To my horror, Mum pulled off her sweater and stepped on to the platform, plugging it into the wall socket. It sprung to life, vibrating her whole body so the flesh on her stomach jiggled like a Polaroid picture, which was not a thing I ever wanted to say about my mother.
“It’s w-w-w-working every m-m-muscle in my b-b-body,” she juddered. “And increasing circulation, m-m-muscle strength, and st-st-stimulating collagen. And look, if I do this…” she crouched and leaned forward so her weight was over her knees. “M-m-my belly is getting an even b-b-bigger work out.”
“Argh, Mum!” I turned away. The sight of my mother’s jiggling stomach would haunt my dreams tonight. “Do you even know what stimulating collagen means?”
“You’re such a spoilsport.” She stepped off the machine and flicked the switch. “I’ve just burned twenty-two calories. That means I can have a piece of cake for dessert. I’ve got twenty more of these in the car. Aren’t they brilliant?”
“Why do you have twenty wobble plates in your car?” I asked with sinking dread, already knowing the answer.
“It’s my new business, of course!” She beamed as she pushed me back toward the door. “I know you’re pulling a face at me, Mina, but hear me out. This will bedifferent. It’s so much better than anything I’ve tried before, because I candiversify.I can havemultiple income streams. As well as selling the power-plates, I’ll run classes, sell workout supplements, exercise videos, and smoothie blends—”
“Not more smoothies,” I groaned, my stomach twitching from the memory of Mum’s last endeavor – so-called healthy smoothie blends with flavors like ‘broccoli, dandelion, and blueberry,’ and ‘green tea, asparagus, and cayenne pepper.’
Mum’s ridiculous schemes wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t constantly force them on me. A green tea, asparagus and cayenne pepper smoothie is borderline child abuse.
Under the carport, Mum’s tiny Fiat sagged under the weight of the wobble plates. Grey clouds converged on the horizon, shrouding the estate in dreary grey haze. I popped the trunk and hauled out a plate, my muscles straining under the weight. Across the street, drug dealers peered at us through their blackout curtains.
I dragged five wobble plates inside and stacked them in the corner of the living room, next to five boxes of baby clothes left over from the Baby-Mobile business. Mum managed to get two in the door before she came down with a mysterious coughing fit and locked herself in the bathroom. I was tempted to just leave the rest in the car for her to finish off, but I was in a good mood about the bookshop job so I hauled the rest inside.
Mum emerged just as I perched the last box on top of a precarious stack. “See? This is going to work, Mina. These power-plates will be the ticket to our dreams, I can feel it.”
“We can’t see the telly now,” I pointed out.
“It’ll only be for tonight, darling. I’m going to sell all these tomorrow and then we’ll have enough money for a really big telly.” She wrapped her arm around my aching shoulders and maneuvered me into the kitchen, her life-threatening ailment now vanished without a trace. “Tea?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” In our narrow kitchenette, I put the kettle on while Mum pulled out cups and milk and tea bags.
“How did you go down at the bookshop?”
“I got the job,” I beamed. “I start tomorrow.”
My mother shook her head. She didn’t share my enthusiasm for old bookshops or stable incomes. “Don’t worry, darling, you won’t have to work in that horrid place for long. As soon as I’ve sold these power-plate machines and recruited ten salespeople, I’ll be able to keep us both in the fabulous manner we deserve. Then it won’t even matter when you go bli—”
“Don’t say that word. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I know, darling, but—”
“Have you heard anything about the guy who owns the bookshop, Mr. Earnshaw?” I cut her off as I bent in front of the fridge to see if we had any wine or cider. Upon reflection, tea wasn’t going to cut it tonight – I needed alcohol to wipe away the memory of Mum’s wobbling stomach.
“That surly gypsy? I thought he’d left town by now. Oh, Mina. You can’t work for him.”
“You shouldn’t use that word, Mum.”
“Pfft, a lot of PC nonsense.” Mum was of the generation that required others to tolerate their racial slurs in the name of the Great English Cultural Tradition. “Heisa gypsy, with that dark skin and those evil eyes. I heard he’s some far-removed cousin of Mr. ___. He came down from the North when Mr. ___ retired, but he doesn’t seem to know the first thing about running a bookshop. Or any kind of shop. He doesn’t know aboutdiversificationormultiple income streams. The village had the Christmas market last week and he didn’t hang any decorations! Debbie Fisher asked him to run a stall at the animal shelter charity fundraiser and he glowered at her! A man like that shouldnotbe glowering.”
“He does have one mean glower,” I agreed, thinking back with a mixture of trepidation and desire as my new boss’ eyes bore into mine.
“If you insist on working for him, maybe you can get him to clean that place up a bit? Some nice window displays and maybe a vibration machine station in the corner?” Mum looked up at me hopefully as she poured the tea.
“He doesn’t seem the type of guy to embrace change, but I’ll do my best.” I sipped my tea. Perfect, with just the right amount of milk and a tiny sprinkling of sugar. As much as Mum drove me crazy sometimes (okay, all the time), she knew what mattered in life.
Mum reached across the counter, rubbing her fingers against mine. The wrinkles in her skin stood up like mountain ranges. Her eyes sagged at the edges. A pang of guilt struck my chest. Was this just my mother getting older, or had everything I’d put her through these last few months aged her prematurely?
I stared past Mum’s head at the tower of boxes from a cosmetic MLM company stacked in the corner of the kitchen. They were filled with miracle anti-aging treatments that would help Mum turn back the clock. If only I could turn back the clock on my life.
“As I said, I really don’t want to talk about it.” I forced a smile on my face. “I’mfine. I’m getting on with my life.”
Mum looked unconvinced. She had to know I wasn’t telling her the full story. She knew about the diagnosis, of course. I’d cried down the phone to her enough times. But as far as she was concerned, I’d left the internship at the end of my allotted time and was back in ___field to enjoy some home cooking while I figured out my next move.
