Takeoffs and Landings(11)

Mom went on and on, in that strange, folksy, down-home voice. Then she stopped and looked out at the crowd, waiting for the laughter to die down. When everyone was silent, she shrugged and said, “Now, that’s just silly, isn’t it?”

The whole room burst into laughter again, as if everyone was just waiting for another chance to be silly together.

These bankers must not get out much, Lori thought.

“But, you know,” Mom continued in a more serious tone. Even her drawl flattened out a little. “For all that we keep saying time is money, we all really know it isn’t. The problem is, we seem to have forgotten that money isn’t time, either.”

She paused, letting her words sink in.

“I have five kids. Back when I had three of them in diapers all at the same time—and usually all dirty at the same time, too, I might add—there were some days when I thought I’d need about five more of me just to take care of my own children. Money wasn’t in very great supply back then either, so I didn’t often have the option of hiring someone else to take care of my kids for me. I’m not holding myself up as some sort of saint here—there were times when I would have paid every penny I had just to have someone else get my daughter Lori ready for church. When she was two, she was an escape artist when it came to clothes. No sooner would I have the last button on her dress buttoned, and turned around to keep the baby from chewing the bow tie off his collar, than I’d turn around again and Lori would have stripped entirely. The dress, her tights, and even that frilly white underwear would be lying in a heap on the floor, and she’d be dancing around naked, ready to run out the door.” Mom grinned. “My husband was a little concerned about what sort of career possibilities she was getting inclined toward.”

The bankers laughed again, uproariously. The sound swelled in Lori’s ears. Her face burned. This was what Mom had been talking about, all these years, all across the country? Making fun of Lori? How dare she.

Lori couldn’t stand to listen to another word. She got up and rushed for the door. She was glad now that nobody at their table knew who she was.

The tears were already swarming along her eyelids, but she kept her eyes open wide so none of them would start spilling over until she was alone. She hurried across the glitzy lobby she’d been so impressed with before and stabbed the elevator button. Seventeen. They were on floor seventeen. . . . Only sixteen more floors to go.

Fortunately, the elevator was empty, and Lori let herself sniffle as soon as the door closed. Lori felt so ashamed. Had people seen her leaving? Did they know she was Mom’s daughter? Did anyone think, Well, there’s the little striptease artist now?

Probably they laughed even harder, if they knew.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Just a right turn and a left turn, and then Lori would be safely back in her room, and she could cry and cry and cry, all she wanted.

Lori was at the door of room 1709 before she remembered: She didn’t have a key.





Chuck had never known.

Mom—his mother—was incredible. For the first seven years of his life, she’d been just Mom, making meat loaf, checking his homework, reminding him to wear his jacket when it rained. And then, after that, after the accident, when they moved in with Gram and Pop, she was still just Mom when she was around. She just wasn’t around as much.

He’d known she gave speeches. He’d known she gave a lot of them. But he hadn’t known she was like an actress up there, getting people to laugh just by screwing up her nose and making a face. He hadn’t known she could make a whole room quiet just by standing still and waiting. And he hadn’t known she was so smart. She was talking about time and money and banks like—well, like she didn’t even come from Pickford County.

Chuck was so proud.

He sat tall in his squishy banquet chair. He forgot that the banquet meal had been so small and that he was still hungry. He forgot that neither Lori nor anyone else at their table had spoken to him for the entire meal. He was in awe.

“I have five kids,” Mom said, and Chuck felt a little jolt of surprise. It was almost like he’d forgotten she was Mom. But of course she was talking about him and Lori and Joey and Mike and Emma. It was almost like they were famous, too.

Mom told a funny story about Lori when she was two, how she always took her clothes off as soon as Mom got her dressed for church on Sunday mornings. The entire banquet hall was laughing—as Pop would put it, fit to split their pants.

“You had to admire her persistence,” Mom said with a shrug and a smile, like she’d been proud of Lori even though she’d been exasperated.