Stories From The 6 Train 2(62)

I didn't grow up with a father, and my mother, well… let’s just say that she went through men faster than kids go through a bag of Halloween candy. She was actually my stepmother because my biological mother died in childbirth. And then my Dad married her before he apparently left. That left Lorna taking care of me and she had a new flavor of man every year, and sometimes even quicker than that—I think the record was two weeks, and believe me, there have been more flavors than I can count. I stopped keeping score.

She fucked them over each and every time.

Like Duke, a master dive instructor from Fiji—or was it Tahiti?—whose skin felt almost leathery from being in saltwater a good majority of his life. Mom managed to pick him up on one of her so-called "work" events although I doubt much work was happening, and while I admit he wasn't terribly bad on the eyes, his personality was lacking—maybe all that saltwater pickled his brain—and it quickly became apparent that he couldn't handle the pace of city life.

Then there was Ben, the epitome of big city living. He was a Wall Street guy with a penchant for talking above everyone in a room—literally, his voice drowned out anything around it as if he was perpetually screaming. He could never get off of his phone either.

I swear, we'd be eating and he'd take the call with a mouth full of food. He'd be talking and I'd watch in disgust as bits of ravioli, or buttery flakes of crab leg meat—or whatever it was that we were eating—dangled from his lips. He's the kind of guy you'd find "manspreading" on a crowded subway, where men feel like they can spread their legs wide open and take two seats instead of one. Like they were born to do it. What did mom ever see in that guy? What did she see in any of them really?

They were like playthings for her. For her, the thrill was in the hunt, and once she had them … and got what she needed from them … I'd watch as that spark slowly faded from her eyes. It was all so predictable. Needless to say, she got bored easily. You could always tell when she started to get bored with a guy—her heels got flatter and the hemline of her dresses grew longer.

I guess none of that matters, except to say that when it comes to my mom, I've always felt invisible. She was too busy chasing men to do the things that normal mothers do, like go to their kids' school functions, or pack a lunch with one of those cute little hand-written notes on a napkin that say something like, "Have a great day, sweetie, Love, Mom."

Honestly, that's the last thing my mom would ever do. But whatever, I'm sure you're bored to tears hearing about all of this, so I'll spare you.

I walk up the steps leading to my mother's townhouse. The front door is red—the "perfect accent" she calls it. I fumble through the pockets of my purse and realize that I must've left my keys back at the office by mistake, so I take a deep breath and I knock.

I instantly hear the click of my mother's heels against the fancy hardwood floor of the foyer. By the rapid sound of her steps, she seems to be in one of her moods that can only be described as a hyper Chihuahua. Did you know that Chihuahuas are one of the most vicious dogs on the planet? You're laughing, but it's true. They may be small and full of nervous energy, but they've got a whole lot of bite. That sort of sums up my mother. While she's petite—and men always want to pet her—she has enough energy to fill a room, or scare the shit out of it.

"It's about time," she says, opening the door and looking at me with her hands on her hips. Her eyes are judging me from all angles. She's wearing a black dress with a particularly short hemline and I wonder what new man she's chasing.

"It's nice to see you too mom," I say. See? I told you. There's no warmth from that woman. Ever.

"Don't give me that look, Becca. Dinner is scheduled for 7, and you're late."

I look at my watch. I'm literally late by three minutes. Honestly, it's such a negligible difference that it's not worth arguing with her about, and she wouldn't care to hear about how busy I was at Kane Price, so I drop it and try to lighten the mood.

"The table looks nice," I say, walking into our formal dinning room. And I mean it. She's managed to set up an extravagant flower arrangement in the center. "What are those, orchids? Are they real?"

"Yes, don't touch them. They're also rare."

She's such a spaz sometimes. I wasn't even considering touching them, so I don't know why she even bothered saying that. I realize what the orchids remind me of. They're the color of unripe bananas—not quite yellow, but not quite green either. I have to say, they definitely make a statement by how unusual they look.

"If only you gave everything as much attention as you do to your flower arrangements," I say with the roll of my eyes.