Her blue eyes flick to my mother, who nods in approval, glowing with pride that her and my stepfather’s training has worked its magic with their third child.
Third time’s the charm, as they say.
“I’ll be sure to do that.” I wink, and she checks that Mom isn’t looking at her in the rearview before she winks back.
I’m disappointed that there is basically going to be no Christmas for me this year, but in another way, having them leave is a relief. I have things going on in my life that I’m not ready to talk about, and the likelihood that said things would remain hidden, so to speak, if we were all together for the next two weeks would be slim.
Two valets in burgundy western-style blazers and tan cowboy hats open each of the front doors. I step out, my black Uggs squishing in the gathering muck on the street.
The tickle of falling snowflakes hits my cheeks as Mom comes around the front of the car in her Burberry tan jacket, waving for Isabel to come hold her hand. And then we walk across the snowy sidewalk to the front door, which is already being held open by another of the burgundy-jacketed attendants who I’ve come to believe must be cloned in some mad science lab in the basement at The Cobalt Club.
They’re all chiseled jaws and dark hair, eyes just friendly enough, but not so much that you’d think to engage them in conversation.
Inside, the walls are dark, ten-inch-thick logs, the air warm and scented with piped-in evergreen and leather. It’s decked out for the holidays with the kind of understated luxury only a private Montana club can manage. If you threw a snowball across the restaurant, you’d likely hit at least one billionaire and a few millionaires.
Lots of money hides under those cowboy hats.
Inside, the maitre d’ sweeps his arm forward, ushering us to our usual table right in the center of the front window, so anyone walking down the sidewalk in downtown Bremmer, Montana will see the perfect Houser family, dining and chatting so casually in a club where ordering a steak ‘well done’ will get you kicked out, the hundred-thousand dollar a year membership dues keep the riff raff out.
“The usual,” my mom says, as a waiter appears out of thin air to pull her chair back, offering to take her coat which she refuses because she’s always freezing. “Girls? What would you like to drink?”
“Two Shirley Temples,” Isabel chirps, pulling her shoulders back to stand up straight as I bump her with my hip. “Four cherries in each.”
“Four?” I mouth as she looks up at me with those same blue eyes I see when I look at myself in the mirror. A genetic trait all three of the women in the Houser family share.
She snorts a little giggle and nods, then slips into the chair next to Mom, while I step toward the one across from her next to the window which offers a perfect view of the evergreen and gold garland that’s draped and wrapped around everything in downtown that would hold still.
“Your father will be along in a few minutes.” Mom smiles, her teeth as white as the snow coming down outside the window. “Even with the less-than-ideal circumstances, it’s nice to share a meal with the whole family before we head to the airport.”
The whole family. Right.
I unwrap my pink and lavender anti-Burberry scarf from around my neck, and before I can hang it on the back of the chair, another of the dark-haired cowboy clones appears.
“Ma’am. Let me check that in the coat closet for you.” He holds out a numbered ticket, then nods toward the oversized fleece jacket I’ve kept securely buttoned around myself since I got out of the car at the ranch.
“Let him take it dear.” Mom’s hushed voice tells me something I’m doing is embarrassing her. “Why didn’t you wear the Double D coat I got you last year? That fleece is—” She trails off with a sigh.
I bite back the silent groan, press a smile to my lips, and let him slip it off my shoulders. My mother’s new lash extensions flutter, her eyes rolling back for a second before she rests two manicured, red-tipped fingernails against the bridge of her nose.
“Thank you,” I say as the cowboy-clone scurries off with my invisibility cloak I would keep me from having to see that look in my mom’s eyes.
I drop into the wooden chair as her eyes track up and down my body.
“Dear.” She only uses that term when what comes next is going to be something I don’t want to hear. “I told you, my doctor would gladly get you on one of the GLP medications. They are likemagic.I mean, look.” She turns her palms up, leaning back in her chair. “Even me, I’ve lost fifteen pounds.”
“You need to gain it back, Mom,” I retort. “This is Montana, not Orange County, and not everyone needs to be a size zero.”
She shakes her head as the server comes over with her martini and our two Shirley Temples balanced on a tray.
The weight battle has been ongoing since my childhood. Mom was a former Miss Indianapolis and three times Miss Indy 500. She puts image before substance in almost all areas of life, especially physical appearances. Her go-to line is, ‘If you don’t respect yourself, how do you think anyone else will respect you?’
Which, as I got older and became aware of the way she disappeared into the bathroom after every meal and kept a detailed chart of her weights at exactly eight am, noon, and eight pm, made me question her version of respect. Because turning your body inside out several times a day in order to keep that magic number in the green on the chart did not seem to track.
But we all have our shit, that’s for sure. I’ve gotten bigger, this is true, but that’s not a conversation I’m willing to entertain as I prepare to spend Christmas alone in a house devoid of any gifts or decorations, all in order for me to spend some quiet time reflecting on my priorities and lack of commitment to the church of write-a-big-enough-check-and-you-are-forgiven.
Fuck that. I’ll string popcorn on a thread and wrap it around a pine tree before I’ll pretend to be something I’m not. They’ve pushed me more the last couple years to join the church officially as an adult which, of course, they will cover the ‘donation’ that’s required to do so.
It came to a head two weeks ago when I refused to complete the application from Paster Roger Morgan that appeared in my email box with a personal note about his ‘excitement’ to have another member of the Houser family in their fold.
