“You came all this way for fries?”
“Aww, what a nice daughter,” Melanie interjects. “Ruth, I can cover for you if you want to take a few.”
“I’m already in the weeds. Thanks, though.”
A customer signals for his check and Melanie excuses herself to head to his table.
“Fries and an iced tea?” my mom asks.
A flutter of memory: We’re in a restaurant my mom worked at long ago, and she’s serving me a tall glass of iced tea with a long silver spoon in it. I must’ve been about six or seven. It tasted delicious. I didn’t know until later that she’d cut it with lemonade.
I still drink my iced tea that way, but now I know to ask for an Arnold Palmer—except when my mom is offering. She knows exactly what I like without my having to specify.
My mom and I share a language that’s all our own, one we’ve constructed through the years. We say pipple instead of “apple” because I couldn’t pronounce the name of the fruit when I was a toddler, and she decided the term I came up with was better than the original. Rockamole is “guacamole” for the same reason. Anyone who’s long-winded is a Darryl, because we once had a loquacious neighbor by that name.
In a year or two, our shared language, one that’s unique to us, will disappear, too.
I give myself a mental shake. If I focus on everything I’m going to lose, I’ll also lose the present moment.
And I have a mission to complete today.
My mom swings by with my fries and drink a few minutes later, sliding a bottle of ketchup closer to me because she knows how much I love it.
The fries are golden brown and crispy. But any pleasure I’d normally get from biting into them is muted.
I keep my eyes on Melanie, but she doesn’t come near my stool again. I finally seize my chance when my mother goes to take an order from a table of eight. They’re probably office mates who work together in one of the buildings on this street. She greets them like they’re regulars.
I keep glancing at my mom while simultaneously trying to catch Melanie’s attention. When she finally looks my way, I gesture for her to come over.
“Listen, I can’t talk long but I need to tell you something,” I whisper. “My mom, she’s sick…”
My throat constricts. Melanie doesn’t flinch or retreat in the face of strong emotion, the way so many people do.
“What is it, honey?”
“Alzheimer’s. Early-onset. The doctor is pretty certain.”
Melanie’s expression doesn’t change, but her eyes do.
“She’s going to start—”
Melanie puts a hand on my arm. “I know. My boyfriend’s grandfather had it. I’m so sorry.”
My chin wobbles, but I hold it together. “Has she made any mistakes at work yet? I don’t want her to get in trouble.”
I see her casting back in her memory, searching for an overlooked clue.
“I haven’t noticed a thing,” she tells me. “Truly.”
That makes me feel a tiny bit better. I’m not the only one who didn’t catch the symptoms early on. It also lends credence to my supposition that my mother’s disease is still in a very early stage.
“That’s good. Just keep me posted, okay?”
“I will, honey. Here.” Melanie pulls a pen out of her apron and hands it to me. “Write down your cell number on a napkin. I’ll text you later so you have mine.”
I do as she instructs, then glance over Melanie’s shoulder. My mother is still taking orders at her big table, but she’s also sneaking peeks at us. She doesn’t like that I’m talking to Melanie. She’s probably worried we’re having this exact conversation.
“One more thing. When you guys go out for drinks again, could you tell me your plans in advance? My mom and I have location sharing with each other, but if she forgets her phone at home or leaves it at the bar…”
“Wow, you still share your location with your mom? Wish I could get my kids to do that with me.” Melanie’s voice is warm. She’s trying to comfort me without saying sympathetic words. “Of course, I’ll let you know, hon. But…”
A guy at a nearby table gestures to her, making a writing motion in the air to signal he wants the check, but Melanie doesn’t acknowledge him.
She’s frowning as her eyes grow faraway.
There’s something she’s remembering. A loose thread, the genesis of an unraveling. Maybe my mother has been making mistakes, but they haven’t tallied into a pattern in Melanie’s mind until now.
I brace myself.
“I wish your mom would take me up on drinks. I’ve been trying to get her to go out for years. But she always says she’s too tired, and you’re all the company she needs.”
Melanie squeezes my shoulder and hurries off to tend to her table.
Melanie’s words were perfectly clear, but I can’t make sense of them. Melanie said she and my mother have never gone out for drinks. The blind dates my mother supposedly had—the ones she told me Melanie and her boyfriend arranged—didn’t exist. All those girls’ nights out when my mother came home late, acting tipsy, were a fabrication.
I don’t know how long I sit there, stunned, the fries growing cold on my plate. Finally, something compels me to lift my eyes.
Across the restaurant, my mother is staring at me. She’s like a statue in the midst of the swirl of the busy restaurant.
When she catches me looking, she whips around and walks toward the kitchen.
CHAPTER TWELVE
RUTH
Catherine told Melanie. It’s obvious.
Melanie doesn’t act any differently toward me, but I can sense the shift in her energy. I see her scan my tables, like she’s checking to make sure my customers appear happy.
Of all the people Catherine could have told, Melanie is a pretty safe one. I just hope they didn’t talk about anything more.
When lunch rush is over, I take a break and check my phone. There’s a text from Catherine: Going to catch a movie with a friend tonight. See you when I get home if you’re still up.
I pour myself a coffee and lean against the counter and sip it while I ponder her words. Catherine doesn’t have a lot of close friends. She’s a homebody, like me. And ever since she split up with that loser Ethan, she hasn’t been romantically involved with anyone.
I wonder who she’s seeing the movie with. I wonder if she’s seeing a movie at all.
Still, I’m a little relieved I don’t have to face more of her questions tonight. I want to soak my tired feet and try to clear my head.
I finish my shift and slip out the door without saying goodbye to Melanie, just in case she’s planning to intercept me with words of sympathy or support.
The Bonneville sputters when I start it. I say a little prayer until the engine catches. We’ve got nearly 150,000 miles on the car, and I’m hoping to eke out a lot more.
I sit in the parking lot, letting the engine warm up, and watch as a guy driving a red Trans Am rounds the corner and slides into the space next to me. He’s a good-looking man, about my age. But it isn’t him I’m checking out. It’s his car.
I used to love flashy muscle cars. Mustangs, Camaros, Chevelles—and my favorite, the Corvette.