“That still doesn’t explain why she settles for it.” Over my shoulder, her eyes catch on someone. “Well, anyway, thank you for coming, Piper.”
“It’s your fiftieth birthday, Mom. I wouldn’t miss it.”
Childishly, the way her body stiffens at the gibe makes me feel better. At least until I see my father’s disapproval. He hates it when we bait each other. Sorry, I mouth as I slip away so they can greet their next guests.
Sometimes I wish my relationship with my mother could be more amicable. But what began as normal mother/daughter teenage angst has never let up. I know I should make more of an effort to understand her points of view. She grew up the daughter of strictly religious Polish immigrants who, I’ve been told, fought constantly – mostly about money, or the lack thereof. The fact that my mother didn’t settle is something she’s proud of. She scratched and clawed her way out of poverty to where she is today and I respect her for that. But not only are we separated by a generation gap, but also by every gap you can imagine. My leftist leanings cause endless friction with her conservative views. We simply don’t have anything in common.
I make my way through the house, which is teeming with guests who mill about making small talk and sipping mimosas. A few of them I know and acknowledge, but mostly I’m able to slip by unnoticed, thank goodness. If I have very little in common with my parents, I have nothing in common with their friends.
The kitchen is hectic with the caterer’s last minute preparations for the sit-down champagne brunch, but I spot Amelia in the center of it all, keeping an eye on what’s going on in her domain. She waves me over. “Mi amor!” Her enthusiasm is my homecoming. Amelia has worked for my dad for longer than he’s been married to my mother and she’s loved and cared for all five of his children. While I was growing up, she was my safe haven.
“Look at you,” she gushes. “You’re positively radiant.”
I laugh, absorbing the warmth of her greeting. “It’s a side-effect of being here with you.”
“You always were a charmer,” she says wryly. “Come, come, let’s sit over here.” I follow her diminutive frame over to the breakfast nook. The years have been kind to Amelia, but every time I see her, I notice more signs of her advancing age; the liberally gray-streaked hair that she refuses to dye, the deepening lines on her face, the swollen knuckles of her slightly arthritic hands.
“Have a seat, mi niña. Tell me everything. How is school?”
My smile is huge as I tell her, “I’m so close to being finished.” I hold up a single finger. “Only one more class to complete.”
“I’m so proud of you. Going back to get your degree was the right decision. And you’re staying sober?”
“Yes,” I assure her. “And I’m still keeping good company.” I don’t tell her good company basically means no company. Like my father, Amelia has worried about me enough to last three lifetimes. She deserves better and I want to give it to her. “How about you, how are things?”
She sighs, though with the din of voices and clanking dishes around us, it’s barely audible. “With Sophie gone, there’s not much keeping me here anymore.”
Sophie is the youngest of us kids. She moved to San Diego last September to start her master’s degree at UCSD and I know Amelia has felt at loose ends with her gone. She’s not the only one who misses Sophie; my sister is my best friend.
Reaching out, I cover her hand. “Are you finally going to retire?”
“Soon, mi amor, soon.”
A crash on the other side of the kitchen brings her to her feet. “Go,” I say, waving her off when she appears torn. “I’m fine.”
I pull out my phone but my attention is back to where it’s been all morning; the pros and cons of asking my dad for the money I’m short for my rent this month. After everything, I’m not sure I can go through with it. The look of disappointment that’s going to show up on his face as soon as the words leave my mouth will be excruciating.
My shoulders sag. I’m going to have to find another way . . . which means selling something online. There’s not much left though. I’ve sold off most of the designer handbags and jewellery that my ex, Gunnar, gave me during our two-year relationship. Really, the only things of value that are left are the Wii and the PS4, which don’t technically belong to me. But my apartment is not a storage facility and I’ve asked him to come get his stuff many times over the months.
A text comes in from my sister.
Sophie: How’s the party?
Ellie: You’d know if you were here. Traitor.
Sophie: Please. After all the events you’ve missed?
She may have a point. For years, I didn’t come to a single one.
Ellie: It’s the usual. Current score: me 1, mom 1.
Sophie: You’re so ridiculous. Did Matt show?
Matthew is our older brother. Well, all three of our brothers are older, but Matt is the only one of them who would come to an event like this since he’s our mother’s biological son. Christopher and Evan are dad’s sons from his first marriage. There’s a bit of an age gap between the two sets of kids. When I started kindergarten, Christopher was starting college.
Ellie: Haven’t seen him. I’d say chances are low.
Sophie: Poor mom.
I roll my eyes. Poor mom? But that’s my sister for you, she’s all heart. Thinking of others before herself is her thing, along with forgive and forget. I think it was Amelia who insisted that Sophie go away to San Diego to continue her schooling. If Sophie had her way, she would live at home forever so she could take care of the entire family from a central location.
The noise level rises and I realize brunch is about to be served.
Ellie: I gotta go, sis.
Sophie: Ok, give mom a hug and kiss from me. Try to have a good time!
The back patio has been set up with one long expansive table, and I’m dismayed to see there are little name cards at each place setting. I know immediately that my mother and her friends are playing matchmaker. I come to a stop when I finally find my name.
“May I pull out your chair for you?”
I turn to find a fairly good-looking guy. Mid-30’s maybe, dark hair, my height with me in kitten heels, so he’s about 6 feet. Who knows, maybe this won’t be a waste of time after all.
“Thanks,” I say with a genuine smile as I lower myself into the chair and sneak a peek at his name card. “Peter, is it?”
“That’s right.” His tone is pleasant enough, though I’m not thrilled with the way his eyes linger on my chest as he sits beside me. But hey, I was just checking him out. It’s human nature, right? “I believe you’re John’s daughter.”
My gaze steadies on his. John? Nobody who’s at least thirty years his junior calls my father John.
“He thought we might hit it off,” he goes on.
“He did?”
Peter completely misses my sarcasm and launches into what sounds like a rehearsed run down of who he is. Peter Denton, 33, master’s in Finance, investment manager, 1 brother, 1 sister. He even manages to hint at his family’s substantial net worth without being gauche. On paper, I suppose he’s a real catch.