“You’relooking well, Mother.” I grip her upper arms lightly and lean in topress a kiss to each of her smooth cheeks. The scent of her mostrecent designer perfume tickles my nose. It’s more pleasant thanthe last one, which was so overpowering it made my eyes water. Istill fondly remember the days when her signature scent wasCalgon’s Hawaiian Ginger body spray. I still have a bottle tuckedaway in my medicine cabinet at home, and I spritz some in mybedroom whenever I’m feeling nostalgic.
Mom’s designertastes don’t end with her scent; she’s wearing tailored blacktrousers paired with a gauzy rust-colored blouse. Gold jewelry,tastefully done make-up, perfectly coiffed hair, and a pair ofshiny black heels pull the look together and make her appear as ifshe’s heading to a sophisticated luncheon rather than simplyspending the day at home.
“Andyou look…comfortable, dear.” Her smile is more of a grimace as her gaze sweepsover my ensemble: black leggings, a form-fitting yellow t-shirt,and a jean jacket. My friends call it my ‘autumn uniform’ because Iwear some variation of this outfit all season long when I’m not onthe job.
I let out a quietsnort, drawing another wince from my mother. “We’ve been over this,Mom. I’m happy to dress up for work and special occasions, butotherwise I prefer to be casual. You should try it sometime.Seriously. Bust out those fuzzy socks I gave you last Christmas.They’ll change your life.” I slip off my Converse and line them upneatly by the door.
“Listento you! A pair of socks having the ability to change my life.Honestly.” Mom gives an exaggerated eye roll, but the lines aroundher mouth tell me she’s suppressing a smile. “I’m meeting with theLadies’ Auxiliary after we finish up here, so I figured it waseasier to be ready early.”
“Verysensible.” As I follow her through the cavernous foyer and up thestairs, I stop myself from adding ‘unlike your shoes’, which arehigher than anything I’d evenconsiderwearing—especially aroundthe house—and create an echoingclickclackagainst the hardwood floor with eachstep. “Hey, Mom?”
“Yes,Evelyn?”
“Thefuzzy socks are still in their original packaging, aren’tthey?”
Shestops at the top of the stairs with her back to me. When shecarries on after only a short pause, I take that as a yes. Guess Ican scratch a new pair of socks off my Christmas list. Or maybe Ishould get her nothingbutfuzzy socks this year.
Mom enters my oldbedroom and goes straight to the queen-size bed, where an array ofgarment bags are neatly laid out. She makes a sweeping motion withher arm like an assistant on a gameshow. “Do you need me tosupervise?”
I give her my bestsardonic side-eye. “I’ve been dressing myself since I was three,but thanks.”
“Oh, itwas earlier than that. You came out of the womb large and incharge, exceeding all those baby milestones by leaps andbounds.”
This is somethingI’ve heard my whole life, especially the ‘large and in charge’ bitsince I tipped the scales at just over ten pounds. “Why don’t yougive me a few minutes and then I’ll start modeling the dresses foryou?”
“Soundsgood. I know you hate doing this, so shall we make it fun and opensome prosecco?”
I peerat my watch. “It’s barely one o’clock.” At Mom’s‘so what?’expression, I shrug and say, “What the hell, why not.”
“Language, dear,” Mom says mildly over her shoulder as sheheads for the door.
I clear a spot onthe bed so I can sit among the dresses. While this massive bedroomwith its giant bed, walk-in closet, and small seating area wouldhave been many a teenage girl’s dream, it wasn’t mine. In the threeyears I lived here with my parents before moving to Kingston foruniversity, I never stopped missing my childhood home, especiallymy bedroom. I missed the posters tacked crookedly to the walls andthe shabby chic furniture. I missed the nail polish stains on therug and the memories of countless sleepovers with my friends, allof us crammed into sleeping bags on my floor, talking about crushesand movies, and sharing dreams for the future. A future whichalways included the four of us being best friends forever. At leastthat never changed, even when everything else seemed to.
I shake myselffrom my walk down memory lane and hop up to open the first garmentbag. A sound of distress leaves me the second I spy the shiny beigefabric. Mom usually has excellent taste, which is the only reason Iallow her to choose dresses for me, but I don’t do beige. I rezipthe garment bag without inspecting the dress further, and toss itaside in what will be the ‘Hell No’ pile.
“You’restill dressed!”
I whip around atthe sound of Mom’s voice. She’s standing in the doorway, holdingtwo glasses and an ice bucket with a bottle of prosecco. I expectedher to bring two filled glasses, but apparently we’re gettingserious here.
“Sorry,I got…sidetracked.” It’s best not to tell her I was daydreamingrather than getting straight to the business at hand. “The firstdress isn’t something I’d wear, so I already put it in the discardpile.”
Mom sets herarmload of boozy goodness on the desk and strides across the roomto inspect the rejected dress. “Oh, you’re right, that’s awful.”She wrinkles her nose as if she caught a whiff of something foul.“I usually hand select the dresses myself, but I didn’t have timethis year. I’ve been working with Katrina at the dress shop forlong enough that I trusted her to choose an appropriateassortment.”
“Well,hopefully the next one will be more my style,” I say in a placatingtone.
“It hadbetter be, otherwise Katrina will be receiving a very disgruntledphone call.”
I can’t help butlaugh under my breath as she returns to the desk. There was a timewhen my mom was the most easy-going person I knew. She hatedconfrontation or upsetting anyone. She wouldn’t even send back foodin a restaurant if they got the order wrong. Now she has impossiblyhigh standards and isn’t afraid to make sure people knowit.
Sheplucks the bottle of prosecco from the ice bucket and releases thecork with a few expert twists and a quietpop. She pours two glasses of thegolden fizz and hands one to me. “I can’t believe my little girl isabout to turn thirty-five. You know, you really should let me—” Herwords are cut off by the chiming of the doorbell, which is wired soit’s audible in surround-sound levels no matter where you are inthe house. I always thought it was a good thing we didn’t have adog, or the poor creature would have gone into a tizzy every timesomeone rang the bell.
Mom sighs. “I’llbe right back. Cheers, dear.” She clinks her glass against minebefore scurrying from the room.
My intended daintysip of wine turns into a large gulp. I cough, eyes watering asbubbles fly up my nose. Thank goodness Mom’s not here to see; I canimagine the lecture I’d get on being more ladylike. As I takeanother sip, I wonder what she was about to say before the doorbellrang. I really should let her…what? Recommend a good night cream tocombat the fine lines around my eyes? Send me to her hairstylist,who’s been giving her the same cut and color for the last decade?Set me up with yet another stuffed shirt coworker ofDad’s?
I set my glassaside and unzip the next garment bag. My eyes go wide when theyland on the silky red material of the dress. Mom has never chosenred for me, claiming it’s ‘not my color’. I don’t agree with her,but I’ve learned to choose my battles…and secretly wear red whenshe’s not around to criticize. The only red dress I ever hadwas—
“Sorryabout that.” Mom bustles back into the room, wine glass still inhand, although it’s mostly empty now. “Your father ordered a caseof wine for Thanksgiving and neglected to tell me it was beingdelivered today.”
