I drive to Lakeland early Saturday morning with plans to stay the night at my mother’s and see Gigi. Her dad’s birthday party is this afternoon. It’s a large family event, and I haven’t missed one yet. Last I heard, Hank won’t be there, leaving me feeling the weird combination of disappointment and relief.
I head straight to my mother’s house, use my spare key to let myself in, and find no one home. Momma’s preferred mode of transportation, her golf cart, is not in the garage. I toss my bag into her spare room, jot a quick note, and drive the ten minutes to my sister’s. Sometimes on Saturdays my mother takes her little cart to my sister’s for breakfast with her grandchildren.
When I arrive, Sarah Grace is manically sweeping her front porch. She pierces me with a glare and I rack my brain, wondering if maybe I offended her.
“Hi.” I hope I’ve read her mood wrong.
“You’ve been to Momma’s yet?” She doesn’t stop sweeping.
“Yeah, I just left there and neither she nor Nana was home. I thought maybe they were here.” I walk onto the porch and try to avoid her broom.
She huffs, throws down the broom, and stalks inside, leaving me to follow. My mother and sister have this crazy love-hate relationship and living close never helps matters much. It’s because they’re alike, independent and stubborn.
“What’s happened?” I know the minute I ask I’ll regret it. I also know if I don’t ask I’ll regret it more.
Backing out of the kitchen, Dan gives me a curt shake of his head and mouths, “Good luck.”
Coward. I want to yell it at him.
“Your momma,” Sarah Grace says it with clipped words. “Your mother... Oh, I can’t even say it.” She pulls out a baguette and begins to slice it into wide pieces.
“Momma what?” I want to snap at her but I know doing so will get me nowhere. Instead, I mentally count to ten, three times. One day I’m gonna drink on the drive into town. Maybe then I’ll be able to cope with my family’s madness.
She stops cutting, pinches up her face, and turns to me. “Momma went on a date last night.”
“Oh, phew. I mean, you had me worried for a minute.”
“What do you mean, ‘Oh’? Momma has been with another man and Daddy’s been dead only a few years.”
“Ten.” Ten very long years.
“What?” She gives me another annoyed look, for talking out of turn, I suppose.
“Daddy’s been gone ten years, Sarah Grace.”
“I know how long Daddy’s been gone, Paisley. That’s not the point. The point is Momma is already out there dating and can’t even bother to talk it over with us, and don’t you think she’s a bit too old for this?”
She pulls eggs and milk out of the fridge and begins to mix the two. I know she’s making French toast and my sister makes the best French toast. However, there is no doubt this conversation is leading me down the path of no breakfast at the Mitchell House.
I don’t know what to say. It’s great my mother went on a date and, frankly, it’s about time. I don’t understand why Sarah Grace is this upset. I try to choose my words carefully.
“Are you ever too old for companionship? Maybe she needs some male attention. She’s the one who’s alone.” OK, maybe those weren’t the best choice of words, but I couldn’t help it.
My sister throws her whisk into the sink and turns her fury toward me.
“Don’t tell me what momma needs and doesn’t need, Miss-come-only-every-few-weekends. I see her almost every day. I stand in a better position to tell you what she needs.” She dunks bread into the egg mixture and slaps it onto a griddle. “Besides, you’d think she’d give me the courtesy of telling me about her plans instead of letting me stumble on them unaware.”
Ahh, therein lies the real problem. Sarah Grace does not like surprises, of any kind.
“You stumbled upon them?” I have visions of Sarah Grace walking in on Momma and some strange man in bed and I shudder.
“We went to dinner last night and there they were. Snug in a booth, laughing.” She flips her French toast and is about to say more when we are interrupted by her kids.
“Aunt Paisley’s here,” Jackson says as he runs to me, arms open for a hug. Jill right behind him. I wrap them both into a tight hug and squeeze them until they squeal before I let go.
“Are you staying for breakfast?” Jill asks.
“No,” my sister answers.
“Sorry. I have to go see Mimi and Nana. What’s happened to your hair?” I ask Jill, who until recently sported very long hair. Now it brushes her shoulders.
Jackson erupts with laughter, and Jill gives me a sad face.
“We were playing with Pete and he stuck gum in my hair,” she says and follows it up with a pout.
“Oh, honey, don’t you know peanut butter can get gum out?” She’s wanted long “princess hair” forever.
“They took it upon themselves to solve the problem,” Dan calls from the couch as he’s flipping channels.
“I cut it.” Jack puffs out his chest.
“You went to Gigi’s to play?” I ask Sarah Grace.
“Yes, we’ve set up a weekly play date for the summer.” Her look dares me to challenge her. I won’t. It makes sense for them to do play dates. Though it’s hard to imagine Gigi adding booze to her tea in front of Sarah Grace. If she wasn’t in such a foul mood, I might ask her if she thinks Gigi is happy, but it’ll have to wait.
“Time to eat,” Sarah Grace calls and looks away. Dan walks by, giving me a shrug. He walks over to Sarah Grace and hugs her from behind, she sinks into him before stepping away to finish her French toast. This is what a happy couple looks like, even when one is being a miserable cow. I give the kids a good-bye hug and get out fast. I figure it’s worth swinging past my mom’s one more time.
This time she and Nana are there and making a fancy breakfast of crepes with fresh fruit.
“Paisley,” they call out in unison, raising champagne glasses filled with what looks like orange juice.
At least I’m wanted somewhere.
“Would you like a crepe?” my mother asks.
“Please.” My stomach is growling something fierce.
“Did you get my note?” I pour a glass of orange juice and giggle when my grandmother adds champagne.
“Aye, we knew ye wouldn’t be there long. We were giving ye ten minutes more before callin’ ye.” Nana lifts her glass. “To Helen’s date.”
We raise our glasses to toast. I take a good swallow and finish it in one toss. So far the day isn’t going well for me.
“Tell me about this date, Momma.”
She flips the crepe, using the pan only, and turns to me.
“You aren’t upset, are you?” Her tone tells me it doesn’t matter at this point.
“Actually, I think you’re long overdue.”
“Hear. Hear.” Nana fills up our glasses again, raises hers, and takes a drink.
“You’re sweet, Paisley. I think it’s time, too.” My mother smiles at me and comes over to give me a kiss. She’s not one for affection, so when she dishes it out I’m always surprised. My dad was the touchy-feely one. It makes me realize how much I miss being affectionate with my family, with people I love.
I’d never thought of my mother as a single person who might be lonely, desperately missing her husband, until I was in the process of my divorce and in a similar position, without a husband. At one time, she’d been half of a well-oiled, smoothly running whole. I can’t remember my parents arguing. Something they must have worked out early in their marriage.
I scan my mother’s kitchen and living room. The pictures of my father and all of us are scattered throughout. I’d always assumed my mother did that for our benefit. I realize now it’s been for hers too. Losing a husband because you are not compatible is difficult. Losing a life mate unexpectedly must have been devastating.
“It’s time for you, too.” She hands me a plate of perfect crepes with a scoop of mixed berries on top. “Marriage is hard work, Paisley. Make sure you pick someone who can do the work. Who wants to do the work.”
“Hear. Hear.” Nana cheers for the second time.
As if I knew Trevor wasn’t going to work on our marriage. It’s not like he was a slacker. He was a medical student for crying out loud. I’m not a complete idiot. But her words dig and cut me open. I focus on my plate, grasping for composure. What if I smash the plate against the counter or cram the crepes in her face? Will she hear me then?
It requires some serious mental deep breathing before I’m able to say anything. “I know it’s hard work. I gave Trevor everything, and we were fine until he got into med school.” Which, in all honestly, was the first six months of our marriage.
I know what I need to say but my courage to say it is waffling. “When you say those things, I take it personally. Like I’m a failure.” I’m pleased I remember to use the I statements my shrink taught me.
“I don’t mean it, honey. I don’t want to watch you get hurt again.” With a wave of her hand she dismisses me yet again and turns back to focus on her crepes. The mood deflates faster than a balloon.
“That’s what I’m talking about, Momma, you’re insinuating I’m going to fail again.” Hell with “I” statements. Once I start, the rest bubbles up and over. “The comments about my hair, telling Hank I’m divorced and not many people want to date me. Those things hurt. Just now you blew me off. Yes, my marriage failed. Yes, I didn’t pick so well in Trevor, but I’m sick of you defining me by this one incident.”
When she doesn’t look at me, I look over at my Nana. She’s smiling and gives me the thumbs-up. I wait for my mother to say something, do something. She stares down at her crepe; the only things moving are her blinking eyes and the slow rise and fall of her chest. I wait, running my lower lip over my teeth.
She sighs and moves the pan over to the other burner before she comes to me. She takes my hands and looks me in the eyes.
“Paisley, I think you’re a bright, funny, beautiful woman. You’ve been in hiding since the day you found Trevor with that girl.”
She raises her hand to stop me from interrupting, “Yes, you’ve been getting out. Yes, you’re dating.” She emphasizes the word dating as if I’ve been calling sitting next to a stranger at the movies a date. “But you’re still not really present. It’s getting better. The last few months I’ve seen bits of the old you. When I said those things, I was trying some of the reverse psychology Dr. Phil talks about on his show. I wanted to get you angry so you would see how much you have to offer. I never meant to hurt you, only wake you up.”
What she’s saying takes the sting out of her words, somewhat. It still hurts and was embarrassing, but perhaps there was a method to her parental madness.
“I spent the last ten years grieving for your father, and I probably always will. It took your Nana to get me to see my life isn’t over. I don’t want you to get stuck in the same rut I did. I’m sorry. I’ll try to choose better words next time.”
It’s all I can ask.
When I smile Nana hoots and refills everyone’s glasses, then raises hers for a toast.
“Here’s to two lovely women who deserve true love and happiness. Slainte.” She hiccups and drains her glass. My mother and I follow suit.
We spend the rest of the morning talking about my mother’s date, eating crepes, and sipping mimosas. It’s wonderful and the guy my mother went out with sounds pretty nice, too. She promises to introduce me if they make it to date number five. It’s heartening to know even fifty-five-year-old widows have dating criteria.
With my day perking up, I do a quick change and head out to Gigi’s house. We plan to ride together to her father’s party.