I rest back in the booth, slightly bouncing against the red leather cushion, scanning the menu.
“I kind of want a calzone,” I say, unsure if that’s okay because she mentioned pies. I feel my stomach bottom out as I wait for an answer.
“Your grandpappy loved a white pizza. It’s all we ever ordered as kids, all we were allowed to.” Her gaze is lost in the oil and vinegar mixture she’s dipping her bread into. “So now I never get it. But you can get it if you want.” She smiles up at me, my question having evaporated in the air as soon as it left my mouth.
“I don’t like white pizza,” I tell her, my smile small now.
“Me neither,” she says, tilting her head thoughtfully. “You’re so much like me.”
When I look at her, I see Sloane. And we’re twins, so I guess I am like her in that way, too. We have her hair, we have her height, and if I look close enough, I can see the way her mouth curves just like ours do. Even so, when I look at her I can’t believe she carried us. Made us. She feels so foreign to me, and I hate it.
“You’ve never told me about my grandpa.” I’d like to know about some of the men who came before me, especially since she’s made it clear that the man who made me isn’t worth the dirt on the bottom of her shoe.
“Because he’s a piece of shit, that’s why. Never wants to help anyone but himself.” Her face turns sour as she sops up more oil on a wedge of baguette.
“He’s alive?”
“Maybe,” she shrugs. “How are you liking the Fielders?” Her face turns bright, her smile so different than the scowl she had just moments ago. Beau and Evie decided it would be okay if we kept in contact with our mom, within reason. This is the first time I’ve seen her in two years—our last home didn’t let us. But the Fielders are different. I mean, they adopted us, so of course they are, but things are still rocky. It’s cool they’re letting me be here to begin with.
“Uh… they’re really nice. We have our own rooms.” It’s a first for Sloane and I. Everything about life with the Fielders is so new; I keep feeling like I’ll wake up and it’ll have been a figment of my imagination.
My mom huffs a sardonic laugh, leaning back with her arms crossed. “Probably buying you all kinds of nice things.”
“I guess.”
“When did you say your sister would be back in town?”
“It’s a week retreat,” I tell her just as our server comes to take our order.
She nods at me. “Go on. Tell him what you want.”
“I’ll uh—” I peek down at the menu again, panicking, “I’ll take a pepperoni calzone.”
“I’ll take a margherita pizza, but box up three quarters and leave it under the lights.”
Our server smiles, takes the menus under his arm, and flits to the next table.
I’m sitting on my hands now, unsure of what to do with them now that the menus are gone. I look up at my mom, half expecting her to be watching me. I mean, I haven’t seen her in two years. She’s watching the door, and when I turn to see what she’s tracking, I find the doorway empty.
“How’s basketball?” Her smile feels genuine for the first time all day, and I’m so happy she remembers. The onlythings I still have from her are the Chicago Bulls shirt I must’ve been dropped off in, and the infant Nike’s I couldn’t have ever worn but were mine regardless.
“Good. The place we live has really good programs, and Beau wants me to talk to a friend of his who can get me on the right track…”
She listens, like actually listens, as I get lost in my own excitement. For a second she looks sad, like she’s remembering something for the first time, but it’s there and gone. I tell her about my favorite player, my favorite team, about how Beau already told me we’d go to a game together. I tell her about the camp I’m signed up for, and how a lot of pro players went to camps just like it. And when our food shows up, I dig into my calzone with the same excitement as she eats her slice of pizza with a fork and knife. She’s quick though—quicker than me—and she pushes her plate and silverware to the edge of the table.
“What would be really cool though,” I continue to tell her between bites of food, “would be playing for Chicago. One day, I mean. There’s a lot that goes into?—”
“I’m just running to the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” she tells me, her smile curt despite the patient tilt of her head.
“Oh. I hope they cleaned it.” She’s up and down the corridor before she can hear my laughter, and it embarrasses me.
Glancing around, I realize no one’s watching me, and that no one saw my mom just walk away from me mid sentence, and that I’m probably being so sensitive because I haven’t seen her in a while. And I think that when she gets back, I’ll stop talking so much. She probably didn’t want to listen to me yap about ball for thirty minutes, and I feel bad I didn’t realize my mistake earlier.
I take another bite of my calzone, and then another. Then another. Then, it’s gone. I look around and notice the table that was seated right after us is already populated with new people. The girl, around my age, is ordering a soda, while her grandmother—I think—orders an iced tea. They seem good. They seem happy.
I finally check my phone, nervous dread clawing its way up my esophagus. It’s been two hours since we got here which is a long time, but when did she get up to go to the bathroom? Maybe it feels like a long time because I’m a kid. She could need help—that could also be it. Maybe it has been a long time, but she’s looking for something.
Our server drops the bill on the table, barely even looking at me when he does so. I don’t touch it because it’s not mine. Beau says it's rude to look at a bill someone else is taking care of. And she’s taking care of it because she’s my mom. She’ll clear it up when she gets back.
