never speed past clusters of trees, ’cause that’s where the cops hide.”
We pass the International House of Pancakes, which is an intriguing name, when you think about it, whatever nationality you are. And we pass the Wise Trading Company, outside of which I am appropriately horrified to see a sign offering cash for guns.
“You can’t just walk into a shop and buy a gun in England,” I tell Billie. “If the British want to kill someone, we have to put on uniforms, invade another country, and call it a war. Either that or go to a football game and beat the crap out of the French.”
Billie can’t reply because she’s holding the ticket for the tollbooth between her teeth and scrabbling about in the glove compartment for some change.
I’ve never used a tollbooth before, and Billie lets me throw the change into the basket. When I miss, I have to get out of the car, pick up the coins, and put them in by hand, but I don’t mind. I’ve never done this before and it’s fun.
I have chocolate around my mouth and have spilled some on my T-shirt. I look over at Billie. She has done the same.
As we drive, Billie tells me all about her love life, her sex life, her brilliant career, her recovery from alcoholism, and the reason she never travels anywhere without a vibrator. “Regular orgasms are essential for people of our nature,” she says. “It helps us relax.”
I sit next to her feeling conventional and dull in comparison, but hopeful too. Billie is my mother after all. She leads such an interesting life. Perhaps mine will turn out to be interesting too.
Once over the Virginia border, four hours into our journey, we stop at a roadside café. The diner has almost no one in it.
A woman with ink-black hair piled high on her head and long blue fingernails comes over to our table.
“My name’s Connie and I’ll be your waitress today,” she says.
“Pleased to meet you, Connie,” I say, holding out my hand.
“Well, listen to that accent!” she says. “I just love it! Where are you from?”
She’s so excited when I tell her I’m from England she knocks over the milk.
“It’s okay,” Billie and I say in unison. “We’re spillers too.”
We all roar with laughter.
Connie brings us our all-day breakfast within five minutes.
“Can you cook the eggs a little longer?” Billie says.
“Sure,” Connie says.
The British would rather risk salmonella poisoning than do something as embarrassing as sending a plate of food back to the kitchen. I’m astonished to note that Connie doesn’t mind at all.
“I just love England,” Connie says, putting the new plate in front of Billie. “The movies. The books. Mrs. Slocum. All those buildings being so old!”
“Indeed,” I say.
“How come your accents are so different if she’s your mother?”
“Well,” I say, unable to resist. I take a bite out of what the Americans call a biscuit and the British call a scone, look Connie directly in the eye, and pause for dramatic effect. Then I say, “She gave me up for adoption when I was a baby, but we were reunited yesterday.” Connie clasps her hands to her mouth and gasps.
“Praise the Lord!” Connie says. “Bernie! Carly! Come hear this!”
I glance at Billie, who is as pleased as I am to be creating such a commotion.
A huge man in a stained white shirt comes out, holding a plate of grits and eggs, sunny-side up, swimming in grease, followed by a tiny woman in a faded floral dress and apron. They stand by our table, staring at us, riveted by our tale.
“Was your adoptive mother jealous?” Connie asks, when we’re done.
I hesitate for a second. I’ve never thought of Mum as my “adoptive” mother before.
“Was she?” Connie is saying. “Your adoptive mother, was she jealous?”
“I don’t know,” I say, drawing my hands into my lap.
“Bet she was!”
“Course she was!” Bernie chimes in. “Had to be! Why, look at you two! You look so alike! Apart from the hair, of
We pass the International House of Pancakes, which is an intriguing name, when you think about it, whatever nationality you are. And we pass the Wise Trading Company, outside of which I am appropriately horrified to see a sign offering cash for guns.
“You can’t just walk into a shop and buy a gun in England,” I tell Billie. “If the British want to kill someone, we have to put on uniforms, invade another country, and call it a war. Either that or go to a football game and beat the crap out of the French.”
Billie can’t reply because she’s holding the ticket for the tollbooth between her teeth and scrabbling about in the glove compartment for some change.
I’ve never used a tollbooth before, and Billie lets me throw the change into the basket. When I miss, I have to get out of the car, pick up the coins, and put them in by hand, but I don’t mind. I’ve never done this before and it’s fun.
I have chocolate around my mouth and have spilled some on my T-shirt. I look over at Billie. She has done the same.
As we drive, Billie tells me all about her love life, her sex life, her brilliant career, her recovery from alcoholism, and the reason she never travels anywhere without a vibrator. “Regular orgasms are essential for people of our nature,” she says. “It helps us relax.”
I sit next to her feeling conventional and dull in comparison, but hopeful too. Billie is my mother after all. She leads such an interesting life. Perhaps mine will turn out to be interesting too.
Once over the Virginia border, four hours into our journey, we stop at a roadside café. The diner has almost no one in it.
A woman with ink-black hair piled high on her head and long blue fingernails comes over to our table.
“My name’s Connie and I’ll be your waitress today,” she says.
“Pleased to meet you, Connie,” I say, holding out my hand.
“Well, listen to that accent!” she says. “I just love it! Where are you from?”
She’s so excited when I tell her I’m from England she knocks over the milk.
“It’s okay,” Billie and I say in unison. “We’re spillers too.”
We all roar with laughter.
Connie brings us our all-day breakfast within five minutes.
“Can you cook the eggs a little longer?” Billie says.
“Sure,” Connie says.
The British would rather risk salmonella poisoning than do something as embarrassing as sending a plate of food back to the kitchen. I’m astonished to note that Connie doesn’t mind at all.
“I just love England,” Connie says, putting the new plate in front of Billie. “The movies. The books. Mrs. Slocum. All those buildings being so old!”
“Indeed,” I say.
“How come your accents are so different if she’s your mother?”
“Well,” I say, unable to resist. I take a bite out of what the Americans call a biscuit and the British call a scone, look Connie directly in the eye, and pause for dramatic effect. Then I say, “She gave me up for adoption when I was a baby, but we were reunited yesterday.” Connie clasps her hands to her mouth and gasps.
“Praise the Lord!” Connie says. “Bernie! Carly! Come hear this!”
I glance at Billie, who is as pleased as I am to be creating such a commotion.
A huge man in a stained white shirt comes out, holding a plate of grits and eggs, sunny-side up, swimming in grease, followed by a tiny woman in a faded floral dress and apron. They stand by our table, staring at us, riveted by our tale.
“Was your adoptive mother jealous?” Connie asks, when we’re done.
I hesitate for a second. I’ve never thought of Mum as my “adoptive” mother before.
“Was she?” Connie is saying. “Your adoptive mother, was she jealous?”
“I don’t know,” I say, drawing my hands into my lap.
“Bet she was!”
“Course she was!” Bernie chimes in. “Had to be! Why, look at you two! You look so alike! Apart from the hair, of
Similar Books
