Page 34 of The Do-Over

“It’s the thought that counts,

but math never was my strong suit.”

—MIMI

On my list of Reasons I Hated Mother/Daughter Brunches, number three was my mother’s supernatural ability to calculate caloric value for any food in mere seconds. Number two, I hated brunch. Why would I want to combine two meals into one? Give me breakfast and lunch any day. And the number one reason? My mother used the guise of a friendly meal to meddle. She expected a full account of my accomplishments for the month, and this naturally presented the perfect opportunity for her to offer her opinion.

My accomplishments this last month? I’d kept my fish alive.

We made plans to meet at a little restaurant close to Phee’s apartment inside the Loop. I’d dressed carefully—navy pants, ivory blouse, sensible shoes. I’d straightened my hair, applied make-up, prayed for a quick death.

My mother had already been seated when I arrived. I waved and made a beeline for the table. When I was in high school, I remember a friend complaining about how her mother “just didn’t care.” My mother was the opposite: she cared. Too much. Mimi once told me my mother thrived on other people’s messes. “When she thinks someone needs her, she’s like a mosquito at a hemophiliac’s convention.”

That might be okay if her methods weren’t both swift and soul-crushing.

At the table, I shrugged off my coat and slid into a seat.

“Hello, dear,” Mom said, not taking her eyes from the menu in front of her.

I smoothed my hair with a nervous hand and smiled. “How are you?”

“Poor Pericles has a cold. I had to take him to the acupuncturist this morning.” Yes, my mother paid for someone to stick tiny needles in her dog. “In fact, we may have to cut things short today so I can pick him up. Poor baby.”

“I’m sorry to hear he’s sick.” God didn’t even strike me dead when I said that either.

She set the menu aside and tapped her phone laying on the table. “Plus, I’m expecting a phone call from the garden club. The yearly fundraiser is coming up, and I think the board has finally come to its senses and let me head it this year. Last year’s event was so predictable. A garden tea for a garden fundraiser? Really? I think Sarah Ingram called that one in.” Leaning in, she lowered her voice. “Personally, I think Sarah has a bit of a drinking problem.”

A server interrupted to set glasses on the table, for which I was endlessly thankful. I was sure I was about to hear every questionable thing Sarah Ingram had ever done, in alphabetical order.

Although better Sarah was under scrutiny than me.

“There’s an iced tea for you. Unsweetened.” Mom gestured to the drink in front of me.

I swallowed a sigh. Drinking unsweet iced tea, which was basically tinted water, practically demanded I turn in my Texas resident card, move to someplace like California, and start consuming coconut water without irony. I took a sip. “Thanks.”

“I’m glad you arrived before your sister. We need to discuss your job situation.”

“No, we don’t. Everything’s fine. I’ve been doing lots of things around the house, like…” Rearranging my spice cabinet didn’t seem like it would impress her. I let the sentence hang.

“If you just called your father and explained you made a mistake, it could all be worked out.” She patted my hand.

I was still working on a reply when Phee arrived, looking traffic-girl-ready in a form-skimming blue dress only slightly bigger than a band-aid, and matching high heels, hair teased in a way that would make Mimi jealous. A man stopped her as she passed his table, his face splitting in a dazed smile. She chatted him up, laughed at a joke, swatted him playfully on the shoulder.

As I watched, a little girl of perhaps ten approached Phee for a picture. A minute later, an elderly woman in a wheelchair stopped her. Phee crouched and listened, then embraced her. Nowadays she couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized. In fact, lately I’d noticed Phee elicited more attention than Joel Allen. I wonder if that bothered him. I hoped it did.

Phee kissed my mother’s cheek before sliding into her seat. “Sorry about that.”

The waitress arrived and took our orders. Phee ordered a cup of fruit. That was it. I felt my mother’s eyes on me as I ordered a house salad, no croutons or cheese—so basically lettuce, with salad dressing on the side.

“You know, a vinaigrette has seventy calories per tablespoon, and that dressing has twice as much,” Mom said, giving me a pointed look over her glass of tea.

I hated vinaigrette.

I smiled grimly at the waitress and changed to the vinaigrette. My mother nodded in approval.

“You’ll never guess what happened,” Phee said when the waitress left, her eyes bright. She practically bounced in her seat. “You know my producer at work, Chuck? Big guy, always smells a little like pizza?”

I remembered him. Phee set me up on a blind date with him once. She wasn’t lying—he did smell faintly of pizza—pepperoni and onion, to be exact.