Not Quite A mom

by Kirsten Sawyer

  “Thanks, that’s okay,” I say, cutting her off.

  “Look, I’ve been thinking about your situation and I feel responsible,” she says in a single breath. It’s clear she’s been rehearsing whatever it is she’s about to say to me. I’m about to agree that she is at fault for ruining my life, but something holds me back. “I want to help you get back together with your boyfriend. It’s the least I can do. I have a lot of ideas of ways you can win him back,” she says quickly.

  Win him back…the words linger around my head like the smell of fresh flowers. I breathe it in deeply. It’s brilliant. Dan broke up with me, but I can win him back.

  “Win him back,” I repeat, almost in awe.

  I hadn’t thought of it. I had simply accepted defeat and the fact that my life was over. Of course I had held on to a glimmer of hope that Dan would come back to me, but I hadn’t thought of going out and getting him back. It’s brilliant.

  “Yes!” I say, suddenly realizing that the blinding ray of light Tiffany let into my room was actually a shining beacon of hope. “Let’s start today,” I say, knowing full well that this teenager might have had the luck to stumble onto the idea of winning Dan back, but that her help would be the last thing I needed to actually do it.

  “I can’t start today. My mom’s funeral is today. Buck is coming to pick me up and take me home for it.”

  Suddenly the black clothes make sense, but the Buck part does not. “Buck Platner is coming to get you?”

  “Yeah,” she confirms, “he’ll have to bring me back here tomorrow night, so we can start on Monday,” she tells me matter-of-factly.

  “Why is he coming to get you?” I ask.

  “He’s like the nicest guy in the world,” she informs me.

  “You’re not together, are you?” I ask, repulsed at the idea of Buck’s being involved with this teenager and also feeling another odd twinge of jealousy.

  “Oh my God, gross! He’s like twice my age.”

  A wave of relief washes over me, although I can’t help thinking how the sixteen years between Tiffany and Buck is actually a small age difference compared to many couples in Los Angeles.

  “He’s just insanely nice and he’s taking me to my mom’s funeral. I’ll be back tomorrow,” she says and starts to close the door.

  As she does, the room starts to get blacker, but before she can close it all the way, I hear myself saying, “Wait, he doesn’t have to come all the way down here and get you. I’m going to the funeral. I’ll drive you.”

  I’m a little shocked by the words coming out of my mouth. I have not set a foot back in Victory since the day I left. I told my mother on several occasions that I would be home for Christmas or Thanksgiving, but I always got out of it at the last minute. I didn’t go home when my mother remarried or even when my paternal grandmother died. I once drove through Victory when a couple of college friends invited me to spend a weekend skiing at one of the girl’s parents’ cabin in Eagle Lake, but I slouched down in the backseat of her Grand Cherokee hoping that no one would see me and wave or offer any other sort of recognition. Part of me is unsure why I have deemed Charla Dearbourne’s funeral worth going back for, but the other part is confident that this is the right decision. I know deep down that Charla would have gone anywhere for mine. Plus, I’ll be able to get the Tiffany custody issue officially taken care of. I’ll personally deliver her to her grandparents or some other relative with whom it would make a lot more sense for her to be with rather than me.

  “That’d be great,” Tiffany says, “I’ll go call Buck and tell him he doesn’t need to come get me. He’s probably already on the road, but it’ll save him from having to make the whole drive.”

  For a second I linger over what a nice guy Buck Platner must be to drive over three hours to pick Tiffany up, but then a new thought edges that one out—I’m going back to Victory. A sick feeling creeps into my stomach as I get out of bed. My legs are stiff from disuse, so I hobble toward the bathroom for my first shower since Monday morning. I’ll just get through this weekend and then I’ll come home—without Tiffany—and win Dan back, and life will get back on track.

  18

  Three and a half hours in a car normally feels like an eternity to me, but the drive to Victory goes alarmingly fast. I even endured many nasty gestures while maintaining 65 miles per hour in order to delay our arrival, but in what feels like the blink of an eye the highway speed limit has changed to 35 mph and the road sign says “Main Street.” As we cruise past the sign boasting Victory, California, Population 734, the sick feeling rises from my stomach into my throat.

  The funeral doesn’t start for a while, so I decide that we should go to my parents’ house, where we’ll be staying, and drop off our bags. I even think about the notion of Tiffany staying with my parents permanently if no other relative is willing or able. Helping me out with this is the least my mother could do for me. About halfway through town, we come to Weber Way and I turn right. We pass ten identically shabby ranch-style houses before coming to the one I grew up in. In the fifties, a developer named Jeremy Weber (hence Weber Way) built three blocks of identical homes with matching two-car garages and window flower boxes. Now the majority of the homes have peeling paint and minimal landscaping. My mother’s house is actually the exception—I am pleased to see a fresh-looking coat of yellow paint on the house and purple pansies that I know she planted herself in the window box. For a split second I feel nostalgic.

  I park my BMW in the driveway and I am not unaware that it is the only BMW ever to park on Weber Way. Without saying a word to Tiffany, I turn off the car and get out, grabbing my outlet bargain Coach weekend bag from the backseat. She wordlessly follows my cue, grabbing her own duffel bag (I made sure that she brought all her possessions with her).

  The silence continues as we walk up the driveway, and I take a quick pause at the door. Am I supposed to ring the bell? I know my parents are home, since my mother’s Honda Accord and my stepfather’s pickup truck are both parked in the open garage. I haven’t lived here—or even been here—in a dozen years, but it’s my house, so I forgo the bell, pulling open the worn screen door and then the front door. I take a step inside and it’s like stepping into a time warp. I feel like I just got home from a day in the eleventh grade. My mom is sitting at the round kitchen table reading People magazine with a Kool perched between her lips, and my stepdad is comfortably reclined in a brown corduroy La-Z-Boy.

  When my mother sees me, she does a double take before hollering, “Oh my God, Ray! Lizzie’s here.”

  Her eyes fill with tears as she speaks, making me feel like a little kid. I drop my bag at the door and rush into my mother’s embrace. For so many years the smell of cigarettes made me sick with memories of home, and yet right now, I breathe in the stale smoke from her clothes, hair, and skin with great fondness. Mom looks over my shoulder and sees Tiffany, who I am sure must be feeling awkward. She pulls back, grabbing my hand as she releases my body.

  “Tiffany, sugarplum, you get in here.”

  She gives Tiffany a warm embrace, and I realize that my mother seems to know my former best friend’s daughter fairly well.

  “Oh, Ray, get in here and look at our Lizzie with Tiffany. It’s like—” she breaks off as her eyes fill with tears, “well, you know…old times,” she continues.

  At this point, my stepdad comes into the room hollering, “What are you squawking about, Nancy?” as he moves. Once he sees me, his gaze softens and he whispers, “Well, would you look at that,” before giving me a warm, welcoming hug. His flannel shirt reeks of Marlboro Reds. His tanned skin has aged considerably since I last saw him and now resembles leather. “It’s good to see you, kid.”

  “How are you?” Mom asks, walking towards the kitchen. “Can I get you girls anything? How are you doing, Tiffany? What’s new with you, Lizzie?”

  My mom asks more questions than anyone I have ever met in my life. It’s the same drive that forces her to read People magazine and Us Week
ly every single week…she has to know everything interesting going on at all times. She’s also probably the biggest fan of The Renee Foster Show!, and I’m pretty certain it doesn’t have anything to do with my thirty-second spot.

  “Lizzie, you’re thinner than you look on TV,” she continues. “Are you eating enough?” She gives my bony frame a once-over and her eye falls on my left hand, which still sports my engagement ring from Dan. I figured there was no point taking it off since we’re getting back together next week. Mom gasps slightly. “You’re engaged?!?”

  She grabs my hand to inspect the ring, and I beam. I would never say it out loud, but my one-carat (.85 carat) diamond is a little small by L.A. standards. By Victory standards, however, it’s a rock. “When do we actually get to meet the wonderful Daniel McCafferty? Have you met him, Tiff?” she says turning to Tiffany, whose cheeks flush slightly.

  “Um, just briefly,” she mumbles. “Could I get some water?” she asks, obviously desperate to change the subject.

  I feel annoyed with my mother’s constant questioning and a little nervous because I recognize Tiffany’s reaction. Charla was the world’s worst liar. Just like Tiffany, her cheeks would flush scarlet red and her eyes would dart around the room as if looking for a place to hide. Her patented move, which she apparently passed on to her daughter, was the subject-change maneuver. I cross my fingers that my mother doesn’t recognize the signs as easily as I have.

  “Okay, enough questions,” I announce. “I’m going to put my stuff in my room.”

  I retrieve my Coach bag and head down the hallway to my bedroom. Before I even open the door, I can picture the room in my head. I am positive that my mother hasn’t touched a thing—that she’s left it as a shrine to my childhood. The twin-size trundle bed where Tiffany and I will be bunking covered with a Laura Ashley knockoff pink-and-white floral comforter, the Michael J. Fox and New Kids on the Block posters on the wall, the little blue ribbons hanging above the white dresser for science fairs and spelling bees. I almost feel nostalgic as I open the door, but then the good feelings come to a screeching halt. I look back down the hall at my mother, who is quickly coming up behind me with an extremely guilty and uncomfortable look on her face.

  The only thing in the room reminiscent of my childhood is the faded and peeling floral wallpaper. The posters, bed, and dresser are all gone. In their place stand an oak-colored desk and burgundy office chair, and a treadmill. On the desk sits an iMac, and across from the treadmill is a small Sony TV.

  “What is all this stuff?” I ask in horror, “Where’s my stuff?” I almost say “shrine” but realize in time that I’m probably the only one who thought of the room that way.

  “Well, sorry, honey, you haven’t been home in over a decade. And Ray needed a home office and I needed a workout space,” she offers meekly.

  “You needed an office?” I ask Ray, who has come up behind my mother.

  “For my computer,” he offers, sounding as lame as she did.

  “Well, where the hell are we gonna stay?” I ask them pointedly.

  They look at each other for a beat before turning back toward me. “There’s a Holiday Horse Motel back out on the highway,” my mother offers.

  I let out an exasperated sigh. There is no way on earth that I am sleeping at the Holiday Horse. It’s the kind of place that’s boasts “HBO” on the sign out front and always, always flashes “Vacancy” in neon red.

  “We can stay at Buck’s,” Tiffany offers from behind my parents.

  “Oh, that’s perfect,” my mother says, sounding relieved. “Well, I’m going to finish getting dressed. We’ll see you girls at the church at two.”

  Before I can protest, she hurries down the hall and into her own bedroom. I turn to Ray, but before I can get a word out he says, “Me too,” and follows her.

  I take another look back in the room that used to be mine, before giving up. “Okay, fine. Let’s go to Buck’s.”

  19

  He knows it’s wrong to be excited about a funeral, but part of Buck just can’t help it—Lizzie is going to be there. His morning didn’t start out so well, but just as he was climbing into his truck to travel hundreds of miles to Los Angeles so that Tiffany could attend her mother’s memorial, the teenager called and told him there would be no need, that Lizzie was coming to the funeral and would drive her up. That’s when things got better. Now, not only did Buck not have to make the drive, he’d get to see Lizzie. The last time he saw her, her head was buried in her hands sobbing because her obvious ass of a fiancé had dumped her, so he didn’t get to say much. He had gained hope though that maybe they were meant to be together.

  For a second Buck felt disgusted with himself that lately he was finding so much joy in other people’s suffering—Lizzie getting dumped and Charla being laid to rest. Buck tried to quell the feelings of anticipation fluttering around in his stomach as he took his black wool suit out of the back of his closet. Buck only wore the suit for weddings, funerals, and court appearances. Since none of these events happened very often for him, the suit still seemed almost brand-new even though it was several years old. His father’s law firm mostly handles family law cases, which tend to settle out of court. This is especially good for Buck, since his tongue tends to become paralyzed when standing before a judge. As for weddings and funerals, he just didn’t happen to have too many friends who were getting married or dying.

  As he fastened the pants around his middle, Buck’s legs began to sweat. Even though the air conditioner in the house was on, the summer heat was starting in Victory and Buck knew that spending that day in the wool suit was going to leave him as drenched as if he’d stepped out of the shower. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment that he wouldn’t look better for Lizzie but then quickly scolded himself for focusing on her and not the sadness of the day. Just as he was pulling a plain blue shirt from the closet, he heard a knocking at the front door.

  Still in his bare feet and undershirt, Buck quieted Wildcat’s barking and opened the front door. He did a double take, sure that the heat had already affected his brain when he saw Tiffany and Lizzie standing on his porch.

  “We need to stay here,” Tiffany informed him. “It’s cool, right?”

  Before he could answer, she was walking past him and heading toward the guest bedroom with the duffel bag she’d taken out of her parents’ house a week earlier.

  “Um, of course,” he mumbled.

  He watched Tiffany make her way down the hall. It’s funny how quickly teenagers feel comfortable. A week ago they’d never met, and now she acted completely at home at his house. It made him feel good and it was nice for the house to feel a little fuller than just him and Wildcat. The comfortable feeling quickly vanished when he heard a rustle behind him and remembered that Lizzie was also standing on the porch. He quickly turned back to her.

  “Here, let me take that for you,” he said reaching forward for her overnight bag and almost punching her face in the process. His cheeks flushed red.

  Lizzie returned the almost-decking with an annoyed smile but handed over the bag nonetheless. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” he replied sincerely as he took her bag, somehow managing to avoid doing anything else clumsy.

  He led the way down the hall and could sense Lizzie looking his messy house up and down as she silently followed. Once inside the guest room, Lizzie said, “There’s only one bed.”

  “Don’t worry, I can sleep on the couch,” Tiffany volunteered. Something in her voice told Buck she was anxious to make this arrangement work. She probably feared that Lizzie would drive her back to L.A. tonight if they didn’t have somewhere to stay. Buck wondered about Lizzie’s relationship with her parents and why they weren’t staying there.

  “I have an air mattress,” he said. “I’ll blow that up if you girls don’t mind sharing the room,”

  “I don’t mind,” Tiffany quickly replied, looking at Lizzie, who only muttered,
“It’s fine.”

  Buck went to the hall closet to attempt to extricate the deflated air mattress from under the piles of stuff—coats, athletic equipment, a seldom-used vacuum cleaner—while the wool pants stuck to his sweat-drenched thighs. Finally, he pulled out a blue plastic mass and set it on the floor. After the funeral, he’d find the compressor in the garage, which was as overpacked as the closet, but considerably larger.

  He returned to his room and finished dressing. Although he felt as if he might pass out, Buck looked exceptionally handsome once his dark blue tie was around his neck and the four-button jacket was on. At least the jacket covered the large sweat circles on the light blue shirt. He walked into the hall, pausing under the air conditioner vent, and waited for the girls. A few minutes later, but feeling like only a few seconds, as Buck enjoyed the cool air, the girls, both in sleeveless black tops, came out of the guest room.

  “Should we all just drive together?” he offered, silently praying that Lizzie would agree, since he was desperate to spend time with her.

  “Sure.” She shrugged, obviously not caring one way or the other.

  Buck silently whooped that they would be driving together, then once again scolded himself with reminders that two people were dead and today was their funeral. In silence, the three walked out of the house and piled into Buck’s truck.

  20

  So much had been going on that Tiffany was almost able to put out of her mind that today was her own mother’s funeral. The week in Los Angeles had been one of the most miserable of her life. The misery her aunt Lizzie was creating almost matched the misery of losing her mom. Tiffany knew it was her fault that Lizzie’s fiancé had broken up with her, but did she really need to rub her face in it so much? She took to her room for the entire week, never even checking to see if Tiffany was alive or dead. Nonetheless, having inherited her mother’s unconditional loyalty, Tiffany lied to Lizzie’s office every day about the horrible illness that was keeping her from her office and made every attempt not to bother her “aunt.”