away, and you were totally asleep.”
Jessica groans. She wonders for a moment if she is still drunk. She wonders the next second how her life has gone from the crazed place it was in just hours ago to this—her mother cooking eggs and toast in her ridiculously small kitchen, a half-hung door, a very close-to-intimate conversation over dinner, some vague memory of a hair appointment, the family home going on the market and oh, yes, the silly little problem in Louisiana that she needs to fix. And then there is the small problem of what to do with her mother while she restocks sex toys and trains two new clerks during the next 15 hours.
“Mother…” Jessica tries to say, sitting up, and then falling back over.
“You need some water, baby,” Connie says, mostly to herself because Jessica has the pillow pulled over her head. “Here,” Connie says, sitting on the edge of the mattress and pressing a glass of water into Jessica’s limp hand. “Drink this while I get the coffee.”
“Coffee,” Jessica manages to murmur as she finishes the water and sets the glass on the floor. “Coffee in my coffeepot and not from the joint by the subway. Mom, how
do
you make coffee?”
Overjoyed by the perfume of high-octane caffeine, by the warm cup she can feel in her hand, Jessica forgets for a moment about her immediate and seemingly perilous future. And as she rises to accept the cup, the princess lifting her head from the pillow, she realizes the last time anyone served her anything in bed, besides a fast-handed condom, was probably about six Christmases ago when her mother did this very same thing.
“Jesus…” Jessica whispers.
“Honey, is the coffee that good?”
Jessica looks at her mother, really looks, and holds back a stream of memories—some bad, some good—that could flood her right out the door and into the elevator. Reams of kindness. Yelling. Her father pounding on one side of the door while her mother pounds on the other. Curling up tight at the end of the hall when she got sick in fourth grade. The summer she couldn’t go to camp because there wasn’t enough money. The sound of her mother walking from room to room—no matter what time it was, no matter what day, no matter how many hours she had worked—to make certain everyone was in bed, tucked in, breathing. The screaming fights over boys and bras and college. All the things unsaid when Jessica zipped a bag over her mouth and heart and her entire life when she slipped away not just to New York but before that—when she lied about something terribly important and lied about studying over Easter break when she really went to Paris—glorious Paris—and the look, the sad, hurt, crushed look on her mother’s face when she told her—how many times?—that no, she would not be coming back for Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or maybe ever, if she could help it. There are barges filled with memories that have been awakened with this simple cup of frigging coffee. Jessica pushes them all back, levers each one against a place three steps closer to the front of her mind and heart, and then quickly steps away.
“Mom, you are, like, freaking me out.”
Connie takes a step back, hands on hips, and agrees with Jessica that, yes, a mother uncovering some of your secrets, showing up at the door, making you breakfast in a virgin kitchen, and flirting on the street corner is probably a fairly good reason to freak out.
“I am a little freaked myself, Ms. Sexy Diva, but we’ve already had part of this conversation and I bet you have to get your sorry ass out of bed and go to work,” Connie bickers back. “I probably should have taken notes last night so we can move right along.”
“Right along to where?”
“Good question,” Connie tells her daughter with a laugh. “I haven’t thought much beyond breakfast and that hair thing tonight.”
“Hair thing? What hair thing?”
Connie looks at her daughter, who has one leg under the covers, the other on the
Jessica groans. She wonders for a moment if she is still drunk. She wonders the next second how her life has gone from the crazed place it was in just hours ago to this—her mother cooking eggs and toast in her ridiculously small kitchen, a half-hung door, a very close-to-intimate conversation over dinner, some vague memory of a hair appointment, the family home going on the market and oh, yes, the silly little problem in Louisiana that she needs to fix. And then there is the small problem of what to do with her mother while she restocks sex toys and trains two new clerks during the next 15 hours.
“Mother…” Jessica tries to say, sitting up, and then falling back over.
“You need some water, baby,” Connie says, mostly to herself because Jessica has the pillow pulled over her head. “Here,” Connie says, sitting on the edge of the mattress and pressing a glass of water into Jessica’s limp hand. “Drink this while I get the coffee.”
“Coffee,” Jessica manages to murmur as she finishes the water and sets the glass on the floor. “Coffee in my coffeepot and not from the joint by the subway. Mom, how
do
you make coffee?”
Overjoyed by the perfume of high-octane caffeine, by the warm cup she can feel in her hand, Jessica forgets for a moment about her immediate and seemingly perilous future. And as she rises to accept the cup, the princess lifting her head from the pillow, she realizes the last time anyone served her anything in bed, besides a fast-handed condom, was probably about six Christmases ago when her mother did this very same thing.
“Jesus…” Jessica whispers.
“Honey, is the coffee that good?”
Jessica looks at her mother, really looks, and holds back a stream of memories—some bad, some good—that could flood her right out the door and into the elevator. Reams of kindness. Yelling. Her father pounding on one side of the door while her mother pounds on the other. Curling up tight at the end of the hall when she got sick in fourth grade. The summer she couldn’t go to camp because there wasn’t enough money. The sound of her mother walking from room to room—no matter what time it was, no matter what day, no matter how many hours she had worked—to make certain everyone was in bed, tucked in, breathing. The screaming fights over boys and bras and college. All the things unsaid when Jessica zipped a bag over her mouth and heart and her entire life when she slipped away not just to New York but before that—when she lied about something terribly important and lied about studying over Easter break when she really went to Paris—glorious Paris—and the look, the sad, hurt, crushed look on her mother’s face when she told her—how many times?—that no, she would not be coming back for Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or maybe ever, if she could help it. There are barges filled with memories that have been awakened with this simple cup of frigging coffee. Jessica pushes them all back, levers each one against a place three steps closer to the front of her mind and heart, and then quickly steps away.
“Mom, you are, like, freaking me out.”
Connie takes a step back, hands on hips, and agrees with Jessica that, yes, a mother uncovering some of your secrets, showing up at the door, making you breakfast in a virgin kitchen, and flirting on the street corner is probably a fairly good reason to freak out.
“I am a little freaked myself, Ms. Sexy Diva, but we’ve already had part of this conversation and I bet you have to get your sorry ass out of bed and go to work,” Connie bickers back. “I probably should have taken notes last night so we can move right along.”
“Right along to where?”
“Good question,” Connie tells her daughter with a laugh. “I haven’t thought much beyond breakfast and that hair thing tonight.”
“Hair thing? What hair thing?”
Connie looks at her daughter, who has one leg under the covers, the other on the
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