Page 120 of Jonesing for a Spy

consistent fraction

Mirren

Cartoon me is pulling a Maria in The Sound of Music twirling on a mountain top. I’m engaged. To be married. To a man I fell into while he was wearing only a towel. We definitely win for most interesting meet-cute—that’s for sure.

Real me can still feel where I got railed by the man, wondering how I got so lucky, and hoping that when they say you just know, the amorphous “they” are right.

I fight with everything in me not to shift or wiggle in my uncomfortable airplane seat. It’s mostly uncomfortable because I’m sitting next to my mom who drones on and on about the op.

She’s a backup. Only a backup. But we both know she’s going to insert herself in the mix at the most inopportune time. She had skills, still does, but if I’d had any other choice, I would’ve taken the option behind door number two, because June Jones is June Jones. Enough said.

“I think I’ll get some shut-eye.” I sure hope that came at the right time in her diatribe. I’m fairly certain she’s trying to figure out how to reorganize the whole plan, assuming I’ll agree.

I close my eyes and turn up the volume on the white noise in my ear buds.

Sleep won’t happen. But I can zone out and consider finishing—okay, fine… starting—my Christmas shopping. This year, I’ll need one extra gift. For my fiancé, no less. I guess I should think about weddings too.

No. Not today. The last thing I need is my head in the clouds.

I even out my breathing, though Mom may not notice or take the bait and let my mind drift.

“So, Mirren, tell me about yourself.” Diane begins micro-planing lemon peel into the mixer full of cookie dough but stops to prompt me. “I just know you’ll be in our lives for a long time. So catch me up.”

“Not much to tell you, Mrs. Anderson⁠—”

“Pish posh”—she slaps a hand through the air—“I’ve already told you to call me Diane. Mrs. Anderson won’t do.”

“Diane.” Why is that so hard for me? “I joined the Army young and had to leave because a knee injury meant I couldn’t participate the way I needed to.” That’s a sanitized version, but it’s the truth, even if it’s just a fraction of the truth. “So I bought a house in my hometown and use it as rental income.” Also a fraction, but it’s the story I’ve sold to everyone so at least it’s a consistent fraction.

“And my Strider was one of your renters?” She turns the mixer back on for a moment.

“Yes, ma’am, but apparently he knew my brother from way back.”

She adds what looks like white chocolate chips and gives the mixer just a second or two to combine.

“Why don’t you leave it running? I’m sure there’s a reason.” I gesture to the KitchenAid appliance that’s surely older than I am and has seen more batches of cookies than I will in a lifetime.

“Early on, you want lots of time. The creaming makes a difference. At the end, it can put too much air in the dough, making it tough. At this point, combining is good; whipping is bad. Do you like to bake?”

“I’m not much of a baker. Hell, I’m not much of an anything, actually. I was too busy until the last year or so. And then, maybe I was depressed… or too focused on recovery. That’s a long way to say no.” My chuckle is met with her laughter.

“I always baked and cooked with my kids. The girls had to learn how to change tires. Strider had to learn all the ‘girl stuff’”—she makes air quotes—“though Jim and I don’t see it that way. Well-rounded humans aren’t limited by sex as to what they can do. Our kids needed to be self-sufficient and capable, whether that was plumbing fixtures, or basic automotive repair, or cooking. Strider had extra time at home of course.” She starts rolling dough into balls when the scale tells her they’re the right weight. Weight!

“Yeah. He’s told me about his condition and his sick days home from school.”

Her hands reach for the bowl but stop as she turns to me. “There were some rough days in there too. Early on, we did everything but wrap him in foam rubber to make sure he wasn’t injured. It’s not hemophilia, but it was too close to risk in our less-educated, younger days. Hell, we were your age probably…” She leaves that hanging, dangling bait for me to fill in the blanks.

“I’m twenty-seven,” I offer.

“Ah. Maybe just a smidge older than you, but yes. What’s a mother to do… throw him to the wolves and let them sort it out?”

I shake my head, but the question wasn’t for me.

She’s lost in the past. Grabbing more dough, she goes back to work. “All we wanted was for our kids to be healthy.” She extends fingers covered in goo to me in a stop gesture. “Don’t hear that like we were upset he was sick. On the contrary, we wanted healthy, happy kids, and where we could aid in his health or happiness, we were going to. Well, that blew up in our faces.” She continues weighing and making cookie balls on a huge sheet tray.

I’d offer to help, but I don’t get that that’s necessary. She’s rather lost in her world, and these small actions are keeping her in the present.

“Now don’t hear me say boys will be boys in any way other than those exact words. Bruised and brave could describe most kids under ten, but for Strider, it was an understatement. If he could’ve gotten away with jumping off the roof, he would have. Riding bikes with no hands was the least of my concerns. Standing on the seat going full speed with absolutely no control—that was my Strider. So when he got to a point where a bruise or a break might kill him…” She stares out the window and into a past that seems to still scare her.