Mary plops down into a recliner and puffs on her cigarette. It was a bitch to find her place and it’s going to be a bitch to get her to drag her sorry ass to Concord to be there for her son, and I know it.
When I started dating Ty, I imagined my first encounter with his mother would involve me asking her what the hell she was thinking when she decided to give him a name that rhythms. Tyler Wilder. Now I'm beginning to see that there's a lot of more pressing issues than Ty's name.
“How do you want me to help Tyler?” she repeats. “And what makes you think that I can?”
“I want you to come with me to Concord and take care of him until he comes around. He's been drinking and not eating and..." I trail off, fighting the urge to nibble on a fingernail. "He is not well."
“Tyler made it very clear that he doesn’t consider me his mother.”
“Ty says shit so you won’t pick up on his pain. You’re his freaking mom. Get your ass to Concord and live up to your role, because your son has a drinking problem that would put an Irish sailor to shame.”
Mary offers me a shrewd smile. And that’s when I see them. Those dimples. Ty’s dimples. I take a good look at her, photoshopping off years of poverty and misery. She was definitely a hottie before life hit her with a giant shovel and junk food did the rest of the damage.
“You’re not one of the stupid bimbos. Guess Tyler has changed a little since I last saw him.”
“Yeah.” I take a few steps forward, making eye contact. “Now it’s your turn. Get into the shower. I’ll wait here. We’re going to Concord.”
Mary Wilder is her son’s mother, alright. Just like him, she presents the demand list of an angry IRA terrorist before she’ll agree to cooperate. She wants me to take her to the supermarket and buy her groceries, and also asks for a carton of smokes and a manicure before we leave Redwood.
I slam my Mini Cooper’s passenger door, cussing under my breath, and slide behind the wheel. I know my mother can be a pain, but she also cares. She wants me to be happy, even if our definitions of “happy” are very, very different. Ty's mom definitely puts thing in perspective.
“What the hell did you just say?” She lights up another cigarette, not bothering to ask if it's okay to smoke in my car. I roll down my windows.
“I said I’m surprised you didn’t get any Mother of the Year awards yet.” I start the engine and follow her directions to the nearest strip mall. It’s a good thing my Wayfarers are dark enough to hide the disgust in my eyes.
I can’t believe Ty had to suffer her as a mother. I just hope she’ll step up to the plate now.
"I'm also getting some beer, just so you know," she tells me when I park outside the grocery store.
"Alcohol is off limits. You're not going near his house with beer." I put my foot down.
"Yes I am. He won't notice. I’ll hide it from him." She flashes me a dimpled smile. Damn it.
"That's cheating," I point out.
"If it ain't worth cheating on, it ain't worth winning."
Yes. Ty has clearly inherited some traits from his mom. All she seems to care about is how to get her away while screwing people over.
I just wish her son wasn't so literal about following in her footsteps.
When it’s all done and dealt with, and Mary walks out with two huge bags, and has new, glossy red nails, I finally drive to Ty’s house. She’s sitting next to me, completely consumed by the content of her new bags. She looks like a kid who just raided Toys R Us and asks zero questions about Ty. It's becoming more and more difficult for me not to dislike her. I'm convinced that she'll bail on me at the last minute.
“So what happens now?” She tears open a bag of corn chips and tosses one into her mouth, munching loudly.
“Ty’s drinking too much. He needs someone to drag him to the shower, put some food in him and give him a hug. You think you can do that?” I flick my gaze to watch her briefly before turning back to the road.
She shrugs. “What set him off?”
“I dumped him.”
Mary finds this so amusing she literally laughs until she cries. The smell of greasy chips on her hot, moist breath makes me want to throw the bag—and its owner—out of my car.
“Seriously, why’s he depressed?” she finally asks, wiping her eyes. “Lost a fight again or somethin’?”
“He’s depressed because we broke up,” I repeat through gritted teeth.
“Look, Blake, you might be a cutie, but Ty doesn’t get attached. Especially not to women. Look at me, I’m his mom and he won’t even call me on my birthday. You think he’s going to be heartbroken over some cute little thing?”