The Frog Prince

by Jane Porter

  We order pupu platters and expensive entrées you’d find in many Chinese restaurants for a quarter the price, but we’re paying for the atmosphere and the band that’s setting up on their little island/raft bandstand. But wait, there’s mist and a storm, and then the rain passes and the sun comes out again, and the tropical drinks keep rolling, and we keep eating.

  The band doesn’t start playing until eight, and we’ve pretty much wrapped up eating by then, but once the music starts, my mom looks so positively blissful that I resist the urge to rush her home and into bed.

  Why shouldn’t she enjoy herself? She certainly can’t do this in Visalia. And as the waiter brings a third (fourth?) round of drinks, I look at Tessa and Josh, who’ve got their heads together, deep in conversation, and I think, we might have a couple here—but then I overhear bits of their soulful conversation.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the Yankees loading their team. If George can pay the salaries, he should bring in the best. Other cities are just jealous.”

  But Josh isn’t buying into Tessa’s argument. “Yes, because other cities don’t have the population base or the tax revenue New York does.”

  “Tax revenue, pooh! If other teams could afford our players, they’d have them—”

  “But other teams can’t—”

  “That’s not the Yankees’ fault, and they shouldn’t be penalized.”

  “But there should be some equality.”

  “You don’t mean equality; you mean parity...”

  Their voices are getting louder, which is why I can hear every word. And the louder the voices, the closer they come to blows.

  Suddenly Josh is standing and grabbing his coat. “It’s late; I better go,” he says grimly, reaching into his wallet for cash, but my mom refuses to take his money.

  “My treat,” she says, hands clasped, although she’s anxious about the new tension at the table, and her eyes dart from Tessa to Josh.

  “Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Bishop. I had a wonderful time.” Josh leans forward, gives my mother a kiss on the cheek and, with a nod to me and hardly anything at all to Tessa, leaves.

  Tessa sticks around another five minutes, but the mood has changed, the fruity tropical cocktails seem dense and sickeningly sweet now, and even the band is playing the crowd favorite, “When a Man Loves a Woman,” which makes me want to gag. It’s definitely time to go home.

  Tessa tries to give Mom money as well, which Mom again adamantly refuses, firmly conveying that this is her night, her party for my special friends (I cringe at that part), and Tessa goes.

  Mom settles the bill. She won’t let me contribute, either, and tonight was expensive, each cocktail around ten dollars, but Mom’s in her element. She loves being able to provide, loves feeling useful and needed. But even though she’s paid, we don’t immediately leave.

  Instead we sit there, listening to the band and the rain and what I’m sure are exotic birds, but that could be the fizz of rum in my veins or in my brain.

  “Ah,” Mom sighs, a pleasant, perhaps slightly tipsy look on her face, “this was fun.”

  “It was. And thank you for being so nice to my friends.”

  She gestures with a don’t-even-mention-it shake of her hand. “I hope you’re happy.” She tips her head back, regards me for several seconds. “Or happier. Although I really don’t know what will make you happy.”

  Something in her tone hits me funny, and I sit up in the red booth. “What do you mean?”

  “I just don’t think anything will ever make you happy, Holly.”

  It’s funny, but when I get mad at work, I feel as though I can explode, fast. Sharp and hard. But when my mom upsets me, it’s so different. With Mom it’s an intense heat, a slow, hot burn that comes from deep inside me.

  “You had everything,” she continues. “The most wonderful man—handsome and charming, kind and generous—”

  “He didn’t want me, Mom.”

  “Why not? What did you do?”

  I look away, hurt, so hurt. What did I do? “I didn’t do anything wrong. I was just myself, Mom.” .

  “But it doesn’t make sense. He loved you! He married you. It was a beautiful wedding, and you two made such a lovely home together.”

  “It was a lovely home, but we weren’t happy.” I stand up, reach for my coat, my purse. ““We should go. It’s getting late and I have to work in the morning.”

  Leaving the Fairmont, I realize that neither of us should be driving after so many drinks, so I tell Mom we’ll leave the cars and we’ll get them in the morning, and we hail a cab to my apartment after Mom retrieves her suitcase from her car.

  Mom and I sit stiffly side by side in the back of the cab until Mom finally breaks the silence. “I don’t know why you’re mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad,” I say wearily. “I’m hurt.”

  She makes a soft, hurt sound of protest. “Why are you hurt? I was just trying to reach out to you, Holly.”

  I tense, close my eyes, hands in fists in my lap. I know her too well. I know every sound she makes—the way she swallows, breathes, eats, exhales.

  I know maybe too much about her. And there are times I think I could annihilate her with my knowledge. Destroy her with my hands, or with the cruelty of my tongue.

  It’s terrifying to feel that kind of emotion, that kind of power, particularly toward your own mother.

  I don’t know if it’s the same for other mothers and daughters, but my mom and I hurt, each other sometimes just by being alive. And yet it’d kill me if she were dead.

  “You make it sound like I was so lucky to get a guy like Jean-Marc.”

  “You have to admit, he was really special.”

  “Yes, but maybe he was lucky to have me. Maybe he should have been more grateful for me.”

  Mom lapses into silence, and I push a hand through my hair, feeling increasingly blue. This always happens when Mom and I get together. We can’t seem to speak the same language, and I don’t know why. Mom doesn’t have this problem with Jamie (he doesn’t talk) or Ashlee (she smiles at everything). Just me. I don’t want her hurt, and I don’t want to hurt her.

  And I don’t want her to hurt me.

  But this is also why I don’t call her, or ask her advice, or even try to confide in her. It’s impossible to take my problems to her. She doesn’t understand me, or what I need.

  The cab pulls up in front of my apartment, and I pay the cabdriver, and Mom and I enter my apartment.

  I show my mom around and offer her my bed, but she refuses, saying she’d be perfectly happy on the living room couch. I’ve got the start of a killer headache, and I’m in no mood to argue with her now. “I’m not putting you on the couch, Mom—”

  “I prefer the couch. I sleep better there than in a big bed.”

  “That’s silly.”

  “I sleep on the couch all the time at home.”

  “You do?”

  She steps out of her shoes and lines them up perfectly straight between the couch and end table. “Yes. I do.”

  Somehow she’s managed to sound righteous and defiant all at the same time, and I watch her adjusting the pillows on the couch.

  “Why do you sleep better on the sofa?” I ask, picturing the old sofa with the faded pink and burgundy cabbage roses in the living room at home. I think the upholstery was once vaguely Laura Ashley-like, but that was the ‘80s, and cabbage roses were everywhere for a while.

  “It’s more comfortable.”

  “But the sofa is small. It’s not even full-size!”

  Mom shrugs and turns. “I don’t mind.” She’s unzipping her small suitcase and takes out her nightgown. “I’ll just watch a little TV and be asleep in no time.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Just give me a blanket and I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll make the couch up properly.”

  “No. A blanket’s all I need. I can use one of the pillows from the couch.”

  I have a rathe
r terrifying picture of how Mom lives at home. Dinners alone in front of the television, and then later she pulls the afghan from the back of the couch and covers herself, watching TV until she falls asleep.

  It is such a lonely life, I think, and I wonder yet again why she stopped dating when, in the early years after Bastard Ted left, she went out a lot. Those were the years she did anything and everything to meet other singles. She even took up square dancing, heading out twice a week in the ugliest yellow-and-aqua-checked dresses with enormous starchy skirts beneath.

  I look at her now, really look at her, and see the face that I’ve known forever, and it’s older; it’s changed. The skin is less taut; the circles beneath the eyes are permanent, shallow hollows of lavender; the corners of her eyes droop more. So do her lips. Her brown hair, once my exact shade, is faded and heavily laced with gray, and I think, this is what I’m going to look like in thirty years. This is me at fifty-five.

  It scares me. I don’t want to look faded or rumpled; I don’t want to be so tired that I fail to color my hair, or so poor that I can’t buy clothes without a heavy polyester thread count.

  This all sounds so petty, but I’m afraid of aging. Afraid of dying. Afraid of my own mortality. No one in fairy, tales really gets old; they just go to sleep—think of Sleeping Beauty and Snow White—but this is real life, and I’m twenty-five, a good third of the way through my life, and I don’t know if it’s going to get any better or easier. I don’t know if I’ll ever have more happiness than Mom did, and I don’t think Mom had a lot.

  And my mom should have. She was a good girl, too.

  Tears suddenly sting my eyes, and I turn away, close the shutters at the big bay window so the whole world doesn’t watch Mom watching TV on the couch.

  And I’d hate Bastard Ted more if I thought he was truly happy in his little Orange County townhome. It’s all very nice that Ted’s so spiritual and in touch with his true essence, but what about his kids? What about us? Dads aren’t supposed to freak out on their families. Dads are supposed to be dads to their kids. Dads are supposed to be... good.

  “You know where the bathroom is,” I say, double-checking the dead bolt on the front door, “and the kitchen. Help yourself, and if you need anything, ask.”

  Chapter Ten

  I give Mom an awkward hug good night and wash my face, brush my teeth, and pull my hair into a loose ponytail, but once in bed, I can’t fall asleep despite the piña coladas.

  Fairy tales always started with “Once upon a time,” and they always ended with “happily ever after.” And in between there’s struggle and tragedy, love and loss, heartbreak and triumph. But in the end, love conquers all. In the end, everyone is happy.

  Why did I ever love fairy tales? And why did my mom love reading them to me?

  And why does my mom still think Jean-Marc was Prince Charming when he has so completely rejected me?

  She’s my mom. She should be on my side. She should think Jean-Marc was a jerk—a villain, not a hero! I close my eyes, put an arm over my face, trying very hard not to get teary and upset. I’m still so ashamed about the whole wedding and divorce. It was—is—such a fiasco. It was so not anything I thought it would be, and I thought it’d be beautiful. Wonderful. I thought I’d be a perfect princess bride.

  I take a rough breath, and my throat burns and my eyes burn and the tears are coming anyway. What is love anyway? Why do we need love? Is wanting to be loved, needed, a weakness, or a necessity? Is wanting someone to love you, maybe even validate you, bad?

  When I first met Jean-Marc, I swear, I felt like Cinderella. I felt important. Exciting. Transformed. Jean-Marc’s love made me feel strong. With his love, I could do anything.

  But then he took his love away, and I was turned back into the old me again. The magic’s gone. And I’m scared. I’m scared I never was good enough, or pretty enough, or smart or strong enough.

  Lying in my ridiculous girly princess bed, I pull my sheet over my head so Mom can’t hear me crying. No wonder Jean-Marc wanted out. He saw through my mask to the real me.

  I wake early the next morning, my head pounding like mad. Damn, damn, damn. I didn’t need three piña coladas. I should never drink more than two of anything.

  It hurts to stand. Staggering to the bathroom, I pop some Advil, and seeing it’s not even six yet and still dark, I struggle to put on running shoes and sweats and sneak Mom’s car keys from her purse. Leaving my apartment, I zip up my sweatshirt hood and blow on my fingers and begin walking up California, toward the top of Nob Hill, where we left our cars.

  I always forget this city is built on hills, until I have to walk. I’m half walking, half jogging my way up the hill, and it takes me twenty minutes to reach Mom’s car. Wheezing, I climb into her car, start it, and drive it back to my apartment. I’m home in minutes and sweating profusely.

  I find a spot for Mom’s car just a half block from my apartment. Checking my watch, I see it’s now six thirty, and I slowly begin the second jog/walk up Nob Hill.

  If I thought it was hard the first time, it’s even tougher the second. My legs remember how steep the hill is and how it just climbs endlessly. But I don’t stop. I keep puffing and moving my feet, one after the other, and eventually I reach the block where I left my car, and soon I’m home again.

  I don’t go inside the apartment after parking my car. Instead I go to the nearest Starbucks and buy two lattes and blueberry scones and carry them home.

  Mom’s still asleep, and I leave the coffees and scones on the kitchen table while I shower, but she’s awake and in the kitchen when I get out. Her hair’s all rumpled, and she has a deep crease in her cheek from the pillow’s welting.

  “You’ve been busy,” she says, yawning.

  “I got your car.” I’m still wrapped in my towel, but I need some coffee. I take a sip even as I slide her keys across the table. “Your car’s parked just a half block down, same side as the house. When you go out the front door, take a right and you’ll see it.”

  Mom wraps her arms around me for a hug. “Thank you,” she whispers, and I stand in my towel, awkwardly receiving her hug.

  “My pleasure,” I say, but I can’t warm up, can’t feel anything with her arms around me. I don’t know why I’m all numb and cold inside. I don’t know why I can’t reciprocate or feel anything other than regret. I step away, breaking free. “I better get dressed. Can’t be late.”

  And it’s not until I’m heading out the apartment door that I realize it’s Friday. And I was supposed to do something on Thursday. What?

  Brian Fadden coffee meeting. And something in the evening...

  Something... something... oh, shit!

  Dinner with Paul. I stood up Paul.

  Racing back inside, I check my message phone, and sure enough, four calls. All from Paul. Last night he called every fifteen minutes from the restaurant, each call increasingly agitated, until the last is downright scary, a rambling tirade about how I could have at least had the courtesy to call and cancel, and how he had a life and it’d been a sacrifice for him to leave his book when he was in the middle of writing a difficult scene, but he’d done it and he’d appreciate some respect, please.

  His tone and word choice give me the weebie-jeebies, but I have to give him credit. He did wait nearly an hour before accepting that I wasn’t going to be meeting him.

  But Mom has also heard the last message. She looks at me, alarmed. “He doesn’t sound very nice.”

  “He’s upset,” I say, deleting the messages even as I pick up the phone. “I was supposed to have dinner with him last night and I spaced. He waited at the restaurant for an hour for me.”

  But Paul doesn’t answer. He’s probably already left for work. (But wait. Didn’t he give up his technical job somewhere to be a full-time unemployed novelist? So he works from home, right?) I leave him a wordy apology with the general theme being, “I goofed, I owe you, I’m sorry.”

  Paul ends up calling me late in the day. I’m at my desk
at the office and surprised to hear his voice, wondering how he got my work number, then remember that he’s one of Josh’s crowd, so of course he knows the office phone number. It’s a tense call—Paul’s still fuming—but I grovel some more, and eventually he accepts my apology under the condition that I make it up to him soon.

  I tell him my mom’s in town and try to schedule a makeup dinner for Tuesday or Wednesday. Paul doesn’t want another weekday night. He wants Saturday. I don’t want Saturday but, feeling guilty, succumb to Friday. So one week from today we’re going on what now seems to be a date.

  The rest of the day has been anticlimactic. Olivia has pretty much acted as though everything’s normal, so I trust everything’s normal. Josh and Tessa never mention dinner, and I actually get a lot of work done. By the time I leave the office for the weekend, I feel as if I’ve finally accomplished something, and return to my apartment to find Mom waiting at the door with her purse and coat.

  I look at my mom, dressed in her second-favorite color combination, licorice red and cobalt blue paired with white running shoes, and think, You’ve got to be kidding. There’s no way I can go out right away. I’m beat. And I can’t take my mom out to dinner somewhere in my neighborhood wearing the American flag. It’s fine to be a tourist. You just don’t have to look like one.

  “Mom, did you bring anything brown, or black?”

  “Black?”

  “Like a black T-shirt or turtleneck?”

  “I don’t wear black.” She sounds almost traumatized. “You know I never wear black. I love bright colors.”

  I noticed. “Let me change into jeans,” I say, trying to hide the wilting note in my voice. I swear to God, I feel as if I’m back in high school and Mom’s raining on my parade. I try to remember Tessa’s attitude. I’m lucky to have a mother. It shouldn’t matter what she wears, what she says, or what she thinks I need.

  “How does Italian sound?” Mom shouts through the half-closed bedroom door. “I thought we could go to North Beach. I found a little restaurant that has an early-bird special—”