Sandwiched. Jennifer Archer
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but too much is left here to do, and Erin didn’t seem to mind if I begged off.
Mother shakes her head as she watches Erin go. She mutters something about families eating together, about homemade meals and how life was better back in the old days when my brother, Jack, and I were kids.
The mention of Jack makes me want to crush the box at my feet. Nothing’s changed. Even as a kid, my brother could always find clever ways to weasel out of his responsibilities. I have to give it to him this time; moving eight hundred miles away just before Dad’s heart attack is his best scheme yet. I want to be here for Mother. Still, some backup would be nice. Even long distance, you’d think Jack could help with the decision-making, with trying to boost Mother’s frame of mind. But, no. His idea of involvement is a fifteen-minute phone call once per week.
As I drag the box to Mother’s bedroom and start unpacking clothing, knickknacks and books, my early morning drive-by comes to mind. So. Bert has a life. Not only a life, a sex life. Women actually find him appealing. Maybe he really wasn’t just a mercy lay or a boredom diversion for our neighbor’s not-so-innocent young daughter.
And that pisses me off.
All these months while I’ve been raising our child alone, coping with all the stress that goes with having a teenager, juggling family and career, struggling with ending our failed marriage and putting it behind me, Bert and his penis have been out on the town. Literally.
Mother’s humming drifts to me from the kitchen where she’s putting away her gourmet cooking utensils, pots, pans and bakeware. The sound makes me pause. I can’t recall hearing her hum like that since Dad died almost a year ago. The anniversary of his passing is a week away. Next Saturday.
The humming pleases me…and makes me feel guilty. The truth is, I haven’t come to terms with her moving into my house. I love her and want the best for her. But is her moving in best for Erin and me? I haven’t lived full-time with a parent since I left home at the age of eighteen for college. I’m accustomed to doing things my own way, not Mother’s. And Erin is finally starting to have friends come around. She likes her independence and privacy, and so do I. But did all that walk out the door when Mother walked in?
“You okay in there?” I yell.
“I’m making headway, Sugar, but it’s going to take a while,” she calls back. “Your cabinets are a mess! You could die of starvation before you found a pot to boil water in or a pan to scramble an egg.”
“Which is why I don’t boil water or scramble eggs.”
“For heaven’s sake! What do y’all eat?”
“Takeout.” I pry open a box filled with colognes and bubble bath and other bathroom stuff. “Frozen dinners.”
“What about breakfast?”
“Breakfast? What’s that?”
Even the two walls separating us can’t block her sigh. “No wonder Erin’s so skinny, poor thing. Now that I’m here, I’ll take care of that.”
I drag the box toward the adjoining bathroom, reminding myself that this is what matters. Family pulling together during tough times. My mother’s happiness in the winter years of her life. Not my pride or privacy or independence. And most certainly not Bert’s extracurricular activities.
I groan. Bert. I can get over the fact that he has a social life and a sex life and I don’t; I will get over it. Nothing good ever came of sex anyway. Well, nothing but babies and orgasms, but I’m long past the baby stage of my life.
As for orgasms, let’s just say Bert never put much stock in the motto “it’s better to give than to receive.” So, while I could argue that some is better than nothing at all, I haven’t really given much up in that department. Anyway, if not for raging hormones, Bert would’ve lost interest in me when the first date ended. It wasn’t my brilliant mind he probed in his bachelor apartment when we were seniors at the University of Texas.
Hefting the box onto the bathroom vanity, I start pulling out floral-scented bottles and small brown medicine vials.
“CiCi?” Mom calls from inside the bedroom.
“In here.”
My petite, plump, pink-cheeked mother appears in the bathroom doorway, a bright smile on her face, her eyes unnaturally huge behind the magnified lenses of her glasses. She holds my thick, white plastic cutting board, which she lifts up in front of her. “Not that it’s any of my business, Sugar, but don’t you think it’s time you threw this ol’ thing away?”
I blink. Rarely, if ever, do I use the board, but still it’s mine, and after her previous criticism of my kitchen organizational skills, I’m starting to feel a bit defensive. “What’s wrong with it?”
“I’m blind as a bat, but even I can see there’s mold growing on it.” Mother wrinkles her nose. “It isn’t sanitary.”
“It’s sanitary. I bleach it after every use. The green just won’t come off.”
“Surely you can afford a new cutting board.”
“Why should I spend the money when that one’s still perfectly functional?”
Mother gives me The Look. You know, The Look? Head tilted to the side, one brow raised, lips pursed?
I realize how ridiculous I sound, a forty-one-year-old woman arguing with her mother over a moldy cutting board I haven’t seen in months, maybe years. So what if her scrutiny of my life and home makes me feel fifteen again? I don’t have to act fifteen. “Okay, okay. Get rid of it,” I tell her.
Mother’s sweet countenance returns. She steps toward the trashcan by the desk in the corner and drops the plastic board inside. “Thank you so much for making space for all my things. I can’t wait to start cooking for you and Erin, and it isn’t the same if I don’t have my own pots and pans.”
I reach into the box, run my hand across smooth, cool glass, over peeling labels and bumpy plastic. “It’ll be great having your home-cooked meals again. Cooking’s just another of your many domestic talents I didn’t inherit.”
With my gaze still on Mother, I pull out another item.
Mother’s gasp is quick and sharp. The color drains from her face, then rises again, bright red now rather than pink. Her eyes blink. Rapidly.
I glance down at my hand and immediately drop the object I’m holding. I’m no expert on vibrators, but I’m pretty sure I know a neck massager from…well…the other kind. The one on the floor at my feet is not for sore muscles, I can promise you that. Flesh-colored, it has a switch on the side that must’ve engaged when it hit the bathroom tile because the dismembered member pulses and vibrates and buzzes.
“Um…” I can’t tear my gaze from the quivering body part, which fake or not, is quite impressive in size and energy. “Uh—”
“Well, for heaven’s sake!” Mother’s voice is high and panicky. “How did my bread beater get packed with my bathroom things?”
“Your bread beater?”
The next thing I see is her hand wrapping around the thing, which is an action I would’ve been happy never to witness in this or any other lifetime. She lifts it from the floor and turns off the switch while I reluctantly peer up at her.
My mother no longer blushes or blinks. In the space of a few seconds she has pulled herself together. She couldn’t look any more prim or proper if she stood in front of her church choir to lead a hymn. Squaring her shoulders, holding the “bread beater” in front of her chest like a baton, she meets my eyes.
“That’s right. My bread beater. Haven’t you seen them advertised? It’s a clever new device that kneads dough, easy as you please.”
“Well…” I clear my throat. “Isn’t that…something.” Mom turns and starts off through the bedroom. “I’ll just go find a place