by Jane Porter
Oh, no.
“And if we get there before six thirty we can get a free appetizer or drink with my happy-hour coupon.”
Sunday morning arrives, and it’s time for Mom to head home. She doesn’t like to drive after dark, and it’s a good four-and-a-half-hour drive—or longer if you go the speed limit, and Mom always does.
But before Mom does go, I take her to one of my favorite cafés, and we have a great brunch. Mom keeps smiling at everyone and everything. “I feel like I’m in Paris,” she says for the third or fourth time whenever someone wearing black enters the café. Mom thinks wearing black is something of an artistic statement, but whispers that it also reveals a certain instability of character.
“I don’t know, Mom,” I answer, compelled to defend the color black. “People like it because it’s understated—”
“It’s not understated; it’s dramatic.”
“—and sophisticated at the same time.”
“Black’s boring.”
“How can black be boring and dramatic?”
“It’s boring to look at, and dramatic because people who wear it want to appear like something they’re not.”
“No.”
Mom leans so far across the table, I think we’re going to bump heads. “What child wears black?”
My mouth opens, closes. I’m genuinely stumped.
“My point,” she concludes, straightening. “No child wears black. Children reach for color. Jamie would wear only yellow and royal blue T-shirts. His favorite sweatpants were St. Patrick’s Day green. Ashlee loved pink. Pink underwear, pink skirts, pink sweaters, pink hair barrettes, pink everything. And if pink: wasn’t an option, she’d grudgingly choose lavender.”
“And me?”
Mom hesitates. Frowning, she shakes her head. “I forget.”
“You don’t remember?”
“You liked all the colors of the rainbow.”
“But I had to have a favorite.”
Her frown deepens. She’s thinking. Her shoulders finally lift, fall. “I don’t think you had a favorite, or if you did, I don’t recall.”
As we walk back to my apartment, Mom takes my arm, gives me a little squeeze. “I really enjoyed having a girls’ weekend with you, Holly. It’s so fun doing girl things together.”
I nod, and I’m completely conflicted on the inside, but I’m glad I was able to spend time with her. I probably don’t see enough of her. “Thanks for driving up.”
“You were surprised!” She laughs.
“It was a good surprise.”
She pats my arm. “I’m glad. I did want to see you. I’ve been worried about you... you know... since separating from Jean-Marc and moving up here alone. I just felt so much better when he was taking care of you.”
We’ve reached the steps to my building, and I stop on the sidewalk. The sun is high and shining warmly, having decided to act like summer after all. “Mom, I’m not a little girl. I didn’t need Jean-Marc to take care of me.”
“I know, but it’s nice to be treated special... have someone do things for you. Protect you. That sort of thing.” And she sounds wistful, full of longings and regrets she never talks about with me.
“I can do things for myself.”
She nods quickly, too quickly. “Of course you can.”
“I can.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“But you look completely dubious, Mom, as if I haven’t managed to do anything right in my life.”
Mom reaches for me, gives me a swift hug. “Now, that’s silly. You do lots of things right. And someday you’ll meet someone new and even more wonderful and he’ll sweep you off your feet—”
“Mom.” I cut her short, and I’m not gentle and not patient. “I don’t want to meet anyone new, and I certainly don’t want to be swept off my feet, or rescued. I don’t want or need another Prince Charming.”
Mom’s features pinch. “I was trying to be supportive.”
Christ. I cover my face, take a breath, fight the twenty-five years of shared history. She’s my mom and I love her, and I’m her daughter and she loves me; this is okay; everything’s okay; conflict is normal between mothers and daughters...
“You’re very supportive,” I say after a moment, dropping my hand and forcing a smile. “You’re great. You really are.”
I carry Mom’s suitcase down to her car, which is still parked down the street where I left it two days ago. As Mom climbs into the car, I ask her to call me, let me know that she’s made it back safely; sometimes I’m not sure who’s the parent and who’s the child.
Then her car pulls away, heading down the street, and she puts on her blinker, signals she’s going to turn at the corner, and as her car disappears around the corner, I feel something break loose inside me.
It’s terrible. Sad. I feel so sad.
I want to run after her, chase her car down like a five-year-old on the first day of kindergarten, crying, “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t go!”
And I think I’ve missed her my whole life, and I’m not even sure what that means, but I wish I could go back in time and undo whatever has been done so I’m not hurt and scared any longer.
Cindy and Drew emerge from the Victorian even as I head back in. Cindy nods at me, and I nod back as I climb the front steps.
In the apartment I face the empty living room, the empty hall, the emptiness beyond. It’s okay to be alone. I’m not lonely—Mom was just here—but right now I don’t want to be in the apartment all by myself, and I have no money to blow, so I change into my sweats and put on running shoes (an optimistic purchase for me when I’ve never done much more than jog/walk) and head out for a jog. Walk.
And I’m going to keep jog/walking until I can handle the emptiness and loneliness, because this is my life.
Back at work Monday it’s busy, which helps the time pass, and our usual Monday morning team meeting is smooth, without any obvious tension.
I spend the week doing everything I should, plus following up with phone calls to the media, and although I’m tempted to call Brian Fadden, I don’t. I can’t—won’t—call him until I really have something for him, and right now my interest is more personal than professional, so I definitely can’t call.
Despite the rather frenetic pace at the office, I do finally manage to use Olivia’s gym guest pass, going every day, even though the time isn’t consistent. Some days it’s before work, other days it’s after work, and on Tuesday and Wednesday it’s during my lunch.
I even see Olivia Thursday morning before work, at the gym. She’s just finished the hybrid yoga-Pilates class, and though I’ve heard it described as a ninety-minute torture fest, Olivia walks out of the class as if it were kids’ play. She’s wearing a cropped brown athletic top and bootleg brown velvet yoga pants, and she looks as if she were still a model. I envy her. I can barely do a circuit in the weight room, and I don’t look anything like a model in my navy blue workout gear. I’m short and hippy and relatively flat-chested. But I’m here, I tell myself, and that’s what counts.
In the women’s locker room Olivia makes some small talk, but she’s fairly distant, and it’s a reminder that she hasn’t totally forgotten last week’s Tessa incident. I can’t help wondering what would happen if she found out I am actually helping Tessa with the Leather & Lace Ball.
And I don’t like the thought, because I know I’d hate the consequences.
Friday afternoon around three, Olivia calls me into her office. “You can shut the door,” she says, but it’s not really a suggestion; it’s a directive, and I do.
I sit down in one of the chairs opposite her desk and wish I’d brought a notebook and pen just so I’d have something to hold, because right now I feel like a kid called into the principal’s office.
I hate this feeling. I only ever went to the principal’s office once (no, make that twice), but the time that stands out in my memory was in seventh grade, when I put a mean note in a girl’s locker beca
use I was jealous of her. The girl was pretty and had great hair and great clothes and tons of friends, and the cutest guy in junior high for a boyfriend. I didn’t think it was fair that she should have so much when I had so little.
So I typed up this mean letter that suggested ways she could die (I’m not proud of this). The note was typed and anonymous. But she took it to the school office, and the English teacher recognized my fluency with language (as mean notes go, it was very creative), and that visit with the principal was followed up by a meeting with my mom, followed by several sessions with the school counselor, followed by an apology to the girl, followed by a final meeting with the principal, the girl, my mom, and the girl’s family.
I learned several important things from that painful incident: (1) You won’t become more popular by telling the popular girl she should die. And (2) if you’re going to write mean things, use small words and bad grammar instead of proper syntax and diction.
“What’s going on?” Olivia finally asks after leaving me in suspended silence for nearly a minute. “You don’t seem like you’re happy here anymore.”
I’m surprised. “I’m very happy here.”
“I don’t know. Something’s different.”
I try to keep my mouth from falling open. I’m genuinely bewildered. I’ve worked really hard all week, and handling numerous events at the same time is like juggling bowling pins. There’s always something big and awkward coming up (and down), and the only way to survive is to focus and keep moving. “I think I’ve had a great week. I’ve gotten a lot done, and the Kid Fest proposal is ready to go out first thing Monday morning...” My voice trails off, and I look at Olivia and try to understand what she wants me to say, what she wants me to do.
“You’ve changed.” It’s all she’ll say, and she lapses back into silence.
I’ve changed?
I think this over, feeling obligated to think this over. Have I changed?
I’m finally going to the gym regularly. I’ve lost a couple of pounds. And I do feel more settled in San Francisco than I did a month ago. But have I changed?
“Is it a bad change?” I ask.
She shrugs. “You’re different. That’s what I’m saying.” Olivia picks up her phone to make a call. “You can leave the door open.”
I’ve been dismissed.
Back in my cubicle, I’m troubled by the brief meeting with Olivia and would very much like to discuss it with Josh, who I think has a better handle on office politics than anyone else on the payroll, but he’s down on the Peninsula, meeting with some of the Beckett School folks, and there’s no one else I trust enough to talk about this with. So I force myself to finish up what I’m working on, and at five I stop in at the gym for a fast workout before my dinner with Paul.
But the fast workout takes a little longer, and although I shower, I don’t have time to wash my hair, and it’s not looking all that hot as I try to style it at home. I shouldn’t have worked out. And I should have washed my hair. But now I’m late, and I’m making mistakes as I do my makeup—my shaking hand means a big blob of mascara right in the middle of my eye, and now my eye is tearing up and my eyeliner is smearing and I’ve got a grayish streak in my foundation beneath my eye.
Damn it.
I don’t want to be going to dinner with Paul. I don’t want Olivia being short with me. I don’t want any more problems for the next twenty-four hours.
But I’ve agreed to the date, and Olivia is mad at me, and I can’t control life, only my attitude, so I finish dressing and try to spray more hair spray on my hair in hopes of giving it some lift before dashing to my car.
As I drive, I panic. Tonight is starting out all wrong. You should never forget you’ve made plans and then stand your date up. And then when you book a makeup date, you should not be late. I know this, and yet I am late, and although I’m driving as fast as I can, it’s not fast enough. Traffic is heavy, and I’m impatient and tempted to lean on my horn, but I don’t.
Calm down, I tell myself. Be calm. Nothing bad is going to happen.
By the time I reach Formaggio, I’m twenty minutes late, and I lose another five to seven trying to find parking for the car since there’s no valet. I’ve never been to Formaggio before but have heard plenty about the cuisine. It’s a hip Italian-Mediterranean place that’s always packed.
The first time I circle the block looking for parking, I see no sign of Paul, which could be good—or bad, depending on how you look at it. By the time I park and jog toward the entrance (thank goodness I’ve started to work out; I can actually jog a block without blowing up), Paul’s waiting out front, wearing a black turtleneck, black jeans, and black boots. It’s his literary look, but I’m reminded of “Sprockets,” an old Saturday Night Live skit.
I rush toward Paul, apologizing profusely, and his cheek muscle pulls, and I’m crossing my fingers, hoping this is a smile.
He opens the door for me, tells the hostess his date has finally arrived and we’d like to be seated.
The hostess, a pretty young Italian girl, most likely a local university student and not Italian at all, studies the restaurant layout a moment and then, with her wax pencil, assigns us a table at the back.
Paul leans over the desk. He’s seen where we were going to be seated. “Isn’t there another table somewhere?”
Pretty hostess looks up, smiles. “No.”
Paul has seen all the empty tables beyond her shoulder in the restaurant, as well as unmarked tables on her layout. “The restaurant isn’t even half full.”
The hostess doesn’t even glance down at the layout. “Those are being held for specific reservations.”
“We have reservations.”
I tense. The energy doesn’t feel particularly good, but the hostess’s glossy smile never wavers. “A half hour ago.”
Paul leans farther across the stand. “I was here.”
She doesn’t budge even though Paul is clearly invading her space, a conscious or unconscious attempt at intimidation. “As I’ve already told you, our restaurant requires all parties must be here before being seated.”
Paul shoots me a look. It’s what could be called a dirty look. I feel like shit. If I’d been here on time, none of this would have happened. “I’m sorry,” I pipe in. “It’s my fault. I was late getting off work—”
“Not to worry,” the hostess says, tone friendly again. “We have a table for you, and I can seat you right now.”
“But I don’t want that table,” Paul says, pointing to the numbered table on her floor plan. “I want a good table. That’s why we made reservations—”
“We’re going to honor your reservations,” the hostess interrupts, “if you’ll just come with me.”
Paul stares her down. “To a center table.”
This is not going to be a good evening, I realize, and every instinct is screaming for me to run. Get away. Survive. But I don’t run. I’m too worried about hurting Paul’s feelings, which worries me, because the atmosphere here is crap.
“Sir,” the hostess attempts.
“No,” Paul cuts her short. “I was here. I want to be seated at the table I requested.”
“I’m sorry, that table has been reassigned.” The hostess is looking beyond us to the couple entering through the front door now. “Good evening,” she calls cheerily. “Welcome to Formaggio. How many, please?”
Paul plants himself in front of her. “What about us?”
The hostess looks almost surprised to see Paul still standing there. “What about you?”
“Our table.”
“You’ll have to wait a moment now. I’m going to go ahead and seat these people now.” And she takes two stiff menus from below the desk and escorts the couple to a center table.
Paul splutters. He’s mad, very mad, and I don’t know what to say or do. I barely know him. We’ve had just that one night as a group, and then our conversation earlier in the week.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Paul, watching the hostess
from the corner of my eye, anxious for her to return and seat us. Paul’s practically frothing at the mouth now, muttering things about incompetent waitresses and women, and how he ought to ask for the manager, and this wasn’t the kind of treatment he expected from a place like Formaggio.
The hostess doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to return, though.
In fact, as I watch, she settles her hand on the back of the woman’s chair and laughs, shaking her head a little. She looks serene. Happy. Relaxed.
Just the opposite of Paul, who is about to blow a head gasket. I will say this for Jean-Marc. He might not have loved me, but I never had to worry about how he’d behave in a public place. And I’m worrying very much right now about Paul.
More people arrive, crowding the small entryway. Formaggio isn’t a big restaurant, and the only way they accommodate a crowd is by squeezing the maximum number of tables into the small corner space, taking advantage of two narrow walls with lots of little tables sandwiched between hard wooden chairs and a long upholstered bench.
The hostess finally leaves the couple she’s seated and returns to the podium at the entrance.
“Ready?” she says brightly.
“Yes,” I say.
“No,” Paul contradicts, lifting a hand to slice me in two. “I’d like to speak to the manager immediately.”
The hostess’s eyes have gone cold. “Then you’ll have to wait a minute—”
“I’ve already waited nearly thirty minutes.”
“You’ll have to wait one more. As you can see, I have people to seat.”
And picking up more menus, she warmly greets the four people standing behind us.
The foursome get a center table, too.
“It’s a power play,” Paul mutters furiously. “This is just a goddamn power play.” Then he stops a passing busboy. “Where’s your manager? Get your manager. I want to talk to him now.”
“¿Cómo?”
“Your manager.” Paul’s getting even hotter. He speaks louder. “Man-a-ger.”
A fifty-something-year-old man in a dark suit appears. “May I help you?”