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Otto—like his mom—shares the same inability to follow the rules. He’s at the top of the stairs, peeking, but now he comes barreling down. I want to chastise him (I told you to stay in the bathroom!), but my energy reserves are depleted, and my weak heart melts when he runs into his grandma’s arms for a big hug.
“Oh, my snug-a-bug—I’ve missed you, darling.” She puts her mug on the ground and crouches to hug him tightly. As she pets the back of his head, she half whispers to me (as though he can’t hear her), “I thought we talked about the grandma title? What’s wrong with G-ma Pearl?”
“G-ma makes you sound like you’re in a gang.”
Her eyes flicker over me, mouth curled downward disapprovingly. “Apparently, not far from the truth.”
I throw up my hands. “I’m making coffee.”
After the initial shock of nearly beating my mother to death with a lamp, we settle down and catch up.
Pearl has been living on the Upper West Side in Manhattan, in an apartment she got divorced-into. That’s how we say it these days—divorced-into, instead of married-into. It’s how I’m staying on Hannsett, after all; after her divorce to Four, aka Terry, she claimed as part of her settlement his beach house. She’s been renting it for years, but winters are rough, and I needed a place to stay, so—voilà.
The guy with the Christmas tree, by the way? Totally lived. Plus, made off with a large tip. Apparently, Pearl hired him to help her lug the tree across the ferry and into our house. It’s a four-foot fir, and we tucked it into the living room by the television. The top is a bit bent from crashing down, but hey. That’s Christmas.
Pearl picked up an assortment of baked goods on the way over, and Otto chomps down on half a cinnamon roll in front of the television as Pearl and I sit at the coffee table, warming our hands on the coffee mugs.
She’s as glamorous as ever—underneath the coat, she’s wearing a Christmas-green dress with fringe around the hem and thick, black stockings and gloves. Meanwhile, I still haven’t brushed my hair or my teeth, and I’m in an oversized sleep shirt and boys boxers. How I came out of her womb, I’ll never understand.
“What did you think of the deliveryman?” Pearl asks conspiratorially and then wiggles her eyebrows. “I gave him my number.”
I blow on my coffee. “A little young for you, isn’t he? Does he own a yacht?”
“At my age, I’m not looking for yachts. I’m looking for biceps. Someone who can carry my groceries and rub my feet.”
I’m not going to lie, access to foot rubs is actually the best argument I’ve heard for marriage in a long time. I can’t remember the last time my little piggies did anything other than scream at me.
“Question number two,” I add, “how did you know I was here?”
She shrugs. “I’m your mother. It’s my job to know everything about you.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay.”
“For example.” She taps my phone and slides it across the table. “I know that you’re avoiding dinner with two men who would like very much to see you.”
I snatch my phone. “Do. Not. Read my texts.”
She lets out a labored sigh. “It was an accident! Your phone has been off the hook—you’re very popular. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t any sort of emergency, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh.” I don’t buy it, but what can I do? I’m not about to babysit my mother—not when I have an actual child who needs my attention.
My attention drifts. Otto laughs at something on the television and sucks icing from his fingers.
“You should go have dinner with them,” she presses. “You used to be such good friends, the three of you.”
“Yeah. When we were teenagers.”
“So you’ll have a lot to catch up on! When was the last time you had a little fun? Just you?”
Forever ago.
“Can’t,” I say. “We have too much to do. I have to stock the fridge. Unpack. Make dinner. And, apparently, now I have to find something to decorate the tree with.”
“What are you making?”
“Salmon and broccoli.”
“Otto, darling,” my mother calls out, “what would you like for dinner tonight? Salmon and broccoli or pizza?”
