bag. “I know you hate it when people point out that you’re cranky, but are you cranky?”
I flushed, came back out. My mother moved over so that I could wash my hands. She was putting on her mascara, and she had that mascara face people get—chin dropped down, mouth open. It looked silly, but then, honestly, I had the same face when I put on mascara. I guess I was cranky.
“Did you hear those stupid mating raccoons last night?” I asked.
“Is this a joke?” she said.
“No, they were on the roof or something. Then when I finally got to sleep, I had a dream about Janssen. One ofthose dreams that go on and on the whole night. You know those dreams within a dream? Where you say, ‘That’s just like that dream I always have and now it’s actually happening,’ but that’s happening in a dream?”
“I hate those,” she said.
“I have this same one, over and over. He’s lost, and I can’t find him. I look for him behind the doors of this big house. I try to call him, but I can’t dial the numbers right. How can I think about going away without him if I miss him like this after two days?”
“You’ve known him so long. He’s a part of you. Like your arm , practically.”
There are downsides to divorced mothers who date and have relationships. First, the obvious—your mother is dating. You’re the one that’s supposed to be dating. And I wasn’t even dating. I’d been with the same person for forever. Mothers dating, there’s just something wrong about it, against nature, like those sixty-year-olds who have quintuplets. Oh, she’ll borrow your clothes, too. The dating, the clothes, and the excitement and nerves she shows as she’s getting ready—it’s all your territory, you know? It’s bad enough when they listen to your kind of music, something they have no right to have even heard of, and then this. A mother, your mother especially, should be in those mother jeans with wide ass pockets and high waists, and she should maybe be, I don’t know, clipping coupons and making dinner and not having men wanting to touch her. Jesus, you’ve seen him touch her, and it honestly gives you the creeps. Sex and mother. See? Just reading those words in the same sentence made you feel that way. Imagine the truth of it in your own house.
But on the good side? All the relationship stuff—the excitement and the nerves but also the deep feelings and confusion and crushing blows to the self-esteem and the sense of getting it right, of flying —she could understand. It wasn’t some distant memory from a long-ago part of her life. It was fresh enough that she got it. She tossed and turned with it in her own bed late at night, same as I did when I fought with Janssen. She hurt over it, she screwed up, didn’t know if she should call or not, called, wished she hadn’t called. When we talked, it wasn’t all shoulder patting and stupid expressions like “There are plenty of fish in the sea.” She knew how stupid that expression was. Because it was about a particular fish, that fish. See, a person in your territory—they might be a trespasser, but they might also be a friend.
“He’s like my other half. I hate that expression. Not half . He’s like my other whole.”
Mom hugged me. I decided to try and relax. Maybe I just needed to go downstairs and have whatever smelled so great down there. “I love you,” Mom said. “You are my own sweet nut head, aren’t you?”
“My nut head is a mess,” I said.
“Your head has never been a mess. You have a case of human nature, that’s all. Change is a messy business. Maybe you need to go downstairs and have some of those great blueberry pancakes Rebecca made.”
“That’s what smells so good.”
I suddenly remembered: that boy on the stairs. The dogs and the daughters. Mom and Dan, arguing but not arguing.
“You doing okay, Mom?”
“Two cups of coffee, never been better.”
Yeah, well, looking on the bright side was one of my mother’s worst
I flushed, came back out. My mother moved over so that I could wash my hands. She was putting on her mascara, and she had that mascara face people get—chin dropped down, mouth open. It looked silly, but then, honestly, I had the same face when I put on mascara. I guess I was cranky.
“Did you hear those stupid mating raccoons last night?” I asked.
“Is this a joke?” she said.
“No, they were on the roof or something. Then when I finally got to sleep, I had a dream about Janssen. One ofthose dreams that go on and on the whole night. You know those dreams within a dream? Where you say, ‘That’s just like that dream I always have and now it’s actually happening,’ but that’s happening in a dream?”
“I hate those,” she said.
“I have this same one, over and over. He’s lost, and I can’t find him. I look for him behind the doors of this big house. I try to call him, but I can’t dial the numbers right. How can I think about going away without him if I miss him like this after two days?”
“You’ve known him so long. He’s a part of you. Like your arm , practically.”
There are downsides to divorced mothers who date and have relationships. First, the obvious—your mother is dating. You’re the one that’s supposed to be dating. And I wasn’t even dating. I’d been with the same person for forever. Mothers dating, there’s just something wrong about it, against nature, like those sixty-year-olds who have quintuplets. Oh, she’ll borrow your clothes, too. The dating, the clothes, and the excitement and nerves she shows as she’s getting ready—it’s all your territory, you know? It’s bad enough when they listen to your kind of music, something they have no right to have even heard of, and then this. A mother, your mother especially, should be in those mother jeans with wide ass pockets and high waists, and she should maybe be, I don’t know, clipping coupons and making dinner and not having men wanting to touch her. Jesus, you’ve seen him touch her, and it honestly gives you the creeps. Sex and mother. See? Just reading those words in the same sentence made you feel that way. Imagine the truth of it in your own house.
But on the good side? All the relationship stuff—the excitement and the nerves but also the deep feelings and confusion and crushing blows to the self-esteem and the sense of getting it right, of flying —she could understand. It wasn’t some distant memory from a long-ago part of her life. It was fresh enough that she got it. She tossed and turned with it in her own bed late at night, same as I did when I fought with Janssen. She hurt over it, she screwed up, didn’t know if she should call or not, called, wished she hadn’t called. When we talked, it wasn’t all shoulder patting and stupid expressions like “There are plenty of fish in the sea.” She knew how stupid that expression was. Because it was about a particular fish, that fish. See, a person in your territory—they might be a trespasser, but they might also be a friend.
“He’s like my other half. I hate that expression. Not half . He’s like my other whole.”
Mom hugged me. I decided to try and relax. Maybe I just needed to go downstairs and have whatever smelled so great down there. “I love you,” Mom said. “You are my own sweet nut head, aren’t you?”
“My nut head is a mess,” I said.
“Your head has never been a mess. You have a case of human nature, that’s all. Change is a messy business. Maybe you need to go downstairs and have some of those great blueberry pancakes Rebecca made.”
“That’s what smells so good.”
I suddenly remembered: that boy on the stairs. The dogs and the daughters. Mom and Dan, arguing but not arguing.
“You doing okay, Mom?”
“Two cups of coffee, never been better.”
Yeah, well, looking on the bright side was one of my mother’s worst
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