She has a scarf around her neck. It’s light green and silky with the pattern of a garden trellis all over it. Classy looking, like something Gracie would own. It makes me feel sad for her. My mother is so dainty and elegant and pretty, she should have had such a different sort of life. Then again, maybe she’s having it now.
“You’d love it there, Sara,” she says as the waiter sets two Caesar salads in front of us. “Paris is so different. We live for the day. We walk to the market every day and pick up fresh food. You should see my fridge. It fits right under the counter.”
“Wow. Sounds cool.”
“Even what’s considered beautiful is different. People don’t work so hard to look plastic. People appreciate a clean face. A strong body. Simply cut clothes of good material. If you can believe it, I am actually considered a beauty among the other students in my course.”
I can believe it. She looks wonderful. Her hair is loose, falling around her face. She’s put on a couple of pounds, not enough that anyone but me would notice. Just enough to round out her cheeks a bit, make her look healthier. Happier. The only makeup on her face is a swipe of red lipstick. I try to commit the shade to memory, so I can try to find something like it at the drugstore. “You really do look beautiful, Mom.”
“So do you, sweetie.” She takes my hand in hers. Her skin is so soft it could be liquid. “God, I’ve missed seeing you, holding you.”
“Me too.”
“Sara?”
“Yes?”
“Mike is here in Boston with me. He spent the day back in Lundon visiting with Tori. We were hoping you might come to a show with us tomorrow.” She leans closer. “Do you think you might be okay with that?”
Hmm. You know what would be just as much fun? If I pick up my water glass right now, bite into it, and swallow the glass shards along with the ice cubes. “I don’t know,” I mumble. “I’ll have to check with Dad. There’s a lot of packing to do. And stuff.”
“Okay. I understand.” She leans back in her seat. “Has it been terrible for you? All this change? And now you’re moving again….”
Something tells me she doesn’t want the truth. The truth of me doesn’t fit in with her market-fresh food or the cut of her new clothes. I tell her what she wants to hear. She did, after all, come an awfully long way just to eat salad with me, when it sounds as if there is perfectly good lettuce closer to home. “It’s been fine.”
And her eyes shine with relief. “Next time you’ll come to visit me, okay? When you’re ready. You still have that ticket?”
“I might have lost it.”
“No problem. We’ll have one reissued. Hopefully your new school won’t be quite so demanding. Maybe over spring break?”
“Maybe.” I poke around on my plate for a smallish piece of romaine lettuce, one that will fit in my mouth without too much effort.
“Great. The weather should be better by then. Spring comes earlier there, from what I hear. I forgot, when I signed up for this Boston Culinary Arts Seminar, how cold it can be in Massachusetts. All I brought to keep me warm was a thin blazer I found in—”
“Wait. You’re here for a conference?”
“Yes. And to see you, of course.”
As she babbles on about lightweight clothing and the chill in the presentation rooms and the firmness of her hotel mattress, I lay down my fork. Creamy garlic with chopped anchovies is no longer a good idea. Not with the way my stomach has just turned inside out with my own stupidity. My mother didn’t get on a plane so that she could come to see me. I wasn’t the plan. I was convenient.
She notices I’ve gotten quiet and stops. “Honey, are you okay?”
“I don’t know. It’s a lot of garlic.” It’s a good excuse. I could complain a bit more, then tell her I should probably go home and lie down. She’d put me in a cab and I could go home to my father. Help him with the last of the packing. We have to get up early tomorrow to load up the trailer. It would be nice to be rested.
“Here.” She pulls a white roll from the linen-covered bread basket, butters it lightly. Holds it out for me. “Just nibble on this. And if your stomach calms down, we’ll order you something else, okay? I hear the minestrone soup is excellent.”
As I stare at the roll, I realize it’s all she has to give. She doesn’t have all of herself to offer me, not like Dad does. She has what she has, so what’s the use in expecting more? More won’t happen. I can either accept it now or I can torture myself forever. It could be worse. A bread basket between us is still better than the gutter of a tenth-grade science textbook.
As I reach for the roll, I know I might not miss that green sweater at all. “Okay. Minestrone sounds good.”
My purse starts blasting “Strawberry Fields Forever” when Mom’s in the restroom. My phone’s still dead, so Charlie gave me his in case I wanted to be picked up early. I debate not answering. The display number isn’t home, so it’s not Dad. And no one else would be calling me on his number. But the ringtone is insanely loud and I can’t find the mute button.
“Hello?”
I hear crunching. “Dude. Did you find it in a Dumpster?”
“Mandy?”
“There was a dried-out noodle between two pages. Spaghettini, I think. In some kind of funky hardened pink sauce.”
“But the book’s cool. It had all these ‘Be Your Own Barn Dominatrix’ instructions inside.” All around me conversations grow quiet and heads turn in my direction. “I thought it would be perfect for you.”
“I’m kidding,” Mandy says. “It’s a great book. Thanks.”
“No problem. And I almost did find it in a Dumpster.” I’m talking so loud the waiter shushes me. But I don’t shush myself one bit.
“Sweet.”
“I’m the sorriest person alive. You realize that, don’t you?”
“Sorry apologetic or sorry pathetic?”
“Pick either one and we’ll go with it.”
“Can I pick both? Because, you know, there was that noodle.”
I grin. Mandy’s back in my life. Sarcastic, funny, pink-streaked Mandy. I can handle almost anything—even Michael Nathan—with Mandy on my side. “Yeah. There was that noodle.”