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I gasped.
They wouldn’t give me no one, would they?
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked, leaning over the table where we were sitting. We were at her favorite table at Ohlala for our monthly lunch date. There was a fern behind her. A fountain behind me. It was making me have to pee. “Is it your ankle?”
“No. My ankle is fine.” Which was a lie. Despite the ice and heat and the aspirin and the staying off it and not wearing a pair of decent shoes, my ankle was not getting better. Wrapped in a bandage it was aching right now. I’d been wearing cowboy boots almost every day because it hid the bandage and kept it tight. Do you know how hard it is to wear cowboy boots? Every. Day? Harder than it looks. Whole lot of denim.
“I was just at the doctor’s this morning.”
“Did you get a cortisone shot?” my mother asked.
“No, Mom. The doctor—”
“Well, there’s your problem.”
“Mom,” I sighed.
“In my day, the dance captain gave you the shot and a couple of pills and the show went on.” She was wearing my white jacket, which she’d borrowed last year and never gave back, with a turquoise shell underneath it. Bright yellow earrings and a pair of white skinny jeans with stilettos that matched the earrings.
Wasn’t there a rule about moms and stilettos. As in, they shouldn’t?
I was wearing cowboy boots, my tiniest pink shorts with the rhinestones along the pocket, and a tank top that covered my belly button, because this restaurant apparently had rules.
Ohlala was Mom’s favorite restaurant. She said it was because of the ambiance, but I was sure it was because the manager always hit on her, even though he was my age. And I got the impression this wasn’t just idle flirting, because he didn’t do it with me. No, this haircut with the fake French accent wanted to bang my mom.
In a lot of ways I didn’t blame the guy. She was the kind of beautiful that made sixty look like thirty. That made love look cold.
“Mom,” I said. “In the five minutes you were working, the girls were paid less than minimum wage and had to strip to make ends meet.”
“Don’t you disrespect those girls.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not. But give me a paid sick leave any day of the week.”
“I can’t believe you went hiking,” Mom said for the millionth time since I rolled my ankle out at Red Rocks.
“Mom, that’s like saying you can’t believe I went walking.”
“Exactly.”
“Excuse me,” I said, lifting my hand to catch our server’s eye. “I’m going to need a double vodka soda, rail is fine. Tall glass, four limes. Lots of ice.”
“Honey,” my mother said when the server walked away. “It’s barely noon.”
“Well, I’m not working, so why not? Did you want one?”
“Heavens no. There are 106 extra calories in that glass, honey.” She looked at me like I’d ordered infant’s blood in a tall glass.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
“Suit yourself,” she said and leaned back in the brown-and-cream wicker chair. “Our lunch seems to be taking a long time, doesn’t it? Must be the frites you ordered.”
That wasn’t even subtle. Her eyes practically rolled back in her head when I ordered them.
Mom ordered the same thing every time we came here. Soup, as long as it had no meat or cream. And the frisée salad with a poached egg.
The most expensive and unpleasant salad to eat. Classic Mom.
“Marsha will not let you wear the backpack if you gain ten pounds.”
This was true. Marsha was team captain and there were twenty beautiful girls behind me who would kill for my backpack. I was a member of the Palace dancers and we were a pretty big deal. A lot of the big showgirl numbers had closed down over the years. Thank you, Cirque. But we were kind of a retro attraction. A year ago, when I landed the gig, it had felt like I’d made it. And all the chafed nipples and the blisters and strained calf muscles were worth it.
And then I sprained my ankle two weeks ago.
You know what you can’t do with a sprained ankle?
Kick line in high heels with a fifty-pound backpack strapped to your shoulders with five-foot wings on either side. And what I wasn’t going to tell my mom was that I had one more week of paid leave and then Marsha had told me we would “reassess” after the holidays.
You know what reassess means?
Yeah, me neither, but it felt like I wasn’t going to get my job back and it was stressing me out. This morning I found a pimple. A swear to god pimple.
Lord, where was that drink.
“How are you doing, Mom?” I asked, getting her off her favorite subject—me. And putting it on her second-favorite subject—her.
“Oh, fine, thank you for asking.” She sat back, ran a hand over her flawless dark hair. “I was thinking of signing up for one of those apps.”
