around: her clients, Denise, the running team, and now Doug and his dog.
Mom has stepped up her training and it seems like Doug is over every other day, bringing protein shakes or articles or just dropping by to say hello. He may have won my mother over, but I refuse to be charmed. He must have picked up on this, because Doug has started bringing over his dog, Suzy. If he thinks I am the kind of person who can be won over by a puppy, then he is sadly mistaken. I am not that girl. I am not Mattie Cohen, who cries at TV commercials about the animal shelter and stops to pet every dog we pass on the street. I’m not even sure I like dogs. I know I don’t like the way they smell, or that you have to walk behind them with a bag to pick up their poop. If you ask me, dogs are more trouble than they’re worth. So when Doug comes over with Suzy, who looks more like a mop than a dog, I am not impressed.
Sometimes I wish Mom would send everyone away and we could just hang out together. We wouldn’t have to do anything special, maybe just watch a movie and do our nails. I can’t bring myself to ask about it, because if she asks why, I’d have to tell her the reason. The truth is, I don’t know how much time we have left.
Until she is officially in remission, we can’t be sure that she’s not going to get sick again and maybe this time she won’t get better. I guess no one really knows how much time they have on earth. You could get hit by a car or struck by lightning or get cancer at any point. But just knowing that one of those three things is less likely to happen would make me feel a lot better. That’s not the sort of depressing thing you want to discuss with your mother, especially if she’s the one with the cancer. And so I smile and pretend everything is great and life is exciting. I don’t complain when people come traipsing through our house all day long.
Part of the problem is that Mom is always willing to hear other people’s problems. You would think she’d get enough of that, as a stylist and the best friend of woe-is-me Denise, but she can’t say no to a weepy person, even after hours. So when by some miracle we find ourselves alone at dinner, I decide to approach the Doug thing.
“So,” I begin. “Doug seems nice.”
“He is nice,” Mom says evenly, but the way she smiles says even more.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him, but I guess that’s normal, since he’s your personal trainer and everything.”
“Yes,” Mom agrees. “Training for a marathon takes up a lot of time.”
I seriously doubt that accompanying the trainer for walks with his dog and having long phone conversations counts as marathon training. But I don’t say that aloud. Instead I ask, “Is he a good trainer?”
“Very good; he keeps us all in stitches.”
“Shouldn’t he be concentrating on preparing you for the marathon?”
“Yes, but if you’re not having fun, what’s the point?”
“I thought the point was to raise money for cancer research.”
“Yes, and also to have fun, get fit, and try new things.”
“Has he done this kind of thing before?” I ask.
“What? Train people for marathons? It is one of the things a personal trainer does, Clarissa, yes. Where are you going with this?”
I can see I’m not going to get anywhere with this line of questioning. I decide to change tactics.
“Does he work long hours?”
Mom shrugs. “Not really. He’s one of the top trainers at the gym. He makes his own schedule.”
“So he can spend more time with his wife?”
Mom puts her fork down and looks right at me. “Stop.”
I feign surprise. “Stop what? Doug is obviously someone who is important to you. Why shouldn’t I want to know about him?”
Mom picks up her fork and resumes eating. “He’s not married.”
“Divorced?”
“Clarissa, that is none of your business.”
“Is it yours?”
Mom sighs. “Spit it out, Clarissa.”
“Spit what out?”
“Whatever it is you’re
Mom has stepped up her training and it seems like Doug is over every other day, bringing protein shakes or articles or just dropping by to say hello. He may have won my mother over, but I refuse to be charmed. He must have picked up on this, because Doug has started bringing over his dog, Suzy. If he thinks I am the kind of person who can be won over by a puppy, then he is sadly mistaken. I am not that girl. I am not Mattie Cohen, who cries at TV commercials about the animal shelter and stops to pet every dog we pass on the street. I’m not even sure I like dogs. I know I don’t like the way they smell, or that you have to walk behind them with a bag to pick up their poop. If you ask me, dogs are more trouble than they’re worth. So when Doug comes over with Suzy, who looks more like a mop than a dog, I am not impressed.
Sometimes I wish Mom would send everyone away and we could just hang out together. We wouldn’t have to do anything special, maybe just watch a movie and do our nails. I can’t bring myself to ask about it, because if she asks why, I’d have to tell her the reason. The truth is, I don’t know how much time we have left.
Until she is officially in remission, we can’t be sure that she’s not going to get sick again and maybe this time she won’t get better. I guess no one really knows how much time they have on earth. You could get hit by a car or struck by lightning or get cancer at any point. But just knowing that one of those three things is less likely to happen would make me feel a lot better. That’s not the sort of depressing thing you want to discuss with your mother, especially if she’s the one with the cancer. And so I smile and pretend everything is great and life is exciting. I don’t complain when people come traipsing through our house all day long.
Part of the problem is that Mom is always willing to hear other people’s problems. You would think she’d get enough of that, as a stylist and the best friend of woe-is-me Denise, but she can’t say no to a weepy person, even after hours. So when by some miracle we find ourselves alone at dinner, I decide to approach the Doug thing.
“So,” I begin. “Doug seems nice.”
“He is nice,” Mom says evenly, but the way she smiles says even more.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him, but I guess that’s normal, since he’s your personal trainer and everything.”
“Yes,” Mom agrees. “Training for a marathon takes up a lot of time.”
I seriously doubt that accompanying the trainer for walks with his dog and having long phone conversations counts as marathon training. But I don’t say that aloud. Instead I ask, “Is he a good trainer?”
“Very good; he keeps us all in stitches.”
“Shouldn’t he be concentrating on preparing you for the marathon?”
“Yes, but if you’re not having fun, what’s the point?”
“I thought the point was to raise money for cancer research.”
“Yes, and also to have fun, get fit, and try new things.”
“Has he done this kind of thing before?” I ask.
“What? Train people for marathons? It is one of the things a personal trainer does, Clarissa, yes. Where are you going with this?”
I can see I’m not going to get anywhere with this line of questioning. I decide to change tactics.
“Does he work long hours?”
Mom shrugs. “Not really. He’s one of the top trainers at the gym. He makes his own schedule.”
“So he can spend more time with his wife?”
Mom puts her fork down and looks right at me. “Stop.”
I feign surprise. “Stop what? Doug is obviously someone who is important to you. Why shouldn’t I want to know about him?”
Mom picks up her fork and resumes eating. “He’s not married.”
“Divorced?”
“Clarissa, that is none of your business.”
“Is it yours?”
Mom sighs. “Spit it out, Clarissa.”
“Spit what out?”
“Whatever it is you’re
Similar Books
