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“So, how exactly are you going to introduce me?” asks Brinley, standing next to me on the covered porch. She looks worried, and a little anxious, and there’s a part of me that’s enjoying the fact that she’s completely out of her element here.
I bet she’s shitting herself that I’m going to introduce her to my mother asthe girl who’s about to destroy my career, or better yet, as thelying little snake who thinks I’ve stolen her lyrics.
But I don’t plan on doing either of those things.
I may have an ulterior motive for bringing her here, but I’m not about to throw her under the bus. Not yet, anyway.
The front door swings open before I can answer her, and my mother beams so brightly that I swear passing traffic swerves out of the way to miss the reflection.
“Hey, baby,” she says. “Come in out of the cold. It’s so good to see you. I have dinner all ready.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I kiss her cheek and then step back. “This is my friend, Brinley.” I don’t know if my grin is genuine or if it’s a result of the look of sheer relief that just washed over Brinley’s face. “Brin, this is my mom, Ruth.”
“Hi.” Brinley’s small wave is totally adorable, and yet it reeks of nervous tension. I fucking love it. “I hope it’s alright I came over. Reed said you wouldn’t mind. We brought cheesecake.”
“Of course,” she says, waving us both inside the house. “The more, the merrier, I always say. I’ve got plenty to go around. And that’s very kind of you. Come in, come in.”
My mom closes the door behind us, and I’m instantly engulfed in the reassuring sweet smells of home–candles and disinfectant, coffee and love, and everything I remember from my childhood.
“I’m so glad you brought a friend for dinner, Reed,” she continues, hobbling into the living room, holding the back of the couch for balance as she manoeuvres herself around the furniture. “Dinner is waiting for us in the oven.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
I stand back and watch Brinley walk cautiously through my mother’s house, gripping the cheesecake box tightly in her hands like her life depends on it, past the overstuffed armchairs in the cramped living area. Faded carpet covers the floors, and a plethora of family photographs hang on the walls.
The tiny kitchen is at the very back of the house, and the whole time I watch on from behind, so that way I don’t miss the exact moment Brinley Thomas realizes that my mother only has one leg.
Yes, she has a prosthetic that she uses most days, and most of the time, she’s very adept at getting around without assistance. But after a long day on her feet, she often takes the prosthetic off, and just as I expected her to be, at this time of night, she’s using her walking stick and the furniture for balance as she limps around.
And that, right there, folks, is the sole reason I brought Brinley with me tonight.
Sick and twisted. Yes.
But a guy has to do what he has to do.
“I love your outfit, Brinley,” says Mom, hobbling into the kitchen. She uses the counter to rest her hip against while she stirs a pot simmering on the stove. “That look is all the rage these days. Did you distress those jeans yourself?”
Fiddling nervously with the fringing on her thighs, Brinley nods. “Yes, I did actually. I can never find them just the way I like, so I figured I’d just do it myself.”
“Good for you,” says Mom, smiling sweetly at the complete stranger who’s now standing rather awkwardly in the middle of her kitchen. But that’s my mom for you. She’s just a good person through and through, and she always has been. She’s totally accepting of everyone.
I’ve brought Brinley into her home, she knows she can trust her, because she trusts me. And for a split second, I feel a twinge of guilt pulling at my chest, because perhaps my intentions weren’t entirely honest or pure bringing her here.
I want something from her. And I want it for selfish reasons. Does that make me a bad person?
The jury is still out.
Literally.
“What do you do for a living, Brinley? I bet it’s something artsy,” my mom says as she moves around the kitchen, taking a potholder from the hook. She taps her finger against her pursed lips as she thinks, eyeing Brinley up and down. “A fashion designer? Or a sculptor? Oh, oh, I know… you’re a poet. Am I right?”
I open the refrigerator and take out the butter. “She’s a musician, Mom,” I tell her, placing the butter on the table beside a basket of bread rolls. “She plays guitar. And she’s a songwriter.” I try not to put too much sarcastic emphasis on the wordsongwriter,but I can’t help myself, and gauging by the sharp look I just got from Brinley, she certainly didn’t miss my not-so-subtle jibe.
“Can I help you with anything, Ruth?” Brinley asks politely, trying her hardest to ignore me.
“No, honey. I’m fine.” My mother takes a casserole dish out of the oven and places it down on a cutting board, lifting the lid so the steam can escape. “So, you two know each other through music?” she asks, and the delicious aroma of chicken cacciatore instantly fills the entire kitchen. Mom turns her back on me, balancing the hot lid in her hands, but she wobbles slightly, and I rush across the kitchen and take it from her.
“Jesus, Mom!” I place the lid down carefully into the sink. “You gotta be more careful doing stuff like that. You’re going to end up hurting yourself, and I won’t be here to help you when it happens.” I shake my head and blow out a hard breath.
