“I’ll be fine.” I abandon the mug I grabbed for myself and hightail it out of the break room. I need to get out of here. I need some sense and wisdom, something to help me trust that everything I’m doing is right. The universe seems to be of no help lately, so I will go to the next best thing.
There is one person who can speak some sense to me in times like these, and she has no other choice but to listen to my issues because she’s currently on house arrest until cleared by her physician. Her physical choices lately don’t indicate lifelong wisdom, but her words have always been a comfort no one else can give me.
When I pull up to Lola’s house, my stomach twists when I see a red Mercedes parked next to her Jeep.
What is she doing here?
“Knock, knock.” I open the door and peer in to see my mother sitting on the couch next to Lola. “Mom, what are you doing here?” The question makes it obvious how unenthused I am to see her, but I plaster a grin on my face to soften the blow.
“I’m here to see you.” Mom smiles nonchalantly, as if her eight-month absence hasn’t been meticulously cataloged by every aunt and uncle in our message group. “And to check on Lola.” She grabs Lola’s hand and squeezes. It would seem tender and sweet if it was anyone but her. I cross my arms and watch her, willing my eyes to stay centered instead of getting lost in the back of my head like they want to. Ignoring the fact that her own mother had a literal heart attack, she always has a motive for coming by. It’s never a simple “I missed you” visit. There are stipulations for her stay, and my entire body tenses up with anticipation, never loosening until I watch the red of her car fade down the road.
“Yes.” Lola pats her hand back. “We were about to have some tea. Would you like some?” She attempts to stand from the couch, but Mom squeezes her hand and gestures for her to stay seated. Lola eyes her, contemplating how much she wants to rebel, but she concedes and watches Mom walk into the kitchen and start preparing their cups for tea. I guess she can be good for something.
“Has she asked for anything yet?” I whisper to Lola, sitting on the floor at her feet. I lift her aging feet and rest them in my lap, rubbing her thin ankles. There’s a purple tint to her dark skin with lines twisting and curving up and down her feet, and her soft skin feels frail under my fingers. Aunt Edna came this morning and painted her toenails a hot-pink color with sparkles. A smile pulls at my lips as I assess them. My lola has always been younger at heart than she really is. The fitness classes, the vibrant wardrobe, hosting a romance book club…all little things she does to feel young and alive, she tells me. Things that bring her joy and make her forget the hard things in life, like losing Grandpa or watchingDatelinealone—which no one should ever do, by the way.
“No. Now, be nice,” she whispers back, tsking me with a flick on the shoulder. We watch Mom pour three cups of tea at the kitchen counter, mixing each differently: Lola’s with two Sweet’N Lows, mine with honey, and hers with a splash of milk. She remembers the way we like it. The small hole left in my heart from her absence tries to close a tiny bit at that.
“Kate, could you help me with these?”
I join my mom in the kitchen, collecting the mugs and a bag of chips from the pantry. As I head back into the living room, she stops me. “Kate…” Her words linger in the air, the inevitable favor waiting to hit me in the face like a pendulum. “I have something to ask.”
“What’s that?” I ask breezily.
“I was wondering if I could have your grandpa’s antique tool set. It would work perfectly for an upcoming exhibit I’m helping organize!” She’s practically giddy at the request, completely oblivious to how inappropriate it is. It’s not even mine. It’s Benny’s.
I gape at her, dumbfounded. My face probably looks like one of those frozen-in-time moments that is so unflattering you haveto burn the evidence. I try to speak, but my annoyance blocks my vocal cords, which is probably a good thing seeing as all I want to do is grab the woman by the shoulders, give her a hard shake, and yell, “What is wrong with you?!”
“Anna, that’s fine. We can sort it out later,” Lola answers for me, breaking the tense silence that was starting to build.
“Ahh, thank you, Lola!” My mom reaches around Lola, hugging her tight. “Look, I have to run a few errands. How about I pick up dinner on the way back?” Without waiting for our answer, Mom is halfway out the door with her purse slung over her shoulder. “Kate, will you join us?”
“I, uh…can’t. Sorry, I’m busy.” I keep my eyes pinned on the wooden bird clock hanging next to Lola’s front door as the screen door swings shut. I wait, listening to the sound of my mom’s wedges on the gravel and the closing of her car door, before I turn to face Lola.
“What the heck?”
Shrugging, Lola relaxes back into the couch and sips on her tea. Wincing once at the heat, she smacks her lips and raises a brow at me—a look that says I precisely knowwhat the heckand how dare I question her. The wrinkles surrounding her eyes and lips deepen for a moment before she lets out a breath. “Katherine, sit.”
I reluctantly plop down onto the floor, crossing my legs like a child, and pout at her. She’s about to make me sit through an enlightening moment, wisdom thrown at me like bullets, and I’m going to have to deal with it.
“Why do you let your mother upset you?” she asks, and all I can do is stare at her, bewildered that she would ask such an obvious question. “Seriously, why?” she asks again.
“Um, because she’s never here? And when she is, all she does is ask for something?”
“And do you think that’s enough to be upset about it?”
My bewilderment takes on physical form as my mouth hangs open. “Well, yeah!” I finally say. “Does it not upset you that your daughter never comes around? That she’d rather go on her little trips than be with her family for Christmas?” The answers are obvious, but I still go up an octave to hone in on my point.
“It does.” She nods, setting her cup of tea down on the rickety side table. A small black-and-white photo of Grandpa sitting on the edge of a boat rests next to a tiny box of tissues. “But it also reminds me of who my daughter is.” I blink away from the photo and back to Lola. She’s gazing out the front door Mom just walked out of. Her face is solemn yet peaceful. Accepting. “I have known your mother for fifty-eight years. And the one thing I have learned about her is that she will always,always,be the same. For years, I prayed she would change her ways, be more about the family, live the way we wanted her to. It never changed. But something else did.” She looks back to me, gray eyes soft and warm. “It was my acceptance of who she is.”
I scoff at that.
I am far from accepting that this is who my mother truly is. What daughter wants to feel unwanted by their own mother? Who in their right mind wants to feel like second place in everything? It’s one thing to feel unwanted bymen,especially those online who aren’t always who they say they are—I’m talking to you, Larry, who was supposed to have hair. But it’s a different thing entirely to feel that way with your own flesh and blood. The person who made you. To feel abandoned by the one person who is supposed to love you more than anyone else. When she’s actually around, it’s like I’m invisible to her, barely acknowledged. So, who can blame me for feeling a tad moody at seeing her this afternoon for the first time in ages after being let down by a man,again.
“Well, I haven’t accepted it. And I probably never will.”
“That’s your choice. But I hope you remember this…you can’t change people. People are selfish and will continue to disappoint you. The only thing you can do is change how you let it affect you. You can’t make someone choose you.”
I glance up at Lola as the weight of her words hit me like a ton of bricks. The corner of her mouth turns downward as she registers the feelings all over my face.
