Mother Knows Best
Tina
“Shit, shit, shit,” Iwhisper under my breath, turning the knob on my gas range again, crossing my fingers that this time I’ll hear the whoosh of the flame catching, instead of the click of the burner not lighting.
Click, click, click.
“Damn it!”
This can’t be happening.
“What? What’s wrong?” My mother’s voice spills from the phone propped on the workstation next to me. “Should I call 911? Stan. STAN,” she screeches at my father, in what I’m sure is a vain attempt to get his attention.
Stan Falcone is no doubt sitting in his recliner watching sports highlights from the last week, because if there’s one thing my father loves, it’s sports. Any sport, any time. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s my mom’s tendency to overreact to any situation involving her children. He learned long ago, if he wanted any peace, he had to tune her out when her voice took on a certain tone.
Honestly, if it weren’t for her belief in making us find our own way out of most messes we created, most people would consider Beatrice Falcone to be the original helicopter mom from back before helicopter parents were even a thing. It always drove my dad nuts, so he tended to ignore her when she started freaking out. Which is what he’s most likely doing right now.
“Stan, turn that television off and call 911. Tina has an emergency.”
Shit. That’s the last thing I need. If a truck full of firefighters pulls up here because I can’t get my gas range to light, I’ll be the laughingstock of Tuft Swallow, and I barely fit in as it is.
Not that I leave the restaurant long enough to even make an attempt to fit in, but still.
“Ma! No,” I yell at the screen where the top half of my mother’s concern-wrinkled face is staring back at me. “It’s nothing serious.” I pick up the phone, turning the camera to take in the stove before pointing it at my face again. “See? The burner isn’t lighting. I need to call a repairman. It’s not an emergency.” What will be an emergency is if I can’t get the range fixed and I don’t have the sauces I need to make it to closing tonight.
She pulls the phone away, getting most of her face on camera this time, and chides, “You know, if you had a husband, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen.”
It’s a familiar refrain, and my eyes roll before I can stop them. Once a week for the last five years, I video chat with my mother,and once a week for the last five years, she’s gotten on my case about finding a husband. In the Falcone family, all the women get married young. All the women except for me, that is. My mother has never forgiven me for choosing to follow the path of the Falcone men: moving to a new city and opening a pizza restaurant. That I was already a spinster at the ripe old age of thirty-one when I left? Well, that just added insult to injury. In her mind, I should have moved into her house and let her take care of me until she found me a husband, or until I died of loneliness, whichever came first.
Well, screw that. I’m fine being alone, gas range problems notwithstanding. I don’t need to marry some overgrown man-child to feel fulfilled in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad, but he’s helpless without my mother. I have zero interest in taking care of a grown ass man like that for the rest of my life. I have my pizza place, my friends, my murder podcasts, and my creepy teapots. My life is perfect the way it is.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady.” Despite being all too aware of my advanced age, my mother sometimes forgets I am an independent thirty-six-year-old woman, and she scolds me like I’m a disobedient child. She means well, but she gets on my nerves when she does it. Usually I’m better at hiding it, though. “You know how I feel about eye rolling.”
“Sorry, Ma. Tell me, what kind of insuranceexactlywould a husband be against a gas range breaking?” Okay, so maybe I would never come right out and tell her she was getting on my nerves, but the annoyance seeps into my voice when I’m not careful. Kind of like it is now.
“Valentina Violetta Falcone. You watch your tone when you’re speaking to me.”
Ah, shit. That stops me short. She middle named me. She only does that when she’s truly upset. I suppose I didn’t realize how worried she was before I explained about the stove, andnow I’ve made it worse. Maybe I should text my aunts and send them over to talk her off the ledge. But not before shooting a warning text to my dad, of course. He’ll want to be out of the house before all the aunts arrive with their loud voices and bottles of wine. He can ignore my mother without issue, but five loud, proud Italian women are more than even he dares to take on.
“Sorry, Ma. I’m frustrated with the stove. I shouldn’t take that out on you.”
She purses her lips before granting me one of her wide, toothy grins. “You’re forgiven. I could never stay mad at my favorite unmarried daughter.”
“I’m your only unmarried daughter.” As the youngest of seven kids, and the only single one, my mom has turned all her matchmaking attentions on me as of late. Until recently, two of my brothers had been steadfast bachelors, but last year Tommy and Victor both met wonderful women and are now happily engaged and soon to be married. I don’t begrudge them their happiness, but come on. Couldn’t one of them have waited a while? Or at least given me some sort of heads up that I’d need to prepare for my mother’s onslaught of dating advice?
“And if you’d give a man half a chance, you could be as happy as your brothers and sisters are. I don’t understand why you insist on doing everything yourself. Your aunts and I know the type of man you need. You should let us be your matchmakers. We’ll have you married by next year.”
See what I mean? Just like that, we’re back on the subject of finding me a husband. Luckily, I don’t have time for this conversation today. If I can’t get her off the phone soon, I’ll never get the stove fixed, and if I don’t get the stove fixed, it’ll be another slow night at the restaurant. And despite my earlier assertion of having a perfect life, I can’t afford many more slow nights at Wings and Pizza. Thank goodness my landlordshows up at least once a day. If it weren’t for Wade charging me such low rentandbuying food every day, I’d have been out of business long ago.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m in over my head, but then I remember I’ve been getting by just fine for the last five years. There’s no reason to think I won’t continue to do so for five more. If I can ever get off the phone and get the damn stove fixed, that is.
“Mom, I have to let you go. I need to call the handyman in to fix the stove. I’ll talk to you next week, okay?”
“Oh no, that’s too bad. Aunt Vera is on her way over to the house to visit with Nonna Mona, but I know she was also hoping to talk to you today. I suppose there’s nothing to be done for it, though. It’s not as though it’s not her own fault. If that woman could ever be on time for anything, she wouldn’t have missed you.”
Nonna Mona is my grandmother on my father’s side, and she’s lived with my parents since my grandfather passed away almost thirty years ago. Despite living in the same house, my Nonna has never once questioned me about when I’ll get married. She understands me better than my mom ever has.
“Okay, thanks Mom. Love you. Give my love to Dad, Nonna, and the aunts. Bye.” I press the end call icon before she can continue the conversation. If there’s one thing my mom is great at, it’s extending a goodbye until you forget you were even trying to get off the phone. One time, I was supposed to meet a friend to see a movie, and my mom kept me on the phone so long that I wouldn’t have even been able to catch the ending credits. Since then, I’ve learned to say a quick goodbye and hang up before she can suck me back in. Guilt pricks at my conscience, but it really is the only way to get her off the phone.
