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CHAPTER2
AUTUMN
“Mom,listen. It’s going to be fine,” I repeat for the dozenth time.
“Honey, it’s so far!” Mom frets. “New York was far enough, and I worry so much. At least you have Nora there, but France is on the other side of the world! And you don’t know anyone there. You don’t even speak French! How are you going to make do or expect to win?”
She’s a bit hysterical but hitting all my worry points too. Like the fact that I don’t speak French, though a quick Google search told me that a few phrases in French go a long way in creating some goodwill with locals, who might then be willing to speak English if they’re able. I’ve already downloaded an app to start learning and another to do translations.
“I’m gonna be fine. This is an amazing opportunity for me,” I tell her, wishing she could understand what this means to me. She’s supportive, or she wants to be, but sometimes her fears come through in ways that sting and hurt. My dreams are so much more than hers ever were, and she has a difficult time relating.
I want to be more than just another Masshole. I want more than a nice, boring husband, two-point-five nice, boring kids, a nice, boring, hypoallergenic dog, and a job at the local theater doing costume design, which was Mom’s grand suggestion to fulfill my designing dreams after I shot down being a specialty bridal tailor. That’s her dream for me—a combination of her hopes and my fashion interest. But that would never be enough for me.
I’ve never said it quite so succinctly because I know it would hurt her feelings. It’s all she wanted and all she got, after all. A happy marriage with my dad... me... right down to our Goldendoodle, Graham Cracker. With my dad’s death and my moving off to New York, I know Mom’s lonely now. She’s got Graham to snuggle with, but it’s not the same.
I have second thoughts... about everything. Maybe I should take a trip home to check on Mom, see how she’s doing? We could eat lobster rolls, and I could visit some of my high school friends because fuck knows, they’re all still there.
I’m one of a handful of kids from my high school class who escaped the black hole of small-town New England life. Did anyone there think I would make it in New York at FIT? Probably not. They likely thought, like Mom, that I’d go to school and putz around with my ‘dress thing’ and then meet someone who’d give me a M-R-S hookup, and that would be that.
“Mom, are you okay? Do you need me to come home?” I ask hesitantly. There’s a deep, dark pit in my belly praying she says no, but if she truly needs me, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. Even give up this once in a lifetime opportunity, though the very idea pains me.
I want to see the world, learn everything I can, and experience things beyond the two-lane road I learned to drive on. And I’ve thrived in New York City doing just that, and I have no doubt that I will do the same in Paris. I won’t quit until that’s the case, willing to put in whatever work it takes to win this competition.
Mom sighs heavily. “No. I’m fine. Work’s stressing me out, but busy is better than no business. I just worry, honey.”
We’re both quiet for a moment. She knows I need her permission to go. Not because she controls me or anything like that—I’m an adult and do what I please—but because I’d like her blessing to chase this dream as far as I can go. I want her at my back, cheering me on because she’s the best damn cheerleader there is, even better than Nora.
She’s my mom.
“Okay, fine. Go toParisthen.” She makes it sound like I’m going to Guantanamo Bay or the frozen tundra of Antarctica. “Send pictures, though—of the Eiffel Tower, that museum with the pyramid outside, and that big arch thing.”
I laugh to myself, knowing that she’s well aware of the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe. “I will, Mom. Thanks.”
“I love you, Autumn.” She sounds choked up as she adds, “I am so damn proud of you.”
I needed to hear that more than I realized. “Love you too, Mom.”
Blessing given, we spend a few minutes talking about life in my hometown. The Apple-Sauce-ing committee is gearing up for this year’s festival, and word is, they’re adding an apple butter contest, so Mom’s working on a new recipe. “I don’t care who wins, as long as it’s not that old biddy Patricia Wilkins.”
“Mom, you and Patty used to be friends,” I remind her.
“Not anymore. Did I tell you what she did to my perennials? She walked her dog by the flower beds, stopped so he could do his business, and sprinkled fertilizer right on them, pretty as you please. Took two days of good weather before I had sun burns on my flowers. So I don’t care who wins the apple butter competition, as long as it’s not her.”
Mom sounds put out, but her level of anger is about on par with ninety percent of the riders on the subway each day... annoyed, but not homicidal. Hell, I was probably more exasperated this morning at being blockaded by that guy on the phone.
“Well, I’m sure if you work on your recipe, she won’t win,” I reassure Mom. “I have lots of packing and prep work to do, so I should probably go.”
We say our goodbyes, with my promise of a text from the airport in New York, the airport in Paris, the hotel in Paris, and when I figure out my schedule. It’s the least I can do so she doesn’t worry about my flying over the Atlantic, apparently.
* * *
“Oh, my God, what was that?”
I jerk awake with a start before realizing it’s the same woman who’s been disrupting the entire flight for the last few hours. She warned everyone in a three-row radius that she has severe flight anxiety, and I completely understand that. However, every time she shouts, my heart jumps into my throat and I have to fight back the anxiety along with her.
Thankfully, the slight turbulence has already settled.
The nervous woman doesn’t seem to be affecting my seatmate. Before we even began taxiing down the runway, he reached across me to shut the window shade, pulled a mask over his eyes, and began snoring. And now, he’s so deep in slumber that his head has fallen back, his mouth is hanging open, and his turkey neck is vibrating with every grumbly snort.
