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“Um, yes,” I said. “You see, my father thought you might be more comfortable at a nice hotel than here in the loft—”
“Well, if that doesn’t beat all,” Mamaw said. “Here your Papaw and Hank and I come all the way to see you, and you stick us in a hotel?”
I looked at the guy in the overalls with renewed interest. Hank? As in my cousin Hank? Why, the last time I’d seen Hank had been during my second—and ultimately final—trip to Versailles, back when I’d been about ten or so. Hank had been dropped off at the Thermopolis homestead the year before by his globe-trotting mother—my aunt Marie, who my mom can’t stand, primarily because, as my mother puts it, she exists in an intellectual and spiritual vacuum (meaning that Marie is a Republican).
Back then, Hank had been a skinny, whiny thing with a milk allergy. He wasn’t as skinny as he’d once been, but he still looked a little lactose intolerant, if you ask me.
“Nobody said anything about us being hauled off to an expensive New York City hotel when that French woman called.” Mamaw had followed me into the kitchen, and now she stood with her hands on her generous hips. “She said she’d pay for everything,” Mamaw said, “free and clear.”
I realized at once where Mamaw’s concern lay.
“Oh, um, Mamaw,” I said. “My father will take care of the bill, of course.”
“Well, that’s different.” Mamaw beamed. “Let’s go!”
I figured I’d better go with them, just to make sure they got there all right. As soon as we got into the limo, Hank forgot all about how hungry he was, in his delight over all the buttons there were to push. He had a swell time sticking his head in and out of the sun roof. At one point he stuck his whole body through the sun roof, spread his arms out wide, and yelled, “I’m the king of the world!”
Fortunately the limo’s windows are tinted, so I don’t think anyone from school could have recognized me, but I couldn’t help feeling mortified.
So you can understand why, after I got them all checked into the hotel and everything, and Mamaw asked me if I would take Hank to school with me in the morning, I nearly passed out.
“Oh, you don’t want to go to school with me, Hank,” I said, quickly. “I mean, you’re on vacation. You could go do something really fun.” I tried to think of something that might seem really fun to Hank. “Like go to the Harley Davidson Cafe.”
But Hank said, “Heck, no. I want to go to school with you, Mia. I always wanted to see what it was like at a real New York City high school.” He lowered his voice, so Mamaw and Papaw wouldn’t hear. “I hear the girls in New York City have all got their belly buttons pierced.”
Hank was in for a real big disappointment if he thought he’d see any pierced navels in my school—we wear uniforms, and you aren’t even allowed to tie the ends of your shirt into a halter top, a la Britney Spears.
But I couldn’t see a way to get out of having him accompany me for the day. Grandmère was always going on about how princesses have to be gracious. Well, I guess this is my big test.
So I said, “Okay.” Which didn’t sound very gracious, but what else could I say?
Then Mamaw surprised me by grabbing me and giving me a hug good-bye. I don’t know why I was so surprised. This was a very grandmotherly thing to do, of course. But I guess, seeing as how the grandmother I spend the most time with is Grandmère, I wasn’t expecting it.
As she hugged me, Mamaw said, “Why, you aren’t anything but skin and bones, are you?” Yes, thank you, Mamaw. It is true, I am mammarily challenged. But must you shout it out in the lobby of the SoHo Grand? “And when are you going to stop shooting up so high? I swear, you’re almost taller than Hank!”
Which was, unfortunately, true.
Then Mamaw made Papaw give me a hug good-bye, too. Mamaw had been very soft when I hugged her. Papaw was the exact opposite, very bony. It was sort of amazing to me that these two people had managed to turn my strong-willed, independent-minded mother into such a gibbering mess. I mean, Grandmère used
to lock my dad in the castle dungeon when he was a kid, and he wasn’t half as resentful toward her as my mom was toward her parents.
On the other hand, my dad is in deep denial and suffers from classic Oedipal issues. At least according to Lilly.
When I got home, my mom had moved from the closet to her bed, where she lay covered with Victoria’s Secret and J. Crew catalogs. I knew she must be feeling a little better. Ordering things is one of her favorite hobbies.
I said, “Hi, Mom.”
She looked out from behind the Spring Bathing Suit edition. Her face was all bloated and splotchy. I was glad Mr. Gianini wasn’t around. He might have had second thoughts about marrying her if he’d gotten a good look at her just then.
“Oh, Mia,” she said when she saw me. “Come here and let me give you a hug. Was it horrible? I’m sorry I’m such a bad mother.”
I sat down on the bed beside her. “You aren’t a bad mother,” I said. “You’re a good mother. You just aren’t feeling well.”
“No,” my mother said. She was sniffling, so I knew the reason she looked bloated and horrible was that she’d been crying. “I’m a terrible person. My parents came all the way from Indiana to see me, and I sent them to a hotel.”
I could tell my mom was having a hormonal imbalance and wasn’t herself. If she’d been herself, she wouldn’t have thought twice about sending her parents to a hotel. She has never forgiven them for
a) not supporting her decision to have me,
