she just spent the week in Vegas with him, I was counting my blessings that they weren't married already. Luckily that was a little bit too cliché, even for Mom.
My mouth went dry. My mom was a class A flake, but this was more than I thought even she was capable of. It was hard to understand how this woman could have possibly birthed my sister and I. As I looked over at her, I could see how happy she was. Those sparkling eyes and that eager smile might melt some people, but not me. When I see a face like that, I can only think of all the thousands of ways that things could go wrong and that smile could disappear. I supposed that was one of the fundamental differences between my mother and I. I wanted reassurances. She just wanted to be happy.
“You seem angry.” She turned to me. “I know this comes as a bit of a shock…”
“Not a shock at all, Mom,” I interjected. “Not at all. This is exactly what I expect.”
“That’s not fair Moneka and you know it.”
I did know it. It was her life after all, her choices. I had enough on my plate with the restaurant; I didn’t need to be babysitting my mother as well.
“She’s not mad Mom.” Kaila dove to the rescue. “She’s just…shocked. We both are. We just want to make sure that you’re going to be happy.”
Mollified, my mom took another sip of her Bellini and smiled. “Well, promise me you won’t worry too much. I’m a big girl after all. Just meet him. Monday. Promise?”
“Yes.” We both sighed into our drinks. The laughter that followed helped to break some of the tension.
We were able to enjoy the rest of the brunch in peace. Kaila regaled us with stories about her more colorful clients and I went on more than one tirade about the repairs that still needed doing on the restaurant. Mom listened attentively, nodding at all the appropriate moments and making commiserating noises. She was good about stuff like that. I had to admit that despite her flakiness, she had some maternal qualities that many others lacked. I never felt more listened to than when I chatted with my Mom. Remembering this brought on a pang of guilt over the way I’d reacted. She would be fine. She always was. No me on the other hand, I wasn't so sure.
8
Cole
E lysian Fields was the most epically hoity-toity country club in all of Massachusetts. Just driving through the austere gates made me feel like I’d been invited to a party hosted by the royal family. The main building stretched long and low like a ranch house, oversized windows gazing dramatically out over the green. I could see small figures in plaid shorts or khaki pants, all wearing polo shirts and gloves. Of course, they wouldn’t say they were “wearing” polo shirts, they would say they were “sporting” them. Golfers. What are you going to do?
As I blustered into the parking lot in my Ford pickup, complete with scrap wood from leftover projects, I could almost here them disapproving from across the lawn. Everywhere, pairs of golfers turned their heads toward each other to make some comment or other about the misfit in the filthy truck. I had to admit; this was my favorite part about golfing. I enjoyed frustrating the expectations of the people around me.
For my Dad’s sake, I had at least attempted to look the part. I would sooner come naked than put on a pair of plaid shorts. I met them halfway, however, with some tan slacks and a polo of my own. These clothes felt alien to me, as if I were a child trying on my parents’ wardrobe. Looking down and assessing the damage, I knew with certainty that I would never grow into this. Someday, Dad would accept that.
Admittedly, the inside of the main clubhouse was a feast for a contractor’s eyes. No matter how badly I wanted to hate everything here, I couldn’t deny the expert molding and paneling. The woodwork was pristine. The hardwood floor had an almost glassy look to it, like the surface of calm waters; I felt like I could dive in and swim around in
My mouth went dry. My mom was a class A flake, but this was more than I thought even she was capable of. It was hard to understand how this woman could have possibly birthed my sister and I. As I looked over at her, I could see how happy she was. Those sparkling eyes and that eager smile might melt some people, but not me. When I see a face like that, I can only think of all the thousands of ways that things could go wrong and that smile could disappear. I supposed that was one of the fundamental differences between my mother and I. I wanted reassurances. She just wanted to be happy.
“You seem angry.” She turned to me. “I know this comes as a bit of a shock…”
“Not a shock at all, Mom,” I interjected. “Not at all. This is exactly what I expect.”
“That’s not fair Moneka and you know it.”
I did know it. It was her life after all, her choices. I had enough on my plate with the restaurant; I didn’t need to be babysitting my mother as well.
“She’s not mad Mom.” Kaila dove to the rescue. “She’s just…shocked. We both are. We just want to make sure that you’re going to be happy.”
Mollified, my mom took another sip of her Bellini and smiled. “Well, promise me you won’t worry too much. I’m a big girl after all. Just meet him. Monday. Promise?”
“Yes.” We both sighed into our drinks. The laughter that followed helped to break some of the tension.
We were able to enjoy the rest of the brunch in peace. Kaila regaled us with stories about her more colorful clients and I went on more than one tirade about the repairs that still needed doing on the restaurant. Mom listened attentively, nodding at all the appropriate moments and making commiserating noises. She was good about stuff like that. I had to admit that despite her flakiness, she had some maternal qualities that many others lacked. I never felt more listened to than when I chatted with my Mom. Remembering this brought on a pang of guilt over the way I’d reacted. She would be fine. She always was. No me on the other hand, I wasn't so sure.
8
Cole
E lysian Fields was the most epically hoity-toity country club in all of Massachusetts. Just driving through the austere gates made me feel like I’d been invited to a party hosted by the royal family. The main building stretched long and low like a ranch house, oversized windows gazing dramatically out over the green. I could see small figures in plaid shorts or khaki pants, all wearing polo shirts and gloves. Of course, they wouldn’t say they were “wearing” polo shirts, they would say they were “sporting” them. Golfers. What are you going to do?
As I blustered into the parking lot in my Ford pickup, complete with scrap wood from leftover projects, I could almost here them disapproving from across the lawn. Everywhere, pairs of golfers turned their heads toward each other to make some comment or other about the misfit in the filthy truck. I had to admit; this was my favorite part about golfing. I enjoyed frustrating the expectations of the people around me.
For my Dad’s sake, I had at least attempted to look the part. I would sooner come naked than put on a pair of plaid shorts. I met them halfway, however, with some tan slacks and a polo of my own. These clothes felt alien to me, as if I were a child trying on my parents’ wardrobe. Looking down and assessing the damage, I knew with certainty that I would never grow into this. Someday, Dad would accept that.
Admittedly, the inside of the main clubhouse was a feast for a contractor’s eyes. No matter how badly I wanted to hate everything here, I couldn’t deny the expert molding and paneling. The woodwork was pristine. The hardwood floor had an almost glassy look to it, like the surface of calm waters; I felt like I could dive in and swim around in
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