It’s not that my mother’s not kind, it’s that she’s so outwardly so in public, I spent a lot of my childhood wondering why she liked everyone besides me.
I do a quick scan for grandmothers—if they had knowledge of Mom’s visit and didn’t warn me, they’re dead. But if she’s dropped by unannounced, I owe it to Grandma Helen to sound the alert.
Another wave of people floods in, not a familiar face in the bunch. The great turnout and interest in residency are what I’ve wished for since taking this job and planning this night, but now each arrival spikes my blood pressure.
For some reason Jan’s pointing at me, my surroundings slightly distorted like the jumble of questions my mom’s asking Noah, and none of this was on the agenda.
Obviously, I can’t miss the opportunity to network and incentivize new tenants, but the idea of leaving her without supervision rids the air from my lungs. I’m clammy and feeling the rapid beats of my heart down my arm and into my fingertips as my nerves begin to fray—I don’t have time to deal with my mom and whatever-this-is.
Noah trails fingertips up and down my spine, a shiver of a lifeline that finds me in the great big sea of panic. I was about to ground myself with five things I can see, but there are at least four parts of his body I’d like to get my hands on and touch, so my brain skips ahead…
I recall the gravelly timbre of his voice, hearing it in my head from that very first day he called mesugar, and again in the golf cart; I inhale the sunshine and woodsy Palo Santo scent that’s lingered with me since the day he held the door open for me while trying to rein in his grandfather; the heat of his body and how the knot in my chest eases as we exchange secrets and future promises with our eyes.
His amused quirk says he noticed my perusal of appreciation, and he feels rather smug about it, too. If I squint, I can almost convince myself it’s just me and Noah, talking plants and recalcitrant grandparents, not a glimmer of a glimmer about occupancy rates and numbers.
The pair of white women Jan pointed my way approach, their similar features, combined with their difference in ages leading me to believe I’m not the only daughter dealing with her mother.
“Hello, and welcome to Lakeview,” I say, taking a step in their direction. “How can I help you?”
“That lady”—the older of the two lifts a hand off her walker to jab a thumb at Jan— “told us to come speak to you about the events you force all the old people to do.”
“Mom.”To me, the tall, stylish brunette in her late forties to early fifties extends a hand, sleek metal bracelets rattling. And the iconic, Chanel Classic flap bag on her arm, it’s most definitely not fake. “Sorry, she’s reluctant to leave her crumbling tri-level near the swamp. I told her the next time she falls and breaks a hip, the gators’ll eat her before we even know anything’s wrong, and she—”
“I told her to let ’em.” Bayou Meemaw crosses her arms so hard she harrumphs, leading me to believe that’s the disdainful noise their generation prefers. “And it’s not a house,it’s my home.”
At the daughter’s long-suffering sigh, they devolve into bickering about broken bones and who could tell who what to do. It’s wild to see such similar features and still wonder how they came from the same gene pool.
This is clearly going to take all the brainpower I have at my disposal, so my mom’s going to have to wait on the back burner.
I just don’t want her anywhere near Noah, because the pot, it will boil over and start spilling details from her skewed memory I’d rather reveal myself. For her, life’s about being well-liked and looking good for everyone else.
Pretty on the outside.
Leaves you feeling empty on the inside.
I guess that’s what bugs me about the originality of the purse on her shoulder; how everything about it is for others, just like she saved all her kind, effusive actions for them, too.
Rather than dwelling on the childhood I didn’t get to have, I focus on the commonalities that connect us as humans and drop into relatable saleswoman mode. “I understand how hard it can be to leave the place you’ve known all your life.”
My mind goes to my apartment in Miami rather than the hodgepodge, 1970s rancher home in Indiana where I grew up.
“But take a look at this amazing calendar.” I snag a booklet off a nearby end table. “It’s filled with members from our very own neighborhood and all the events you might want to attend along with them.”
I flip the pages on their behalf, showcasing a colorful glimpse before opening to the current month. “You can stay home alone if you’d like, but there’s no shortage of activities when you want to join in.”
I point out the list with a snapshot of activities, a suggestion I took from the Cronies, along with bumping up the font. “Here at Lakeview, we don’t think of moving into a retirement village as an end, but as the perfect place to start your endless summer.”
Bayou Meemaw looks unconvinced, but a tap on my shoulder draws my attention to another duo, ages comparably split. I’m on the younger end of the spectrum and the tiny woman with a halo of white curls is on the other. She reminds me a whole lot of a gif of an older woman that saysIt’s been eighty-four years.
“Pardon the eavesdropping, but that’s exactly what caught my eye.” Mid-forties, tan skin, and wearing a hot pink pantsuit with blingy buttons and radiating an enviable amount of confidence, she motions to the elderly enchantress at her side. “Mags is far too active and fun to relegate her to a nursing home where residents are in bed by six p.m.”
Mags gives us a queenly wave, the sequin shawl draped over her shoulder sending fractals of light everywhere, and I freaking love her already.
“Nah, we’re party animals here at Lakeview.” Opal, the Seam Queens president who had the idea to fill up all the men’s tee times, sweeps in and grips Mags by the shoulder as though we’ve practiced the move, when I merely asked inhabitants for their assistance talking up the community. “Sometimes we go tillnine o’clock.”
Mags bursts out laughing, the sound raspy but happy. “You’re a hoot, aren’t you?”
“And a half.” Opal snorts and introduces herself, and with each minute of laughter and banter, wallflower types come out of the woodwork.
