you’ll—”
“I’ll what?” She held it up, against her window, the third ring making the slim Motorola dance against the glass.
“Give me the phone, Ma.” I needed to talk to him, make sure all was as it had been before I’d left. This wasn’t just about motel rooms. It was about checking the status quo.
She flipped it open, as defiant as I had been in preschool. Now I saw where I got a few of my more undesirable traits. “Hello, Nick. This is Mrs. Delaney. When are you going to make an honest woman out of my daughter?”
“Ma!” I hissed. Why did she have to add fuel to that fire?
She ignored me. “Really? And she said no?” My mother turned a sharp glance on me. I had racked up one more disappointment in her eyes. “Oh, you are such a dear. Yes, yes, I believe we are just a few miles from that area now. Oh, they do? Wonderful. Yes, we’ll look for that exit. Oh, thank you, Nick.” Another pause. “You too, dear. Have a wonderful evening. And don’t worry, I’ll be sure to talk to Hilary. I’ll put in a good word for you. You are such a sweet boy. Good night now.”
Sweet boy? Nick was nearly forty, for Pete’s sake.
She closed the phone and placed the Motorola in the empty ashtray, giving it a little pat, as if all had been settled with my future.
I glanced at the dish with longing that bordered on pain. I would have given my right arm for a Marlboro Light right now.
“Hilary, Nick said—”
“Don’t say one word about my love life. I don’t ask about yours, you don’t ask about mine.” And don’t interfere in that particular discussion. Could she have made it any worse?
“I don’t have a love life to ask about.”
“You don’t? What about Mr. Messinger across the street?”
My mother’s face reddened, crimson coloring from her cheeks to her chest. Reginald poked his head up, looked from one of us to the other, then went back to sleep. “He’s a neighbor, nothing more. We talk about tulips and…gardenias.”
“That’s not what I heard.” I grinned. Mrs. Whittaker was a fountain of more than just medical gossip. “Ma, it’s okay for you to have a little romance. You may be older, but you’re not dead.”
“Your father is in the backseat, Hilary.”
I rolled my eyes.
“All right, I know he isn’t really, but…well, I don’t feel comfortable discussing Mr. Messinger with you.”
“Exactly. And I don’t feel comfortable discussing my relationship with Nick with you.”
“Why?”
I blew out a gust of air, instead of cursing. “Because it’s complicated, Ma.”
“What’s complicated about it? He loves you, he wants to marry you. You call Reverend White, we book the church…”
That icy knot formed again in my stomach, tightening into a twisted ball of frozen vines. If I hadn’t been stuck behind the wheel of a car, driving my mother and her pig across the country, I’d have run.
Run back home, run away from these questions. Run away from giving answers I didn’t have.
Didn’t want to provide, not to her, not to Nick, and most of all not to myself. Because that would mean looking into mental trunks best left shut.
“Quit,” I said, softly at first, then, again, the word gaining in volume. “Quit it. Quit planning my life. My future. Just quit ”
Ma put her purse on the floor, turned in her seat and facedme. “What’s so wrong with a little planning? With looking ahead to the future? You are not getting any younger, my dear, and you need to think—”
“I know what I need to think about!” The words exploded out of me, pent up for so many years, this little time bomb exacerbated by the close quarters of the car, the incessant woodpecker of my mother’s proximity. Why had I thought we could spend all this time together without committing murder? That simply adding a few birthdays would change our relationship? Make her see I was an adult? One capable of making decisions? “Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, what you want
“I’ll what?” She held it up, against her window, the third ring making the slim Motorola dance against the glass.
“Give me the phone, Ma.” I needed to talk to him, make sure all was as it had been before I’d left. This wasn’t just about motel rooms. It was about checking the status quo.
She flipped it open, as defiant as I had been in preschool. Now I saw where I got a few of my more undesirable traits. “Hello, Nick. This is Mrs. Delaney. When are you going to make an honest woman out of my daughter?”
“Ma!” I hissed. Why did she have to add fuel to that fire?
She ignored me. “Really? And she said no?” My mother turned a sharp glance on me. I had racked up one more disappointment in her eyes. “Oh, you are such a dear. Yes, yes, I believe we are just a few miles from that area now. Oh, they do? Wonderful. Yes, we’ll look for that exit. Oh, thank you, Nick.” Another pause. “You too, dear. Have a wonderful evening. And don’t worry, I’ll be sure to talk to Hilary. I’ll put in a good word for you. You are such a sweet boy. Good night now.”
Sweet boy? Nick was nearly forty, for Pete’s sake.
She closed the phone and placed the Motorola in the empty ashtray, giving it a little pat, as if all had been settled with my future.
I glanced at the dish with longing that bordered on pain. I would have given my right arm for a Marlboro Light right now.
“Hilary, Nick said—”
“Don’t say one word about my love life. I don’t ask about yours, you don’t ask about mine.” And don’t interfere in that particular discussion. Could she have made it any worse?
“I don’t have a love life to ask about.”
“You don’t? What about Mr. Messinger across the street?”
My mother’s face reddened, crimson coloring from her cheeks to her chest. Reginald poked his head up, looked from one of us to the other, then went back to sleep. “He’s a neighbor, nothing more. We talk about tulips and…gardenias.”
“That’s not what I heard.” I grinned. Mrs. Whittaker was a fountain of more than just medical gossip. “Ma, it’s okay for you to have a little romance. You may be older, but you’re not dead.”
“Your father is in the backseat, Hilary.”
I rolled my eyes.
“All right, I know he isn’t really, but…well, I don’t feel comfortable discussing Mr. Messinger with you.”
“Exactly. And I don’t feel comfortable discussing my relationship with Nick with you.”
“Why?”
I blew out a gust of air, instead of cursing. “Because it’s complicated, Ma.”
“What’s complicated about it? He loves you, he wants to marry you. You call Reverend White, we book the church…”
That icy knot formed again in my stomach, tightening into a twisted ball of frozen vines. If I hadn’t been stuck behind the wheel of a car, driving my mother and her pig across the country, I’d have run.
Run back home, run away from these questions. Run away from giving answers I didn’t have.
Didn’t want to provide, not to her, not to Nick, and most of all not to myself. Because that would mean looking into mental trunks best left shut.
“Quit,” I said, softly at first, then, again, the word gaining in volume. “Quit it. Quit planning my life. My future. Just quit ”
Ma put her purse on the floor, turned in her seat and facedme. “What’s so wrong with a little planning? With looking ahead to the future? You are not getting any younger, my dear, and you need to think—”
“I know what I need to think about!” The words exploded out of me, pent up for so many years, this little time bomb exacerbated by the close quarters of the car, the incessant woodpecker of my mother’s proximity. Why had I thought we could spend all this time together without committing murder? That simply adding a few birthdays would change our relationship? Make her see I was an adult? One capable of making decisions? “Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, what you want
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