style, but unfortunately – I cared not.
I had no shoes for the outfit so I ran down the stairs with bare feet. The look of relief on my mother’s face was rather comical. I smiled at her and started peeling carrots for the inevitable dinner salad.
“You look lovely, sweetheart.”
I nodded with a smile, absolutely baffled as to how she could find the get-up anything other than ghastly. Even in her silky peach pantsuit and bangles, she looked far hipper than me.
“Do you want to borrow some nylons? I’ve also got knee-high hose.” Given our long history with this conversation, her hopeful desire for a different outcome almost made me sad.
“I can’t wear any of that stuff. It’s all too itchy, remember?”
Everything from my waist down was already one big wooly torture, and I couldn’t understand why women in the new century still had to torment themselves in such diabolical ways.
“Oh right – I forgot. You’re probably the only girl I ever knew who hates nylons.” My mother tried to be carefree about it, but there was no mistaking the hurt in her voice.
“The only one who admits it,” I corrected.
She ignored the comment, “Your father should be home any second now with those rolls. And I really hope he picked up whole wheat – last time it was sour dough and I just can’t eat white breads like I used to.”
This was probably not the time to inquire about the half-empty bedroom.
As if on a cosmic timer, we heard the door of my father’s Cadillac slam shut – maybe just a tad too hard. He walked through the door with a bag of brown buns and a bottle of wine. His grey hair was receding slightly and he’d put on weight, but he was still my sweet and handsome Dad. I immediately walked into his arms and held him, pressing my fingers into his meaty back. He seemed a little shocked to be receiving such attention. Something about him reminded me of Luke.
“Hi, Pop,” I said.
“Hey, Pebbles.”
I finally let go of him when I felt tears welling. We both chuckled and I grabbed the rolls out of his hand and put them in a bowl. My father and I never said much to each other, and in that, we were bonded – as if we still weren’t sure of our place in life or how we’d ended up as who we were. We were like lost little moons held in place only by the planetary pull of my mother.
I followed her into the dining room where she had set the table for four, using her best china. Now I was a little nervous because she only used her expensive dishes at Christmas and Thanksgiving.
“So who’s coming over for dinner?” I asked her.
She was adjusting a centerpiece of stargazer lilies.
“You’ll see.”
“But I don’t like surprises, remember?”
“You’ll see, Tracy. That’s the end of it.”
My mother had cooled to me by a couple of degrees, and I assumed she was hurt by the affection I’d lavished on my father.
“The table looks beautiful, Mom.”
“Could you bring me the cloth napkins in the top cabinet drawer?”
“Sure,” I said, eager to stitch up her feelings. The drawer was stuffed with neatly folded squares of cloth: white, beige, raspberry, peach, and teal.
“Bring four of the cream, on the top. Careful not to mess up the other ones.” She had stopped calling me sweetheart, and I wondered what sort of emotional acrobatics she would demand from me before I’d hear it again.
I handed her the napkins.
“These are beige, Tracy. I asked for cream. There’s a big difference.”
“Oh.”
I pulled out the ones I had thought were white and questioned whether I was color blind or just completely inept at the art of home-making.
My parents moved around our small kitchen just like they always had, but something in the familiar energy field had changed. They reminded me of magnets trying to maneuver at similar poles – the closer they got, the more they repelled.
chapter 17
K YLE S TEINKE TURNED out to be the surprise.
So screw the emotional acrobatics – my mother and I
I had no shoes for the outfit so I ran down the stairs with bare feet. The look of relief on my mother’s face was rather comical. I smiled at her and started peeling carrots for the inevitable dinner salad.
“You look lovely, sweetheart.”
I nodded with a smile, absolutely baffled as to how she could find the get-up anything other than ghastly. Even in her silky peach pantsuit and bangles, she looked far hipper than me.
“Do you want to borrow some nylons? I’ve also got knee-high hose.” Given our long history with this conversation, her hopeful desire for a different outcome almost made me sad.
“I can’t wear any of that stuff. It’s all too itchy, remember?”
Everything from my waist down was already one big wooly torture, and I couldn’t understand why women in the new century still had to torment themselves in such diabolical ways.
“Oh right – I forgot. You’re probably the only girl I ever knew who hates nylons.” My mother tried to be carefree about it, but there was no mistaking the hurt in her voice.
“The only one who admits it,” I corrected.
She ignored the comment, “Your father should be home any second now with those rolls. And I really hope he picked up whole wheat – last time it was sour dough and I just can’t eat white breads like I used to.”
This was probably not the time to inquire about the half-empty bedroom.
As if on a cosmic timer, we heard the door of my father’s Cadillac slam shut – maybe just a tad too hard. He walked through the door with a bag of brown buns and a bottle of wine. His grey hair was receding slightly and he’d put on weight, but he was still my sweet and handsome Dad. I immediately walked into his arms and held him, pressing my fingers into his meaty back. He seemed a little shocked to be receiving such attention. Something about him reminded me of Luke.
“Hi, Pop,” I said.
“Hey, Pebbles.”
I finally let go of him when I felt tears welling. We both chuckled and I grabbed the rolls out of his hand and put them in a bowl. My father and I never said much to each other, and in that, we were bonded – as if we still weren’t sure of our place in life or how we’d ended up as who we were. We were like lost little moons held in place only by the planetary pull of my mother.
I followed her into the dining room where she had set the table for four, using her best china. Now I was a little nervous because she only used her expensive dishes at Christmas and Thanksgiving.
“So who’s coming over for dinner?” I asked her.
She was adjusting a centerpiece of stargazer lilies.
“You’ll see.”
“But I don’t like surprises, remember?”
“You’ll see, Tracy. That’s the end of it.”
My mother had cooled to me by a couple of degrees, and I assumed she was hurt by the affection I’d lavished on my father.
“The table looks beautiful, Mom.”
“Could you bring me the cloth napkins in the top cabinet drawer?”
“Sure,” I said, eager to stitch up her feelings. The drawer was stuffed with neatly folded squares of cloth: white, beige, raspberry, peach, and teal.
“Bring four of the cream, on the top. Careful not to mess up the other ones.” She had stopped calling me sweetheart, and I wondered what sort of emotional acrobatics she would demand from me before I’d hear it again.
I handed her the napkins.
“These are beige, Tracy. I asked for cream. There’s a big difference.”
“Oh.”
I pulled out the ones I had thought were white and questioned whether I was color blind or just completely inept at the art of home-making.
My parents moved around our small kitchen just like they always had, but something in the familiar energy field had changed. They reminded me of magnets trying to maneuver at similar poles – the closer they got, the more they repelled.
chapter 17
K YLE S TEINKE TURNED out to be the surprise.
So screw the emotional acrobatics – my mother and I
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