Yesterday’s rain storm had subsided into sunny weather, and we got a small table outside where we could at least be distracted by the occasional passerby.
“So,” she said as we sat down, “tell me about your life. What have you been doing all this time. David said you were traveling? Is that right?”
I picked up my menu and scanned the pastries. “You really want me to tell you?”
“Yes,” she said, leaning forward. “I’m curious.”
“Okay.” I put down the menu. “I’ve been living in an Airstream trailer, going from RV park to RV park, basically whenever the whim strikes. I’ve been working in convenience stores, doing temp work, hitting the seasonal industries, that kind of thing. Your basic minimum-wage crap work that no one else wants to do.”
Her posture stiffened. “You don’t have to be so abrasive about it.”
I conceded. “You’re right. I don’t.”
“Dr. Travers says that when there are moments of tension, we could try to break them by thinking of something honestly nice we can say to each other. So, I’ll start.” She did one of her practiced in-through-the-nose, out-through-the-mouth breaths. “I’m very glad you came. I think it shows a great amount of maturity on your part.”
“Well, it’s not like I had a choice,” I muttered.
“What?”
“You gave Danny that ultimatum. You said you wouldn’t marry him unless I came to the wedding.” My eyes narrowed. “Which is classic Lilly Lorraine 1.0, by the way. If you’ve changed so much, what’s up with that?”
She sat back. “I never gave him an ultimatum. I was sad that I’d be getting married without my only daughter there, but I never said—”
“That’s not what Digs told me,” I said. “Then again, there was a lot that Digs didn’t tell me, so maybe he was just spinning things to get me out here. I don’t know. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because I still wasn’t going to come, but then the angel kidnapped me.”
“I’m sorry—the what?”
“Jess. She thinks she’s an angel sent from God to drag me out here to your wedding. She kidnapped me while I was sleeping in my trailer, and that’s why I’m here. So that whole thing about maturity? You might want to take that back.”
Mom sat back and eyed me carefully. “Why can’t you just say ‘thank you’?”
“What do you mean?”
“When someone gives you a compliment, you have never been able to just say ‘thank you.’ You always have to come in with all these reasons why the compliment isn’t valid.”
I stared at her for a long time. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not used to being complimented.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but a waitress interrupted to take our order. I ordered a mocha and an apple turnover, then turned it over to Mom, who handed her menu to the waitress.
“I’ll have a water with lemon,” she said. The waitress took the menu and walked away before my mother finally realized I was staring at her and said, “What?”
“You still don’t eat,” I observed. “How can you cook so much and not eat? Don’t you have to sample the food?”
“I eat,” she scoffed, then motioned lamely toward the café. “Coffee hurts my stomach, and the pastries here are too sweet.”
“Mom, you’re in your late fifties and you’re still a size four,” I said. “It’s not natural. These are supposed to be your fat and happy years. You’re getting married, Danny would love you no matter what size you are, so what’s up with—?”
“It’s your turn,” she said loudly, her face white with tension.
I blinked. “Sorry, what?”
“It’s your turn.” She kept her eyes off me, neatly smoothing out the folded napkin on the table in front of her. “To say something nice to me. I may have been a terrible person for your entire existence, but I gave you life, and the least you can do is find one nice thing to say to me.” She met my eye and raised her eyebrows in challenge. “So go ahead. It’s your
“So,” she said as we sat down, “tell me about your life. What have you been doing all this time. David said you were traveling? Is that right?”
I picked up my menu and scanned the pastries. “You really want me to tell you?”
“Yes,” she said, leaning forward. “I’m curious.”
“Okay.” I put down the menu. “I’ve been living in an Airstream trailer, going from RV park to RV park, basically whenever the whim strikes. I’ve been working in convenience stores, doing temp work, hitting the seasonal industries, that kind of thing. Your basic minimum-wage crap work that no one else wants to do.”
Her posture stiffened. “You don’t have to be so abrasive about it.”
I conceded. “You’re right. I don’t.”
“Dr. Travers says that when there are moments of tension, we could try to break them by thinking of something honestly nice we can say to each other. So, I’ll start.” She did one of her practiced in-through-the-nose, out-through-the-mouth breaths. “I’m very glad you came. I think it shows a great amount of maturity on your part.”
“Well, it’s not like I had a choice,” I muttered.
“What?”
“You gave Danny that ultimatum. You said you wouldn’t marry him unless I came to the wedding.” My eyes narrowed. “Which is classic Lilly Lorraine 1.0, by the way. If you’ve changed so much, what’s up with that?”
She sat back. “I never gave him an ultimatum. I was sad that I’d be getting married without my only daughter there, but I never said—”
“That’s not what Digs told me,” I said. “Then again, there was a lot that Digs didn’t tell me, so maybe he was just spinning things to get me out here. I don’t know. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because I still wasn’t going to come, but then the angel kidnapped me.”
“I’m sorry—the what?”
“Jess. She thinks she’s an angel sent from God to drag me out here to your wedding. She kidnapped me while I was sleeping in my trailer, and that’s why I’m here. So that whole thing about maturity? You might want to take that back.”
Mom sat back and eyed me carefully. “Why can’t you just say ‘thank you’?”
“What do you mean?”
“When someone gives you a compliment, you have never been able to just say ‘thank you.’ You always have to come in with all these reasons why the compliment isn’t valid.”
I stared at her for a long time. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not used to being complimented.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but a waitress interrupted to take our order. I ordered a mocha and an apple turnover, then turned it over to Mom, who handed her menu to the waitress.
“I’ll have a water with lemon,” she said. The waitress took the menu and walked away before my mother finally realized I was staring at her and said, “What?”
“You still don’t eat,” I observed. “How can you cook so much and not eat? Don’t you have to sample the food?”
“I eat,” she scoffed, then motioned lamely toward the café. “Coffee hurts my stomach, and the pastries here are too sweet.”
“Mom, you’re in your late fifties and you’re still a size four,” I said. “It’s not natural. These are supposed to be your fat and happy years. You’re getting married, Danny would love you no matter what size you are, so what’s up with—?”
“It’s your turn,” she said loudly, her face white with tension.
I blinked. “Sorry, what?”
“It’s your turn.” She kept her eyes off me, neatly smoothing out the folded napkin on the table in front of her. “To say something nice to me. I may have been a terrible person for your entire existence, but I gave you life, and the least you can do is find one nice thing to say to me.” She met my eye and raised her eyebrows in challenge. “So go ahead. It’s your
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