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But soon after a knock follows, and I groan as I hear my mother’s voice again. “Pretend we aren’t here. We can hide.” I get on my hands and knees and go to hide behind the couch when my mother’s voice filters through the door, “I can hear you, Oriana.” She sounds annoyed.
“Sugar,” I fake-swear. I look back to see Simone, still on the floor, eating her pizza. Managing to stand, I walk to the door and reluctantly pull it open. My mother stands there with a large bag in her hand, and a whole pile of disappointment written all over her face.
“You haven’t called.”
“I’ve been busy,” I tell her.
Mother walks in and wraps her arms around me, dropping her bag as she hugs me. “So I’ve heard. It’s why I came to see you.” She hugs me tighter before she lets me go and pulls away. “I see you both are still causing trouble,” she says, looking to Simone, who hasn’t moved from the floor.
“Sorry, Mrs. Lavender.”
I help Simone up as my mother walks into the kitchen and opens the other pizza box, pulling out a slice and eating it quite quickly.
“What’s the plans?” Her eyes fall on me. “Kyler rang me.”
I groan.
How can a man be so distant in a relationship and then, after, be more available than ever? It literally makes no sense. I look to Simone for help, but she goes to the sitting area and flicks on the television totally ignoring me. Typical, when the going gets tough…
When I turn back, my mother has half a brownie in her mouth.
Oh hell…
“You shouldn’t eat that,” I warn.
“Why? It’s amazing. You did good. You must give me the recipe.”
Simone starts laughing, hard, falling to the couch until we can’t see her anymore but we can still hear her.
“You didn’t bake it?” my mother asks, nodding to where Simone is roaring with laughter.
“Mom, that has marijuana baked into it.” I watch the horror cross my mother’s face. Her eyes go wide, and she throws the brownie, glaring at it before she picks up the closest drink, which just so happens to be my wine, and chugs it all.
“You let me eat it,” she accuses.
“Technically, you didn’t ask. You just ate it.” I shrug. “I ate one, and I’m still alive.” I sit back on the floor and lie down again. “I feel just a little tired, like I’m falling through the floor. That’s all I feel.”
Simone keeps on laughing.
My mother gasps as if realization has dawned about something. “Does this make me a druggie? I’ve never had drugs. Oh gosh, what if I become addicted?”
Simone loses it. She is in hysterics.
“I’m sure you won’t,” I tell her at the same time Simone yells between her hysterics, “Drugs are bad, kids, you get addicted.”
It’s the same wording my mother used to say to us as children.
“Simone,” my mother yells. Holding the bottle of wine, she lies down next to me. “The floor is nice and cold.”
“It is,” I agree.
“And my daughter is getting divorced,” Mom says.
“I am,” I whisper.
“Are you happy?”
“Right now, she is,” Simone yells.
