Dorothy, who’s normally puffed up beyond her diminutive size, looks small and shriveled.
Before I can think it through, I ask her if she’d still like to go out for lunch.
Dorothy sniffs. Her eyes are moist with tears that don’t dare to fall. “I can make myself a sandwich.” She looks at me suspiciously. “Assuming there are things in the refrigerator.” Like her son, Dorothy chooses to believe that grocery elves come in to stock it while she’s asleep.
“We could make grilled cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but I wouldn’t mind picking up a few more things. I think we should go out and have a bite together.”
“Why on earth would we do that?” She looks as horrified as I feel.
“Because I know you were looking forward to going out. And it might make us both feel better.”
We do a bit of a stare down. Her gray eyes are identical to Mitch’s, only without the warmth. I will my green ones—they’ve always been my best feature and help to cancel out my stick-straight carrot-red hair and ghost-white skin—to telegraph sincerity even though I already regret the offer.
“If you like.” Her tone is grudging, and I have to remind myself that I’m doing a nice thing and that is supposed to be its own reward.
“Anyplace you’d especially like to go?” I ask.
She shrugs.
“Okay. How about the Brooklyn Café? They have good salads. Then we can stop by Between the Covers. I want to pick up the book club book even though we won’t be discussing it until January. Then I can run into Whole Foods.”
She nods glumly.
We get into the car, and I back it out of the driveway. As we drive to the restaurant, I attempt to fill the silence. I tell her about how I first started working at the bookstore where we’ll be stopping after lunch, on Saturday afternoons and then over school holidays and summer break. (I’m a reading specialist at Eastend Middle School.) Then I go on to tell her about how Annell Barrett, the owner of Between the Covers, first formed the book club, how long it’s been in existence, and that it takes place in a carriage house. Just thinking about book club and how warm and welcoming a group it is, I feel lighter.
Dorothy doesn’t ask a single question, so I ramble on about how the book club’s on hiatus over the holidays because everyone’s so busy. (Present company excepted.) I’m an introvert by nature, and when I’m uncomfortable (which is always around Dorothy) or nervous I develop logorrhea. In case you’re wondering, that’s
log·or·rhea
lȯ-gə-ˈrē-ə
noun
Origin: Greek, early 20th century.
1. uncontrollable talkativeness
2. a tendency toward overly complex wordiness in speech or writing
Ex: “If I’m not careful, my logorrhea leads to foot-in-mouth disease.”
As we enter the restaurant, it’s clear I’m going to need not just the new book club book but a LOT of ice cream to get me through this weekend.
At the table, I order an appetizer to share and a glass of wine. At her sniff of disapproval, I say, “Normally, I don’t drink until after five p.m. But it’s got to be five o’clock somewhere, right?”
She doesn’t crack a smile and only tastes the appetizer when I push the plate toward her and ask her to tell me what she thinks.
“Not bad. If you like roasted brussels sprouts. I didn’t realize that was a thing.”
“I love them,” I admit. If I knew who thought of seasoning and roasting them this way, I would send a thank-you note.
My mother-in-law harrumphs. I didn’t realize until she came to live with us that harrumphing was still a thing. I met Mitch twelve years ago and have been married to him for ten, but I could probably count the number of times I’ve been alone with Dorothy on one and a quarter hands. Although she’s very attached to her son, I’ve never witnessed a serious display of affection between them. When I ask Mitch about his childhood, he says, “It was fine. Pretty ordinary. Virtually no drama.” This, I have learned over the years, is how he likes it.
I think now about how restrained Dorothy is, and for the first time, I wonder why.
“Did you and Mitchell argue?” Dorothy looks up from the panini and salad she’s been picking at. “Is that why he’s not coming home this weekend?”
I blink in surprise. Has she really just blamed me for Mitch’s absence? His fake cough and lame excuses are on the tip of my tongue, but I pop another brussels sprout in my mouth and remain silent.
“You should be living in the same city, not forcing him to drive back and forth every week.”
I put down my fork. “You might want to mention that to Mitch. He’s the one who didn’t want to sell the house or uproot me until he was sure he was happy with the new company.”
“What’s not to like?” she counters. “He has a bigger title, and he’s making more money. I would have thought you’d want to be with him.”
“Of course I want to be with him. But there’s nothing wrong with taking it slowly.”
She raises an eyebrow. “If you’d had children, he might not have been so quick to leave you behind.”
I blink against the automatic press of tears. It takes everything I have not to push back my chair and run out of here at the injustice. “Mitch has never wanted children.” He’d made that clear before he’d asked me to marry him, and I’d been so in love, so happy and grateful that someone loved me and wanted to marry me, that I’d believed I could make him change his mind. Only that never happened. “And he didn’t ‘leave me behind.’ I’ve filled out an application for the Birmingham Public School System, and I’m watching the postings. Real hiring for the next school year usually starts in March.”
She gives me an oddly knowing look, but this woman knows nothing about me or my relationship with her son.
Although my appetite is gone, I force myself to finish my salad, and for some reason I don’t understand but am going to blame on logorrhea, I can’t let myself give in and eat in silence. So, I ask her about the work she used to do as an efficiency expert, how she ended up in Greenville, all the things I should have already known. Anything to keep her talking about something besides me and Mitch.
She picks at her lunch and gives short, succinct answers while I chew and swallow food I no longer taste.
When our meal is finally over, my mother-in-law sits in the car while I run into Between the Covers.
“Are you all right?” Annell, for whom I’d give my right arm and all the roasted brussels sprouts in the world, hands me a copy of Educated, by Tara Westover, along with a look of concern.