” I closed my eyes and leaned against the kitchen island, telling myself not to sound desperate. “I’m shocked. Angry. Mostly I’m hurt. Between the baby and the money you borrowed, we need to talk now. Under the circumstances, it’d be best if you paid my mom back sooner than later.” My resolve folded beneath the burden of my unraveling world, and I hated myself a little right then. “I need to talk to you. Even for a few minutes. Please. This feels like being locked in a dark closet . . .” I hung up before I begged even more.
My lungs burned. Saturday afternoon stretched in front of me—a long, lonely day.
I caught my reflection in the microwave glass. Pretty enough, but not exotic like Ebba. Not even edgy like my sister. Maybe a new look would make me feel better. At the very least, it would kill time.
With my purse and keys in hand, I headed to Divaz Salon. Lyle preferred my classic style. Right now I wasn’t in the mood to do anything that pleased him, which made it the perfect time to try something new.
CHAPTER FOUR
ERIN
When Mo didn’t scratch the door at the sound of the key, I expected the worst. If Max had taken my dog, he’d better expect to be hunted down by a wild mama bear fresh off a grueling five-hour drive.
Once inside, I flicked on the light and spied Mo locked in his crate. I dropped my things on the floor before rushing over to set him free. “Oh, Mosley-Mo, how long have you been stuck in there?”
Mo crawled out from his little cave, stretching in a better downward-dog position than many of my students managed. His tail wagged enthusiastically, making me grateful that dogs were easier to read than humans. Mo was always happy to see me, too . . . another key difference between him and some people.
I tickled his belly, then had him follow me back outside to do his business. At the end of long, tiring days like this one, an elevator would be nice. Then again, three flights of stairs kept my butt pert. While Mo did his frantic back-and-forth dance in search of the perfect spot to poo, I checked my phone messages.
Hey, Erin, it’s Amanda. I hope you enjoyed the yoga retreat. You’re probably tired from the drive, so come to dinner at my house. Mom will be there. I’d actually like to talk about something, too. Six thirty? I’ll throw in a pumpkin pie. Thanks.
I checked the time. Five o’clock. Early enough that I didn’t have a good excuse to say no. Pumpkin pie was a draw, admittedly, but I could hardly get excited about spending the evening with my nervous-Nellie mom and my “perfect” sister at her “perfect house,” where her “told you so” expressions would surely surface as soon as she found out about Max.
Spending the evening writing down all the ideas that had percolated during the retreat would be far more productive. If only I could find a cheap—or free—place to teach yoga, my income could increase enough to create some financial breathing room. Maybe even enough to hang on to my apartment, although this place might not be worth it.
Amanda hadn’t mentioned Lyle, so he still had to be in Florida. Thank God. His presence had a way of sucking up all the oxygen.
Mo bounded toward me after relievi
ng himself, so we headed back inside.
“Who’s the best puppy?” I chased him up the stairs, speaking in my silly doggy voice. “You are, Fluffy. Yes, you are.”
Mrs. Wagner opened her door a crack when we hit the second floor. After giving me the standard disapproving once-over, she said, “Oh, it’s you. I heard a commotion.”
The stench that wafted into the hallway nearly knocked me back down the stairs. Mo’s nose twitched, and then he beelined for her door to get to those cats, but she closed it in our faces before he could slip inside.
“Have a good evening,” I sang out while giving her the mental finger. I’d never been anything but polite, yet she judged my appearance despite how she lived in that stench?
I tromped up the last flight of stairs and reentered the apartment. My apartment now that Max had gone, or mine until the end of the month, anyway. I’d have to seriously reevaluate my finances before signing a new lease.
In fairness, Max had left things neater than I’d expected. Granted, most of the stuff was mine from before he moved in, so he’d had to pack only his clothes and a few other things. Good riddance to the mustache-shaped napkin holder he’d gotten from his cousin Ned as a groomsmen gift, and to the Jack Daniel’s bottle collection. But the living area looked a little pathetic without the colorful jute kilim rug that had been in front of the TV stand. The bookshelf stood nearly naked now that he’d cleared out the great books he’d owned. And the corner of the room was downright gloomy without the glow from his funky industrial table lamp.
Mo lapped some water while I strolled through the space. A hint of the patchouli and sage oils Max had used to combat his eczema pervaded the air. That might linger until I washed all the blankets and pillows. Somehow it felt wrong to erase every trace of him so quickly, so I’d let the scent dissipate on its own.
A teeny part of me suddenly missed his silly grin. The silence struck me, too. Ah, Max had also taken his beloved TV. Well, that was no loss. And in any case, being on my own had never bothered me before. I simply needed to reclaim this space.
Maybe after dinner I’d return, pour myself a glass of wine, and allow myself a moment of melancholy about my fizzled, once-promising love affair. Then I’d fire up a great album and experiment with a new batch of sugar scrubs. At least now I could work without being distracted by Daniel Tosh’s crude jokes.
Independence was good. A chance to plan for all my ideas. The prospect of rockin’ my thirties had me bouncing on my toes.
First I’d have to survive dinner.
I glanced at my attire—Converse high-tops, yoga pants, a sports bra, and a loose-fitted T-shirt. If I hadn’t missed the baby shower shopping extravaganza, I’d show up dressed like this. But “workout clothes at the table” would bug Amanda and my mom, so I pulled on jean shorts, a cute pink-camo top, and my bronze metallic Birkenstocks. After finger-combing the right side of my head, I was ready to face the firing squad.
My thumbs flew across the phone’s keyboard.
Be there soon. What can I bring?
Within minutes, she replied.
Nothing. I’ve got it covered.
She always had everything covered. Sometimes I suspected she said that because it came off as considerate while simultaneously squeezing my ideas right out of the picture.
The few times I’d tried to introduce my family to new foods—like an awesome sweet potato–turmeric miso soup from the Herb Box—she and my mom had flashed that polite smile before shooting each other “the look.” Then, instead of giving it a fair chance, they took minuscule samples before quietly setting it aside.
I grabbed a half-empty can of whipped cream from my fridge, knowing Amanda probably wouldn’t have any. Lyle didn’t allow sugar in that house, whereas whipped cream qualified as a major food group in mine. Good for coffee, cocoa, ice cream, and even an occasional squirt in the mouth as a pick-me-up.
Mo had climbed up to his favorite spot on the back of the sofa cushions, where he could stare out the window. I’d take him with me, but the possibility of him scratching her floors or furniture made Amanda a little nervous.
Bending at the waist, I gave him some lovin’. “Sorry to leave you so soon, MoMo, but you hang here and keep an eye on the place till I get back.”
After snatching my keys off the dining table, I locked the door behind me. Ten minutes later, my bike was parked in front of my sister’s garage. Not a leaf or speck of dirt lay anywhere on her driveway. All the flower beds were neatly fashioned. Cheerful tulips blew in the breeze, heralding spring. Postcard perfect, the way she liked it.
I trotted up the two steps to the front porch and knocked on the door. Lexi and her sister, Aisha, walked into each other’s homes without any announcement. Amanda might pass out if I tried that. Then again, I hadn’t exactly made her free to waltz into my apartment, either.
It seemed weird that we weren’t closer, considering we’d shared a room as kids. While Amanda hated that I was messy, she had also read aloud to me at night and otherwise generally treated me like her personal baby doll. The little cocoon had been kind of comforting at times. But somewhere along the way, things had changed.
Simply put, we were oil and water. Amanda had preferred to pull what I called “bored” games off the shelf on rainy days, never once joining me outside to jump in the mud.
A million of those kinds of differences played out on a weekly basis. Over time, walls had gone up, like that invisible line she’d drawn through our drawers and closet to separate her neat space from mine. It’d gotten only worse since Lyle came into our lives.
Amanda answered the door, her attempt at a smile falling a bit flat. “Hey, thanks for coming.”
For once, she didn’t pay much attention to my outfit or stare at my hair. Then again, maybe I was too busy staring at hers to notice. She’d chopped at least four inches off the back, and the front was layered to prettily frame her face.
“Wow! What a flattering haircut.” I stood on the porch, mesmerized. Amanda didn’t often do change. Never, really. She liked routines. Her hair had been straight and blunt for as long as I could remember. This new do made me all bubbly inside—hopeful, though for what I couldn’t say.
“Oh.” She touched it self-consciously, not quite meeting my gaze. “I forgot. Thanks.”
Forgot? My spidey-sense tingled, but I had to tread lightly when asking Amanda a direct question. She often took things I said wrong. If I waited long enough, there’d be an opening. For now, I held up the whipped cream, aiming for a laugh. “Hope you were serious about the pie.”
Her eyes widened, but only a half-hearted smile appeared. “Sure. Come on in.”
She heaved a sigh when she closed the door behind me. It seemed impossible that I’d already done anything to upset her, other than bring a half-empty can of whipped cream. Or maybe she missed Lyle. She’d never liked being alone.
My mom was busy tossing the salad. She looked so much smaller to me since Dad died, like each day the weight of grief pulled her shoulders a bit lower. No one would call her frail, mind you. She was average height and still a bit paunchy despite having shed at least ten pounds this past year. But everything about her seemed less. She’d always been a serious person. Only my dad had been able to loosen her up—like when he’d pull her away from the stove to dance with him when one of his favorite songs would come on. Without his spontaneity to shake her free, she was shriveling up. I was counting on Amanda’s baby to break her out of this funk.
It unnerved me to see her off her game. Although our family had never been wealthy, she always dressed up when leaving the house—even since quitting her job. No one shopped for clothes on a budget better than she did. Her wardrobe staples consisted of conservative dresses and flats or small heels, fake pearl earrings and necklaces, and pink lipstick. Today, however, her navy dress didn’t have that starchy fresh press she’d given everything from Dad’s shirts to my jeans (despite my protests), and she’d forgone earrings altogether.
�
��Hi, Mom.” I kissed her cheek—pretending not to notice the way she tensed at my affection—then set the whipped cream on the counter. After a weekend of a vegetarian diet and kombucha, I’d happily eat the pie for dinner. “Can I help?”
She frowned. “Don’t be silly. I’m not so old that I can’t dress a salad.”
I swallowed my own sigh, replaying my words to see how she could take them as some kind of statement about her age.
A savory aroma from whatever was roasting in the oven sprang the carnivore in me to life.
“How was the retreat?” Amanda asked while placing water glasses filled with iced tea at the table. She looked ashen except for the dark circles beneath her eyes. I supposed a lack of sleep wasn’t uncommon among pregnant women.
“Pretty much what I expected. I’ll tell you what I did learn—I could make nice bank if I had an inexpensive place to hold a retreat. It’s amazing how many people throw down big money for them.” Even broke folks, like me.
I risked a glimpse of my mom, who kept fussing about the kitchen. Last month, Max had suggested I ask her for a small loan to help “get us through” until he could make some money. My dad had left her a huge insurance payout, but I wouldn’t ask for a penny. Partly because I couldn’t tolerate the “You wouldn’t need to borrow money if only you’d been a more serious student like my other kids” lecture, and partly because that money wouldn’t exist if my dad were alive, so the idea of benefiting from it made me sick.
“Well, you’re almost thirty. Maybe it’s time to find a more serious job.” Mom set the salad bowl in the center of the kitchen table.
Looked like I’d get the lecture regardless. Her dismissive attitude about my interests got old fast. My work might not provide the kind of pension and other benefits working for the schools had, but the only job I could get there would be as a custodian. A bad fit. I’m not even neat.