The One & Only(133)

“I believe you,” I finally whispered, my knees weak. “I believe in you.”

“Well, that’s a start,” he said. “That’s a really good start.”





Forty





The following morning, my mother called and demanded that I come over, right away, complaining of chest pains. So I raced to her house, finding her in her bathroom, wearing one of her many silk robes while putting on individual false eyelashes that she wore nearly every day, no special occasion needed.

“How could you do this?” she shouted when I walked in, spinning away from the counter to face me. I hoped that she was referring to my breakup with Ryan, which I had informed her of via email, but had the feeling that Lucy had spoken to her about last night.

“How could I do what?” I said, cursing myself for believing her wolf crying.

“Clive,” she said, shaking her head.

“So you don’t have chest pains?”

“I have severe heartache, that’s what I have. I honestly thought I raised you better than this.”

“Oh, please, Mom,” I said, steeling myself for the onslaught to come. “Stop overreacting. You don’t even know the facts here.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, missy! Lucy called me. I know the whole story!” she said.

“What’s the ‘whole story’?” I said, making air quotes.

“That you and Clive have a … thing.”

“A thing. Right,” I said, determined not to discuss anything with my mother. This might be Lucy’s business, but it wasn’t hers.

“Lucy’s your best friend, Shea. She’s like your sister,” my mom said, using tweezers to pluck another lash out of the white plastic packet. It occurred to me that everything about her was contrived, one big stage direction after another, her anger quieting to a dead calm when she needed to get a lash in place. “This is just wrong. Completely and totally wrong!”

“You’re just jealous,” I mumbled—because part of me believed there was some truth to that. If someone was going to do a little widower rescuing, it should have been her. And talk about the ultimate in copycatting; if she had Clive, she could really be Connie.

“It is so wrong!”

“How is it wrong, Mom? Tell me how love can be wrong?”

I knew I sounded like a naïve, love-struck teenager, but it occurred to me that sometimes naïve, love-struck teenagers have it all figured it out, and their small-minded, judgmental mothers have it all wrong. Especially the kind who continue to apply false lashes during a supposed crisis.

“It’s just … wrong,” she said again. “Clive is like family to us. And Connie was my best friend. It is such a betrayal.”

“It’s not a betrayal, Mom. Because Connie died.” I kept my voice and expression soft to mitigate the harshness of the words. It was the truth, though. Connie was gone; therefore I wasn’t taking her husband from her. In fact, I deep-down believed that she would approve of us, maybe even root for us.

“Do you know how that sounds?” my mother said, looking stricken.

“Mom. C’mon. I just meant that this never would have happened if Connie hadn’t died. That’s all.”

“Well, I’m still here. And so is Lucy. And Neil. And Lawton. And Caroline. And it’s not fair to any of us what you two are doing.”

“Caroline?” I said, crossing my arms. “Really? And what about the fetus? Is it unfair to the fetus, too?”

“What fetus?”

“Lucy’s pregnant,” I said. “She called to tattle on me, but left out that bit of news?”

“Well, that should show you how hurt she is. And FYI, Shea, pregnant women are emotional … fragile … You simply can’t do this to her while she’s pregnant.” She paused, then got herself all riled up again, spinning to face me and point at me some more. “You can’t do this at all! Put yourself in her shoes. What if she were dating your father?”

“I’d tell her she deserves better.”

My mother was temporarily distracted from her mission by the satisfaction that came with any small paternal diss. “Amen to that.” She turned back to the mirror, then said, “He has a very small penis, you know. Your father.”

“Mom.”

“Well, he does.”

“Great. So I’d tell Luce that she deserves better—and a bigger penis … But if Dad and his tiny penis made her happy, I’d say go for it. I’d get over it.”

“I didn’t say tiny. I said very small … And the point is, I don’t think Lucy can get over it. It’s just … too much.”