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“Your mother has done more for my family than we can ever repay.”
Her words make my stomach tighten. My mother’s generosity is a big reason I’ve never had the one thing I can’t live without. “Yeah.”
“I’d better go check on Ms. Jessica. You coming by the house later?”
Her question makes me jump. It’s like she’s reading my mind or something. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Another hug, and I’m out the door, walking to my car. The sun is dipping toward the horizon, and the darker it grows, the tighter my insides twist.
It’s the same every year at this time, the same old memory, the same tension in my chest. I won’t sleep tonight. I’ll do my best to eat and smile and be brave around my mom, but only one person holds me together. When everyone goes to bed, I know where I’ll be headed.
And I’ll regret it like I always do, because it won’t change a damn thing.
“How was work?” Ma opens the Cruset pot on the stove and the tomatoey-licious aroma of marinara hits my nose. I snag a piece of bread and hurry to dip it, but she swats me away. “Don’t mess up my sauce!”
“Ow!” I rub my hand frowning. “I just wanted a taste.”
Ma is the quintessential Italian mother. She’s shorter than me, rounder than me, bossy as hell, and cooks like nobody’s business.
She likes to say how when she moved to Harristown years ago with my Scotch-Irish dad, she was referred to as “the dark one.” She laughs about how intimidated she was by their prejudice.
I don’t believe it.
My mom has never been anything but fierce.
“Tell me about your day. What happened at work?” She shoves a glossy-black sausage curl behind her ear.
I stomp over to pour myself a glass of wine from the decanter. “You know everything that happens at my work.”
“It’s called making conversation, Melinda Claire. Now, tell me about your day.”
“Let’s see…” I pop the un-sauced bread in my mouth, and sip my wine, thinking of what she doesn’t know. “Around lunchtime I caught Mr. Hebert sneaking into Ms. Turner’s room—after he’d just left Ms. Wilson’s room. That two-timing old goat’s going to get busted, and who knows if they’re even practicing safe sex.”
“What is this?” M
a’s eyes widen in horror. “You think I want to hear that?”
I shrug. “I was making conversation.”
“Let’s stick to topics that won’t make me barf in my mouth.”
“You’re being very old-school.” I take another sip of wine. “Elder sex is a beautiful thing… Provided the old ladies are getting their lube and the men have plenty of Viagra. Otherwise, it’s just a floppy, dry mess—”
Ma’s brow lowers, and she gives me The Look. “I will wash your mouth out with soap. And Mr. Hebert’s, too…”
I make a whatever face. “Mr. Grady wants to hold a senior beauty pageant to coincide with the Peach Festival this year, sponsored by Grady’s Used Cars, of course…”
“That man…” She waves her hand as she stirs. “He is always trying to find a way to sell cars.”
“Mrs. Irene says my aura is pure gold right now…”
She looks me up and down. “You look the same to me.”
“Maybe if you were blind you’d see my golden aura.”
“Maybe Mrs. Irene can see the sun.”
Mrs. Irene is my favorite eighty-something, blind mystic. “She says I’m illuminated and inspired.”
