Mom and Dad arrive the next afternoon. Tonight, we feast on a classic Lowcountry summer supper: boiled shrimp, fresh corn on the cob, sliced Edisto tomatoes. Mom dotes on Francie, peeling shrimp for her grandchild.
Dad chews in silence, looking content but tired. He still hasn’t changed out of his business suit, but he at least removed his jacket and flipped his tie over his shoulder. He worked through the weekend and just finished his case today, so he’s taking the rest of the week off.
Mom sits to my left. She wears a tennis skirt and smells of sunscreen. Since the news about Judge Boykin has died down, conversations with my family are less strained, at least for everyone else. Mom is trying to pin down a day for wedding-dress shopping. Weezy locks eyes with me. I know what she wants me to do, but I’m not ready to make the big announcement. “Soon,” I mouth.
Mom’s eyes dart from Weezy to me. “What?” she asks. “What is it?”
Dad looks up from his plate. “Simons, answer your mother.”
In our life as a family unit, we’ve been fortunate not to have to share much bad news. When I wrecked Mom’s car my sophomore year in high school, they changed my curfew to 9:00 p.m. until I paid off the premium with my babysitting money. I didn’t make enough that summer, but they took what I had and said they were just glad no one got hurt. When our dog, Spot, died, my parents mourned for a few weeks, but then Mom found she didn’t miss the dog hair and Dad was thrilled he no longer had to scoop poops from the garden. My parents will bounce back from this news, too. Surely. Well, here goes nothing.
“I broke up with Trip. We’re taking time apart.” I don’t know why, but I laugh. Nerves, probably.
Mom spins in her chair to face me. “This isn’t funny, Simons.”
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
Weezy reaches for my wineglass; Mom bats her hand away. “It’s not good for the baby.” She turns to Dad. “Ed?”
He’s sitting straighter now, looking a little more awake. “Is this true, Simons?”
“Yes.”
“So you are calling off the wedding?”
“For now,” I state, though it comes out like a question.
It’s Dad’s turn to speak, but he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even look at me. Instead, he drops his napkin on his plate, rises from the table, and walks down the hall. I’d rather be yelled at.
In silence, we watch Dad disappear into the bedroom. Even Francie watches. Mom pushes her half-eaten dinner to the middle of the table and plunks her face into her hands. “I just don’t understand.”
What is there to explain? She never had to make her relationship work. It just worked.
“Have you thought this through, Simons?”
“Yes, I have thought this through! I have been thinking about it for a long time.” As gently as I can manage, I add, “Don’t you want me to be happy?”
“Of course I want you to be happy. But you don’t know what happy is, Simons. Happiness comes from stability.”
“Yeah, but, Mom . . . you’ve never lived life on your own. You don’t know what you’re missing. You’ve always either been taken care of by Tito or by Dad. Maybe you don’t know, either . . .”
Weezy, often the umpire during bouts of disagreement between me and my parents, shoots me a warning look—a yellow card. I just stepped over a line.
Mom’s voice rises. “What do you know about taking care of other people? You think we’re all on an island? There is nothing more important than family, taking care of family. Something you seem to have forgotten. Your job is to protect Laudie from that death trap of a ballet barre, not encourage it.”
“Mom, I—”
“No, you listen. I’m your mother. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I don’t like it. You’re being foolish and stubborn. You have an amazing future with Trip, a future most girls only dream of, and you are about to throw it all away.”
“I just need some time.”
Weezy shuffles around the table, wraps her arms around Mom’s shoulders. “Mom, Simons is trying to do what is right for her. We should give her our love and support. People make better decisions when they feel supported. We can all agree we want her to make good decisions, right?”
In Weezy’s embrace, Mom calms down. She twists the stem of her wineglass. “Simons, I want you to seriously consider rethinking your decision. There’s still time.”
I want to tell her that what’s done is done. A fait accompli. I can’t go back now. I finally had the courage to listen to my heart, or some sort of distant thrumming of it. Still, I know what I have to say. “Okay, Mom. I’ll think about it.”
Mom leaves her corn and shrimp unfinished. Before she disappears down the hallway, she warns, “Not a word to your grandmother. It will put her in her grave.”