It was so peaceful, you could hear all the birds flying around and about, including geese, ducks, and woodpeckers.
When she had the money, she remodeled the kitchen and two bathrooms that looked “one step away from crumbling” and took down a wall. She also added not one, not two, but three sliding glass doors so that she had a panoramic view. The result was a bright, open home that respected the past and the traditional features of the house like the wide molding, original wood floors and built-ins, but had fully functioning toilets, heat, and air conditioning.
By the time I popped out, the result of a brief summer love affair, the house was cheerful and colorful, overflowing with plants, books, antiques, and art made by Mom’s friends and two of her sisters. The walls in the kitchen were light yellow, her bedroom light blue, and my bedroom was, and still is, light pink. I even had a pink bedspread.
“I’m feeling better now that you and the cats are here, sugar.” She hugged me tightly as I climbed into bed with her. The bed was piled high with a white comforter and white blankets. She liked a “clean and peaceful” bedroom, probably to counter the cacophony at the bar.
She looked pale and tired, but beautiful.
She is sixty-five years old. Her hair is white and thick and piled on top of her head with curls spilling down, much like I wear mine. She has the big smile and big teeth I spoke about before. She has dimples, like me, and light blue eyes that seem to dance and laugh all the time. Her cheekbones are high, and, as she says, “My bosom is still high, too, my precocious buttocks also defying gravity.”
Leaning against the blue-and-white embroidered pillows, she held up her hands, palms up. I held mine up, too. Then we began the elaborate hand-clap dance that we started when I was in first grade. It had gotten increasingly more elaborate as the years went on, culminating in my senior year of high school.
Clapping, fist-bumping, palms out, palms in, elbows up and elbows down, shoulder to the left, shoulder to the right, two hands spinning together, then all four hands spinning together, head to the left, head to the right, arms crossed and uncrossed, heads nodding like we’re magic genies…on and on.
“It’s great to see you, Mom.” I choked up and hugged her again. “I love you.”
“I love you, baby. You are my sunlight, my moonlight, my rainbow light.”
That’s what she’s always told me, starting when I was a tiny girl.
The four cats—Petunia, Sir Scott, Mrs. Books, and Claws—had followed me up onto the bed with meows, released from their airline kennels and the trauma of traveling. I, too, was recovering from being trapped against my will in an oversized silver bullet.
“My angels!” my mother declared. “My meow-meow angels!”
They remembered her and crowded around, except for Mrs. Books, who hung back. Mrs. Books is a bit of an introvert. I relate to her.
Sir Scott licked my mom’s face. He’s a licker.
“Do you still hurt?” I asked.
“Yes, I do, but I’m taking drugs. You have to say yes to drugs when you’re opened up and a doctor plucks out this and that and then sews you back together like you’re a pin cushion. But let’s not talk about that. You need to rest up so you’re ready for Lady Whiskey’s.”
“Mom,” I said. “I want to be with you. I want to take care of you. I don’t want…”
“Don’t you ‘Mom’ me, young lady,” she said, steel in her tone. “You have to run the bar until I can get myself on my feet again and my phantom uterus is not causing me any pain.”
“Your phantom uterus?” Honestly.
“Yes. I feel pain. A sense of loss from the stealing of my uterus. I need emotional healing, and I need to put my feet up.”
I understood. I truly did. My mother was exhausted. Not only because of her operation, but because of her life. She loves the bar, but the work is endless. She works six days a week.
She was looking forward to being in bed for weeks on end for the first time in her life. She wanted to rest.
“What about Camellia and Javier and Marcos? They can run the bar. They’ve all worked there forever.”
“Camellia doesn’t want the job. She said it would shrivel her hormones into raisins. You know we’ve been friends for decades, and she’s right. We must preserve our hormones. Javier and Marcos don’t want to do it. Javier is making and selling salsa now—it’s so hot and delicious that flames will shoot out of your mouth. He has it in several stores now, so he’s got a business. And Marcos said he can’t because he has five kids, and half of them are hellions. I don’t know what half of five kids looks like. You started working there with me when you could barely peep over the counter, so you are the best choice.”
As a kid, I shouldn’t have even been in there. But it’s Montana, I was mostly in the back room, and it was decades ago.
“You know everything. Best accountant there is. Best waitress. Best bartender.” She mimed making a drink and giving it a good shake before pouring it into a glass.
“That’s because instead of quizzing me on spelling words, you quizzed me on the ingredients of a hundred drinks.”
Mrs. Books yawned. Petunia settled in across my lap and glared at me until I pet her—only her head, not her body, or she’d bite me. She’s particular about affection.
“And aren’t you smart because of it? Didn’t it turn out well for you, professionally speaking?”
