Maybe after dinner I’d return, pour myself a glass of wine, and allow myself a moment of melancholy about my fizzled, once-promising love affair. Then I’d fire up a great album and experiment with a new batch of sugar scrubs. At least now I could work without being distracted by Daniel Tosh’s crude jokes.
Independence was good. A chance to plan for all my ideas. The prospect of rockin’ my thirties had me bouncing on my toes.
First I’d have to survive dinner.
I glanced at my attire—Converse high-tops, yoga pants, a sports bra, and a loose-fitted T-shirt. If I hadn’t missed the baby shower shopping extravaganza, I’d show up dressed like this. But “workout clothes at the table” would bug Amanda and my mom, so I pulled on jean shorts, a cute pink-camo top, and my bronze metallic Birkenstocks. After finger-combing the right side of my head, I was ready to face the firing squad.
My thumbs flew across the phone’s keyboard.
Be there soon. What can I bring?
Within minutes, she replied.
Nothing. I’ve got it covered.
She always had everything covered. Sometimes I suspected she said that because it came off as considerate while simultaneously squeezing my ideas right out of the picture.
The few times I’d tried to introduce my family to new foods—like an awesome sweet potato–turmeric miso soup from the Herb Box—she and my mom had flashed that polite smile before shooting each other “the look.” Then, instead of giving it a fair chance, they took minuscule samples before quietly setting it aside.
I grabbed a half-empty can of whipped cream from my fridge, knowing Amanda probably wouldn’t have any. Lyle didn’t allow sugar in that house, whereas whipped cream qualified as a major food group in mine. Good for coffee, cocoa, ice cream, and even an occasional squirt in the mouth as a pick-me-up.
Mo had climbed up to his favorite spot on the back of the sofa cushions, where he could stare out the window. I’d take him with me, but the possibility of him scratching her floors or furniture made Amanda a little nervous.
Bending at the waist, I gave him some lovin’. “Sorry to leave you so soon, MoMo, but you hang here and keep an eye on the place till I get back.”
After snatching my keys off the dining table, I locked the door behind me. Ten minutes later, my bike was parked in front of my sister’s garage. Not a leaf or speck of dirt lay anywhere on her driveway. All the flower beds were neatly fashioned. Cheerful tulips blew in the breeze, heralding spring. Postcard perfect, the way she liked it.
I trotted up the two steps to the front porch and knocked on the door. Lexi and her sister, Aisha, walked into each other’s homes without any announcement. Amanda might pass out if I tried that. Then again, I hadn’t exactly made her free to waltz into my apartment, either.
It seemed weird that we weren’t closer, considering we’d shared a room as kids. While Amanda hated that I was messy, she had also read aloud to me at night and otherwise generally treated me like her personal baby doll. The little cocoon had been kind of comforting at times. But somewhere along the way, things had changed.
Simply put, we were oil and water. Amanda had preferred to pull what I called “bored” games off the shelf on rainy days, never once joining me outside to jump in the mud.
A million of those kinds of differences played out on a weekly basis. Over time, walls had gone up, like that invisible line she’d drawn through our drawers and closet to separate her neat space from mine. It’d gotten only worse since Lyle came into our lives.
Amanda answered the door, her attempt at a smile falling a bit flat. “Hey, thanks for coming.”
For once, she didn’t pay much attention to my outfit or stare at my hair. Then again, maybe I was too busy staring at hers to notice. She’d chopped at least four inches off the back, and the front was layered to prettily frame her face.
“Wow! What a flattering haircut.” I stood on the porch, mesmerized. Amanda didn’t often do change. Never, really. She liked routines. Her hair had been straight and blunt for as long as I could remember. This new do made me all bubbly inside—hopeful, though for what I couldn’t say.
“Oh.” She touched it self-consciously, not quite meeting my gaze. “I forgot. Thanks.”
Forgot? My spidey-sense tingled, but I had to tread lightly when asking Amanda a direct question. She often took things I said wrong. If I waited long enough, there’d be an opening. For now, I held up the whipped cream, aiming for a laugh. “Hope you were serious about the pie.”
Her eyes widened, but only a half-hearted smile appeared. “Sure. Come on in.”
She heaved a sigh when she closed the door behind me. It seemed impossible that I’d already done anything to upset her, other than bring a half-empty can of whipped cream. Or maybe she missed Lyle. She’d never liked being alone.
My mom was busy tossing the salad. She looked so much smaller to me since Dad died, like each day the weight of grief pulled her shoulders a bit lower. No one would call her frail, mind you. She was average height and still a bit paunchy despite having shed at least ten pounds this past year. But everything about her seemed less. She’d always been a serious person. Only my dad had been able to loosen her up—like when he’d pull her away from the stove to dance with him when one of his favorite songs would come on. Without his spontaneity to shake her free, she was shriveling up. I was counting on Amanda’s baby to break her out of this funk.
It unnerved me to see her off her game. Although our family had never been wealthy, she always dressed up when leaving the house—even since quitting her job. No one shopped for clothes on a budget better than she did. Her wardrobe staples consisted of conservative dresses and flats or small heels, fake pearl earrings and necklaces, and pink lipstick. Today, however, her navy dress didn’t have that starchy fresh press she’d given everything from Dad’s shirts to my jeans (despite my protests), and she’d forgone earrings altogether.
“Hi, Mom.” I kissed her cheek—pretending not to notice the way she tensed at my affection—then set the whipped cream on the counter. After a weekend of a vegetarian diet and kombucha, I’d happily eat the pie for dinner. “Can I help?”
She frowned. “Don’t be silly. I’m not so old that I can’t dress a salad.”
I swallowed my own sigh, replaying my words to see how she could take them as some kind of statement about her age.
A savory aroma from whatever was roasting in the oven sprang the carnivore in me to life.
“How was the retreat?” Amanda asked while placing water glasses filled with iced tea at the table. She looked ashen except for the dark circles beneath her eyes. I supposed a lack of sleep wasn’t uncommon among pregnant women.
“Pretty much what I expected. I’ll tell you what I did learn—I could make nice bank if I had an inexpensive place to hold a retreat. It’s amazing how many people throw down big money for them.” Even broke folks, like me.
I risked a glimpse of my mom, who kept fussing about the kitchen. Last month, Max had suggested I ask her for a small loan to help “get us through” until he could make some money. My dad had left her a huge insurance payout, but I wouldn’t ask for a penny. Partly because I couldn’t tolerate the “You wouldn’t need to borrow money if only you’d been a more serious student like my other kids” lecture, and partly because that money wouldn’t exist if my dad were alive, so the idea of benefiting from it made me sick.