“Beware of entrance to a quarrel…”
—HAMLET, ACT 1, SCENE 3
When I go home the next morning, I’m surprised to find Mom sitting on our livingroom couch, wearing her velour housecoat and sipping green tea. Lately, the Clear Your Clutter Closet Company has been so busy that Mom has been working weekends too. She isn’t good at turning down jobs. Maybe it’s because, from what I understand, we were seriously broke after she and my dad split up. It took her years to pay off the debts he’d left, and I guess she got into the habit of working hard. I worry about Mom getting run-down. But there’s a plus side too: she works so much she hasn’t noticed how little time I’m actually spending at home.
“Hey, you’re home.” I hand Mom the newspaper, which I’ve brought in from the porch.
Mom removes the thick elastic band that’s keeping the newspaper rolled up and pops the blue band into the cup she uses for collecting elastics. Then she taps her cheek. It’s something she’s done since I was little—her signal that she wants a kiss.
Even though I’m not five anymore, I kiss her. For the first time, I see myself playing the role of devoted daughter. Which feels a little confusing. I’ve always been devoted to my mom. But things feel different—I feel different—since I started lying to her and since I’ve been in contact with my father.
Mom’s face smells lotiony. There are new lines over her lips and by her eyes. “I had a last-minute cancellation,” she tells me. “One of my clients’ cars needs a new transmission. They’re going to hold off on redesigning their closets till next fall. To be honest, I’m great with it. I need some downtime. And this way we can spend the day together, Iris. How ’bout breakfast at our bagel place? And a DVD tonight? Like old times.” She must catch me biting my lip because she adds, “Unless you’ve got other plans, sweetpie.”
I could object to being called sweetpie, but I don’t. “I can do breakfast, but then I need to get back to”—I pause to give myself time to get my story straight—“to school. For rehearsal. And I promised Katie I’d sleep over tonight.”
“But you slept there last night.” Mom’s voice is neutral. Not hurt. Definitely not suspicious. Even so, I can’t help feeling guilty.
“Things get kind of intense, Mom, when you’re in rehearsal.”
“I know they do. And I respect that you work so hard. Really I do. But you do seem to be doing an awful lot of rehearsing for a high school production…” Mom lets her voice trail off. She knows this is a sensitive subject for me.
“It’s more than a high school production, Mom. Ms. Cameron says she’s making a point of treating us like professionals. So we can get a feeling for what acting is really all about.”
“All right, Iris. I respect that. I think it’s great that you’re learning so much from Ms. Cameron. Hey, before I forget to ask—how was Katie’s birthday bash?”
When I hear the word bash, I can’t help picturing the hole Mick made in the wall. I try to push the thought as far away as I can. I don’t want Mom to see it on my face. “Amazing.” Short answers make lying easier.
“D’you want to have some green tea or should we head right out for those bagels?”
“We should probably get there before the line gets too long.”
Mom tightens her housecoat around her waist as she gets up from the couch. Then she runs her hand over my forehead. “You’re gorgeous, Iris, but I have to tell you—you look a little stressed. Maybe it’s all that rehearsing.”
There’s already a lineup when we get to the bagel place, but because there are only two of us, we don’t have to wait very long. A woman sitting by the brick wall waves. Mom did her closets two years ago. “Hoarder,” Mom says under her breath. “One of the worst cases I’ve ever seen. She’s got ten years of newspapers piled up in her hallway. You have to walk sideways to get to her kitchen.”
I peek over my shoulder at the woman. Her hair is stylishly cut and she’s laughing at something her friend just said. I’d never have guessed she’s a hoarder, which goes to show how little you can tell from looking at a person.
“Do people ever ask you to sign a confidentiality agreement?” I ask Mom when we’re seated across from each other. “Like a lawyer or an accountant?”
Mom’s laugh has a tinkling sound. When I was little, her laugh made me laugh, but now I look around at the nearby tables, hoping the people sitting at them are too busy eating to notice it. “It’d probably be a good idea for some of my customers,” Mom says. “But it’d be awful for me. I’d have nothing to talk about. Except you, of course.” Mom takes my hand and squeezes it. I want her to let go—it’s embarrassing to be seventeen and holding hands with your mother in public—but I know if I shake my hand loose, it’ll hurt her feelings.
Thank God Mom releases my hand when the waitress comes over. I make a point of asking the waitress how she’s doing. I also take the napkins and cutlery she’s carrying and put everything in the right spot. I know how tough it is to stay on top of things when a restaurant gets busy.
“Thanks,” the waitress says. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I know she knows I’m a waitress too. It’s like being part of a secret society. Freemasons have a secret handshake; waitresses help each other with cutlery.
Mom points to the bottom of her menu. “We’ll have our usual. Scrambled eggs with sesame-seed bagels. Toasted. Fruit salad instead of home fries. Please.” Mom hands the menu back to the waitress.
My hands are in my lap now—safely out of Mom’s reach.
“I’ll have poached eggs, not scrambled, please,” I tell the waitress.
“Sure,” she says, scratching something out on her pad.
“Sweetpie!” Mom says. (The waitress gives me a sympathetic look.) “Poached eggs? Since when do you like poached eggs?”
“I guess I’m in the mood for a change. Besides, I’m starting to like poached eggs. I’ve been eating them at”—lying is harder than acting because you have to make up the script as you go along—“Katie’s.”
Mom’s not good with change, even if it involves eggs. I think if she had her way, she’d keep me a little girl forever. Not because she doesn’t want me to grow up and have my own life; I think Mom just got used to having a little girl around for company.
“Iris,” she says, “why don’t we plan to come here for breakfast every single weekend? If we did it first thing on Saturdays, I could still—”
“Mom.” My voice comes out sharper than I want it to. “I can’t go making plans like that. Not with the play coming up.”
This time, Mom bites her lip. “You’re right. I’m being a pest. So tell me everything…”
I have a sudden urge to check the time on my cell phone. I’m meeting Mick back at the loft at one.
There’s no way I’m going to tell my mom everything, but I know I’ve got to tell her something.
“I’m really getting into Ophelia’s character.”
“That’s wonderful,” Mom says.
I’m waiting for her to say what she usually does—that I should probably have a Plan B—but she doesn’t. That makes me want to tell her a little more.
“Ophelia is really close with her brother and her dad. So she’s super torn when her dad says he thinks Hamlet’s totally wrong for her. But the thing is, Ophelia’s crazy in love with Hamlet.” Just saying the words crazy in love makes me think of Mick and how I’m crazy in love with him. His lips, his shoulders, the way he calls me Joey and holds me so tight it almost hurts to breathe.
“It’s been ages since I read the play, but wasn’t Hamlet bonkers?” Mom asks, twirling one finger in a circle by the side of her head to emphasize bonkers.
“He’s brilliant, not bonkers. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s a prince.”
“A difficult prince,” Mom says. “Why is it some women always fall for difficult guys?”
I want to ask Mom whether my father was difficult. But I can’t. My father has always been the forbidden topic in our lives. Besides, I already know he was difficult. That’s why they broke up and also why I’m supposed to be grateful he didn’t make an effort to stay in touch with me. Only maybe what he wrote to me is true—maybe he did make an effort. Maybe Mom blocked it. But why?
Take it from me—we’re better off without him. Mom said that so many times when I was little, I took it for a fact. Now I’m not so sure.
The waitress brings our food. Mom gives me a suspicious look as I break off a piece of toasted bagel and dip it in the runny egg yolks.
“Speaking of princes,” she says, “how’re you and Tommy managing? He really is a lovely guy. So respectful. Not at all bonkers, like that Hamlet of yours. I’m really glad you chose someone who’s good for you. Some women have such awful taste in men.” I wonder if she’s talking about herself. Does Mom worry that bad taste in men is a genetic trait I might have inherited—like green eyes or wavy hair?
I hate disappointing Mom, but I don’t want her holding out hope for me and Tommy. “I’m not really with Tommy anymore.” I’m playing with my napkin, folding it into smaller and smaller triangles.
“I had no idea.” This time, Mom does sound hurt. You’d think she was the one who’d just gone through a breakup. “How come?” She leans in a little closer, and I know that if my hand was on the table, she’d be squeezing it. I know Mom wants me to tell her everything—the way I used to when I was little. And part of me wants to because it felt good to tell someone everything—to let out whatever was going on in my heart and head. But I know I can’t. Not just because things are too complicated right now, but because I’m not Mom’s little girl anymore. No matter how much she wants me to be.