“No, uh . . . there’s something I wanted to ask you.” I look at the floor and am instantly eleven years old again, afraid of what she’s going to say.
“Come with me,” she says as she grabs my arm and leads me into the kitchen, motioning for me to sit on one of the barstools. I do what I’m told and get rewarded with a freshly baked pumpkin cookie and a glass of warm apple cider. My dad just shakes his head and swipes a cookie off the tray, waiting to watch whatever is about to unfold.
“Do you believe in magic?” I blurt out, bits of the cookie tumbling from my lips.
“What kind of magic?” Mabel asks.
“Any kind?” I shrug before taking a slow sip of my drink.
“Yes.”
“Yes? What do you mean, yes?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t say that I believe in magic in that a witch walks around casting spells on people, but I do believe that magical things can happen, especially when it comes to matters of the heart.” My mom shifts her gaze to my dad for a brief second before looking me in the eyes. It’s like she’s trying to decipher where this is coming from. I’m not going to tell her about Olive. I just want to know if she thinks that what we have is real. Don’t get me wrong, I like having the cheat code to her every emotion at my disposal, but it also makes me wonder if she’s really in this for me or if it’s just a result of whatever spell she’s under.
Last night, she didn’t respond to my declaration about knowing her well enough to know I care for her. She just sat there silently working through her emotions, refusing to let me in. I could see what she was thinking on her arm, but I didn’t acknowledge it because seeing it isn’t the same thing as her opening up and actually telling me. Instead, I snuggled her until we got hungry, took her to get some food, and dropped her at home.
“Is there a particular reason you are asking me this, Sammy?” My mom runs her hand down my cheek and pats my shoulder.
“I think, uh, this is hard. I think that things with Olive could be really serious, but I also know it’s fast. I really care about her, it’s like there is this magical connection between us and we are just meant to be.” I don’t make eye contact. I’m a thirty-two-year-old man going to his mom for dating advice. It’s pathetic.
“She’s the one,” Mom confirms. “I knew it the moment I saw her. There are some things that are just written in the stars, and she’s it for you. It was like that for Dad and me, you know. We met and it was—oh, what do the kids call it . . . instalove. I couldn’t go another minute without him in my life.” My mom clutches her heart thinking about it as her eyes tear up.
“Yeah, I think that’s what this is, and I’m scared.”
“What are you afraid of?” Mom asks.
“Messing it up. Not being what she wants me to be.”
“Samuel O’Reilly, stop it right now. You are a catch, and I’m not just saying that because I’m your mother. That girl would be lucky to be with you and to have my grandchildren. I have great genes, she should be so fortunate.” Mom throws her towel on the counter in a tizzy.
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from deep in my chest. There’s nothing like watching her get worked up over the thought that one of her children would do something wrong or somehow be inadequate. She wears “mom goggles,” meaning we are always perfect angels in her eyes.
“Okay, but how do I win her over?” I ask, trying to bring her back to the world where we aren’t mad at Olive for fictitiously saying I’m not good enough.
“Well, with how nervous you are, I’m having second thoughts about whether we should win her over.” She places both hands on her hips, thinking. “Actually, no I’m not. That girl is a doll. She’s absolutely perfect in every way.”
“There is one thing I’m not sure about,” my dad interjects.
“Let’s hear it,” I say, scrubbing a hand down my face.
“How would she handle the pumpkin guts?” he asks.
“I’m not sure that’s the best way to win her over.” I shake my head in disbelief that he’s suggesting that splattering pumpkin all over Olive could be the key to making her mine.
“Sure, it is. If she is going to be my daughter-in-law one day, hopefully soon, she needs to be able to make a mess of things. You need to invite her. Saturday at six sharp,” Mom quips, turning and walking out of the kitchen, out the front door, and straight to my truck to grab two pumpkins.
“We’ll need to get another one of these,” I say, trailing after her and grabbing the final two.
“Bring one from her porch, I think she can spare one. Which, by the way, you did a beautiful job on even if it is clearly over the top.”
“Noted. Thanks, Ma. I do have to run, but I’ll see you Saturday.” I sit the pumpkins on the top porch step and lean in to kiss her forehead before turning back to my truck.
“Sammy, don’t tell her about it. Let it be a surprise so we can gauge her reaction,” Mom shouts, toeing the front door open.
“Will do.” I slide into the front seat of my truck, wondering if surprising Olive with the famous pumpkin smear is a good idea. I guess we will find out.
Busy Saturday?
