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“You look nice.”
Alanna turned. Her mother sat on the sofa wearing pink fuzzy pajama pants and an old t-shirt featuring a picture of two smiling Smurfs. The words across the top of the shirt were so faded they were barely legible. But Alanna knew what the shirt said.
Smurf you later!
Alanna hated that shirt with a fury Petunia could only dream of rousing inside of her. She remembered the exact day her mother had pulled the big, ill-fitting item of clothing from a donation bin at the homeless shelter.
“Ha! Smurf you later. Isn’t that funny?”her mom had said.She’d worn that god-awful thing nearly every week to her housecleaning gigs. And here it was, still in the rotation after all this time.
Alanna felt sick. That shirt represented grinding struggle and the humiliation so often forced upon those in its grasp. And didn’t Alanna always give her mother plenty of money over the holidays and for her birthday? Her mom had more than enough to buy herself a nice wardrobe. In fact, Alanna had offered, no, practically begged to take her mother clothes shopping on one of Dede’s few trips to LA.
So, why still wear the shirt? Why proudly bear the reminder of their hardship?
“That’s an old shirt,” Alanna said, her voice stiff.
Her mother looked down at herself and smiled. “Oh, yes. I like this one. It’s comfortable.” She gazed at Alanna, her blue eyes warm. Her long silver-gold hair and the deep laugh lines etched around her mouth gave her an aura of gentle wisdom.
“You really do look nice. You were always such a good dresser,” her mother said. “I remember when you used to cut the tags out of your clothes when you were growing up. Remember that?” Her mom chuckled.
“I remember,” Alanna answered softly. Her mother didn’t have to say the rest; that Alanna cut out those tags because she was embarrassed by the off-brand clothes offered at Goodwill where they shopped… when they could even afford to buy clothes.
Alanna took a breath, forcing those memories away.
Her mom held a pewter mug of tea between her hands, the black brace a prominent reminder of her recent injury. Alanna noticed her mother’s red, swollen knuckles. After speaking to her mom’s primary care physician, Alanna had managed to snag a referral to a rheumatologist. That appointment was next week and couldn’t come soon enough.
“Are you going out on a date?” Hope hitched in her mother’s voice.
Alanna almost laughed. “I don’t think any of the guys in town are quite my style.”
Though Mr. Guy Next Door at the winery might have made for a nice play date,she thought.He’d certainly been cute enough with those brown puppy dog eyes and that strong jaw.Too bad she’d doused that chance… literally.
“I know it’s none of my business, but I’d love to see you find a nice guy,” her mom said.
Alanna’s smile tightened. Hadn’t Chip Rupert the Third said the same thing to her? Alanna rounded the couch and pecked a kiss into her mother’s pale hair. “Mom, I love you, but never gonna happen. Now, I gotta go meet some crazy cat ladies.”
“What?” her mom asked as Alanna strolled through the front door.
*
Phew.Alanna had half expected the meeting address to take her to a decrepit mansion, possibly with a woodchipper prominently peeking out from the back yard. Instead, she drove Stella through a pleasant neighborhood dotted with small, cottage-like houses. Some of the houses had obviously been remodeled, but others were pure classics. Built in the 60s and 70s and still going strong.
She squinted out the windshield, trying to find the right house. A few houses prominently displayed their street number on the edge of a driveway or the side of a mailbox, but many didn’t.
Alanna pulled her Mercedes GT up to the curb. According to her GPS app, she had arrived, but which of the side-by-side houses was it? Neither showed visible street numbers. The house in front of her car didn’t even have a mailbox.
She eyed the two houses. It had to be the second house. Sagging roof, porch railing missing several pegs, and a lawn that had given up the ghost several decades ago. Yup, it had crazy cat house written all over it. If anyone ever started aBad Housekeepingmagazine, this place was centerfold material.
Lights shone through the windows and a dented, rusty SUV sat in the driveway practically begging for the scrap yard. Someone was home. Alanna glanced at her phone. She was a few minutes early. Taking a deep breath, she shoved open Stella’s door and stepped onto the curb. The night was warm, and a lone owl hooted in the distance. Clutching her purse tightly to her side, Alanna navigated the cracked driveway.
She was really doing this. Alanna Sandoval was joining a crazy cat lady club.
Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
The thought infuriated her. Jutting out her chin, Alanna marched up the creaky porch steps and pounded on the door.
After a long pause, the door swung open.
“I’m here for the Crazy Cat Lady Club,” she announced.
