“I got it from—” She snaps her fingers, squinting at the ceiling. “Oh. What’s her name?” Another pause.Snap, snap, snap. “Damn.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“Mom,” I bark.
“Sylvia,” she says, relieved look on her face. “That’s right, I got it from Sylvia.”
I press the heels of my palms into my temples and say a silent prayer to be taken out by an asteroid. “Who the hell is Sylvia?”
“The psychic over by the hardware store. I was in for my reading”—I groan—“and she told me the history of it, and I just had to have it.” Her hands begin gesticulating through the air as she describes how wonderful Sylvia is. How she would never swindle her. How she predicted that she’d connect to her soulmate on the dating app she’s been using, and she has indeed found the love of her life in a sexy Frenchman.
“You’re internet dating?” I ask, stunned. My mother’s dated casually since my dad passed, but nothing like this. “Since when?”
“Since I am,” she says dismissively. “And you should hear his accent when we talk. Tu es plus belle qu’une fleur.” She pauses, proud of her horrid attempt at what I assume to be French. “You’re more beautiful than a flower.” She smiles, lovestruck.
In the stupid glass ball, my distorted reflection scowls back at me.
Ed, my dad, was an accountant until the day he died ten years ago. He loved numbers and order and had the work ethic of a pack mule. He was the definition of normal; we were the picture-perfect family of five filling JCPenney’s portraits that covered the walls, showcasing our life. A life where dinners were eaten together at the same time every night, the same TV shows were watched before bed, and every summer, we went camping at the same spot in the mountains. Even with my mom’s unpredictablewhims—acting lessons, painting classes, and themed dinner parties for no reason—he was a constant calm presence and kept her in check. When she wanted to paint the living room purple, he’d convince her to try a shade of grey. When she wanted to rent a Winnebago and drive across the country for an entire summer, he convinced her to join the gardening club.
Since he’s been gone, it’s me trying to wrangle her in, and the more time that passes, the more I fail. Miserably.
At first, it wasn’t so bad—we had the money to lean into her sporadically wild ideas—but it’s as if the tighter our cash gets, the more capricious she becomes. Even when she was painting the house every shade of the rainbow, she stuck to a budget and knew the value of a dollar. Not anymore. And now she’s dating on the internet.
If Dad hadn’t had the heart attack that took him from us ten years ago, he’d certainly be having one now.
“Mom,” I say with forced calm, interrupting her spiel of psychics and French love and crystal balls. “No more.”
She recrosses her arms over her chest, regarding me as I put the ball into its purple velvet bag and shove it on a shelf behind the counter. My mind is already on the research I’ll need to do to price it and if we’ll ever be able to sell it.
“You know,” she says, breaking my thoughts apart, “life doesn’t last forever, Rue. You might as well be happy and have some fun while you can.”
It’s simple, but it irks me, and I respond by way of a singleHa!
I march from behind the counter to arrange and rearrange a shelf of silver souvenir spoons unnecessarily. “One, my life would last a lot longer if you weren’t buying these ridiculous trinkets.” We exchange a heated look. “And two, Iamhappy. Me not wanting a crystal ball is called fiscal responsibility. Ever heard of it?”
“You are not,” she argues, stuck to me like a shadow I can’t escape. I move to a box of metal signs, flipping them around so they all face the same direction. “If anything, you’re a martyr of it.”
My hold on a dinged-up Centlivre tonic sign that ironically promises togive strength and enjoyment to lifeturns to a death grip.
“Martyr?” I am fully offended. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Her hands fly straight into the air. “You know exactly what it means.”
“Where is this coming from?” I demand. “You’re attacking me and throwing a fit becauseyougot conned?”
“I didn’t get conned. I bought something that spoke to me. And I’m not throwing a fit,” she argues. “But I am attacking you because your life has turned predictable and stale and all you do is worry.”
“That is so rude, it is not. I like my life.” Her look says she doesn’t believe me. “And it’s the exact same life that you had. I work at the same store as you. I have a kid. I’m marrying a wonderful man.”
Her face puckers like she just sucked a lemon dry.
“When’s the last time you did something because you wanted to?” she asks. “Bought something for the shop because you liked it?”
“The point isn’t to buy stuff for the store that Ilike. It’s about selling. Sell-ing.”
She makes an annoyed sound. “Or gave that head of yours a break and did something that your heart wants? That wasn’tfiscally responsible?” She says the words like they’re laced with poison. “Threw caution to the wind?”
All my attention goes to straightening a vintage leather jacket covered with patches; there’s no use arguing. She views life thesame way she views antiques: through the rose-colored lenses of romance and play. I, on the other hand, see everything through a microscope of practical durability.
