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She turned and looked at me, the spatula in her hand. “I love you,” she said. “Go put some socks on.”
“It’s a million degrees outside,” I said.
“I don’t care. Sickness comes in through the feet.”
She put the spatula down and reached into the cabinet under the sink, emerging with a pair of clean, white tennis socks wrapped in plastic. You would think she had had to be kidding, but of course, she wasn’t. She looked at me imploringly until I reached over and took the socks from her. Then she went back to her pancakes, flipping the soft batter over.
“Have you ever heard of using peanut butter to fry something instead of oil? It’s really good. It gives it a sweet taste.”
“Can we skip the crazy talk this morning?” she asked, not turning around, just motioning with the spatula for me to cover my feet.
I did what I was told, pulling the first sock on.
“So,” she said, “someone left the dinner a little early last night, yes? Tell me. Do we like Mr. Silverman?”
“We are too busy thinking about running into Matt.”
She turned and looked at me carefully. “Really?”
I nodded. “At the 7-Eleven last night,” I said. “Kind of near the Slurpee machine. I tried to hide, but, you know I tend to be a little less than quick on my feet.”
She leaned across the counter, reaching for my hand, uncharacteristically not saying anything, which was a good thing. Because if she asked even one other question, I’d have to tell her about his son. I’d have to tell her my heart still seized up at the sight of him, and that I was supposed to see him again tonight. Go through it again tonight. I’d have to tell her the whole story, which I couldn’t begin to get a handle on yet.
“He’s moving to Paris in a couple of weeks,” I offered instead. “He’s looking for a job there now.”
Her eyes stared back at me, small and worried. It was the look she reserved for when she was too worried to even say she was worried. I hated seeing it. I hated doing anything but making her happy. “I’m okay, Mom,” I said. “Really. I just wanted you to know what was going on.”
“Which is what?”
I thought of what Matt had said yesterday about wanting me with him, how that, again, could actually be possible. Maybe more possible than ever,
more possible than it even was years ago, because he was ready for it too. He was certain.
“Nothing,” I said.
She nodded, even though I knew she didn’t believe me. Even though I could feel her wanting to say something else. Only before she could even decide whether to, we were interrupted by my ringing telephone. MERYL. Cell.
She looked down at the caller ID so she could see too. “You’re not going to get that?”
“I’m getting it,” I said. But I didn’t make a move to yet, trying to decide what I could say to Meryl to sound the most like myself—the most like a version of myself she’d recognize.
So my mother did it for me. “She’s right here, love,” she said to Meryl, looking at me. “I’ll hand you over.”
I took the phone reluctantly, trying to smile at her as I did, looking totally unsuspicious. I was fairly sure I hadn’t pulled it off. But she returned to the stove anyway, just as I put the phone to my ear.
“Hey there,” I said into the receiver. “How’s the bride?”
“Good,” Meryl said.
But her voice came out quiet, sad, as if she were anything but. In the sound of it, the image of Dr. Moynihan-Richards standing in the dark came swimming back to me. Maybe he’d told her what he heard. Maybe she was sad because she now knew.
“Bess just planned this awful beauty day for me, at the hotel pre-wedding,” she said. “Like a really bad surprise. Or just her attempt to distract me from the fact that it’s two million degrees outside.” She paused. “I was hoping you’d come in and keep me company.”
I looked at the clock. It was only 9:45. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the entire day with Meryl—in case everything came up, or in case nothing did. Either way I’d feel terrible. I wasn’t the one being dishonest with Meryl. Only now I was the one being dishonest with Meryl.
“What time were you thinking?” I asked.
“How’s twenty minutes ago?”
