“I feel bad about last night.” A not-quite apology of the variety I usually gave her. It neither disappointed nor surprised me when she didn’t reciprocate. “At the risk of reopening a can of worms, you have to know I didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings. In my heart of hearts, I know Amanda will be fine. She’s smart, and once she gets over her shock, she’ll land a full-time teaching job and we’ll help her raise Willa.”
When my mother concentrated on cutting her waffles rather than reply, I continued, “But, Mom, I’m worried about you. Dad’s social security income and your pension cover your daily needs, but not emergencies or serious health issues. That insurance money was your safety net. Recovering it has to outweigh protecting your reputation. Sooner or later the truth about Lyle will leak. Delaying the inevitable only gives him more time to flee. If I actually believed you and Amanda could trap him yourselves, maybe I’d get on board. But Lyle isn’t as dumb as Max, so it won’t be as easy. Please reconsider. Involving the cops is the only way to get justice.”
She closed her eyes on a sigh before lifting her chin to meet my gaze.
“It doesn’t help when you point out the obvious, Erin. I’m plenty worried on my own, but I can’t go back and do things differently. I lent those funds for reasons that made sense to me at the time, and I’ll live with my mistake, even if it costs me all that money.” She pounded the table twice with her palm. “Justice that entails my humiliation doesn’t interest me, especially when it doesn’t guarantee I’ll be repaid. You don’t understand because you’ve never lived through interviews and a trial, the media circus . . . It’s extremely stressful, and stress is dangerous for pregnant women, you know. I couldn’t live with myself if escalating this situation sent your sister into premature labor. I would hope you couldn’t, either.”
“Of course not.” Another pop of guilt singed my subconscious like lye. My silence in February had given Lyle ample time to plot his devious plan. A confession might underscore my sense of urgency to my mother, but I couldn’t make myself do it when the truth would only divide us at a time when we needed to pull together.
“How many strangers will be in my basement today?” Her abrupt change of subject yanked me from my dilemma.
“They aren’t strangers. In fact, you probably remember Lucy Cahill from high school.” I hadn’t been friends with Lucy, who was a few years older than me, but every kid had spent time at the school library. “In any case, only three have reserved space for my first official class.”
Not too bad, considering the only advertising I’d done was posting flyers at Sugar Momma’s, the post office, Stewart’s Grocery Mart, and the laundromat. Fewer students meant individualized attention. And I felt good about giving beginners an affordable option.
After washing down a bite of waffles with a swig of coffee, Mom asked, “What do you charge?”
“Fifteen bucks.” Less than half my hourly wage at Give Me Strength, which could add up to a decent supplemental income.
Mom nodded. “Forty-five dollars for an hour of stretching is pretty good.”
Not half as much as Nancy Thompson made, but I kept that crack to myself. “Ideally, I’d like a class size of about five students four times per week. I could add one or two evening classes if the interest is there . . .” Annualized, that could add around twenty grand to my income. If I could also grow Shakti Suds from making two grand per year to ten or fifteen, I could move out of here to someplace half-decent.
“Those people won’t be coming upstairs, though, right?”
“No. I hung a sign on the front door directing them around back, so you can run around in your underwear and curlers and no one will be the wiser.” I wiggled my brows.
My mom almost smiled, but she fought it like always. I swear she spent her whole life refusing to joke around with me, as if her not laughing at my silliness might somehow make me more mature. Yet again my dad’s absence snuck up on me from behind. If he were here, we’d be snickering. I missed that deep chuckle, which had often ended with his arm around my shoulders and a kiss on the temple or a tweak of my nose. Oh, Daddy.
I blinked back quick tears and took my mug to the sink, dumping the majority of the sickeningly sweet coffee down the drain. My mother continued to savor hers. Six months of this quiet tension might well end up feeling like twelve. It’d be nice if we could have some fun together while I kept her safe. An idea struck. With as much enthusiasm as I could muster, I asked, “Why don’t you come take my class? It’s important to remain limber as you age—for injury prevention. Plus it’s meditative. Reduces stress . . .”
“I haven’t taken an exercise class in years. Are you trying to make a fool of me in front of a former student?” She frowned before ingesting another large bite of waffle.
As if I’d ever set out to embarrass anyone. It got tiring to count to three and brush off these slights. In the past I’d done so because I’d had my dad, so I’d given up on pleasing my mom. Now that he was gone and we had huge problems to deal with, I wouldn’t waste energy on petty shit. “There’s no judgment in yoga—you do what you can. But if you’re uncomfortable in front of others, we can do private sessions at night. It’ll be fun. You know, Dad sometimes took my classes.”
She set down her silverware, staring at me like all my hair had grown back. “He did not.”
“He did.” Even now I could picture him showing up in his Loyola gym shorts and T-shirt, determined to master crow pose despite his potbelly. “Then we’d go get ice cream afterward. Pistachio, at Dream Cream.”
Dream Cream had been one of his favorite haunts. He’d slipped into another world when he ate a cone—lick by lick—savoring each bite. “Delayed gratification,” he’d say.
“Why would he keep that from me?” she asked of no one in particular, scowling.
Who knew why people kept little secrets? I suspect Dad had kept to himself lots of trivial things he and I did. He’d worked in sales, which had enabled him to sneak in breaks during the day. Mom had never minded being alone in the late afternoons when she believed he was working. But if she’d known he’d left her there to come play with me, she might’ve curtailed his freedom by handing him a miles-long honey-do list.
“I’m sure he told you. You probably forgot. It’s not like it was important stuff.” A glance at the clock reminded me to get downstairs. Rather than play telephone by asking what Amanda had said last night after I’d left, I’d get those details straight from my sister later. “See you in an hour.”
“Erin”—Mom turned the cup in her hand—“thank you for breakfast, and for your concern. How about if I go pick up more of those mini mason jars and help you with another batch of lotion tonight?”
I had no words. Two days ago I suspected she’d helped me only to make sure everything got cleaned up properly. Now, out of the blue, she wanted to spend more time with me? Those waffles were miracle workers!
“That’d be awesome. And you’re welcome for breakfast.” A bit of the heaviness that had settled in my bones last night lifted as I descended the stairs.