“It’s because you hang out with old ladies all the time.”
“They aren’t all old ladies,” I protested. She was referring to my grief support group, the Yarn Over Widows Knitting Club. “I think some of them are in their fifties.”
“Mom’s not even that old!”
“Husbands don’t usually die when they’re in their twenties,” I pointed out, quickly regretting it when Bitsy’s face fell. Hurriedly, I added, “Anyway, can you be sure to tell Mom that you’re going to take over the firm when Mom and David are ready to retire.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, no. I don’t want to be a lawyer. I’m going to do something else.”
“Like what?”
“Not sure, but it’s going to be fun and awesome.”
“I hope so, Little Bit.” I wanted her to be happy. Hell, I wanted to be happy, I realized, but I think my little sister had a better idea of how to achieve her goals than I did.
“So was Tucker there?” She was like a dog going after a bone, persistent and relentless. Actually that was all Mom right there. I was more like Dad—letting things come to me instead of pursuing things.
No.” I shoveled the rest of my cereal into my mouth and then added more dry cereal to soak up the remaining milk. “At our last anniversary luncheon, Tucker yelled at his dad, and they almost got into a fist fight. Carolyn cried, and I wanted to crawl under the table.” Two years ago, Tucker had started law school. When Will died, Tucker had dropped out and started inking people. Life was too short to live the life other people wanted for you, he'd told me. So I guess Tucker's dream was to be a tattoo artist, because that's what he was doing now. “But it’d be nice if he came to hold his mom’s hand.”
“Mom says that Carolyn needs to learn to hold her own hand.” Bitsy took the cereal from me and poured herself a bowl.
Holding Carolyn up emotionally was an exhausting task and I wished Tucker would help me since his father wouldn’t. “He’s still a selfish jerk and way too old for you.”
“Mom says I’m an old soul.” No, Bitsy, I thought, you’re so bright, shiny and new my heart aches at your beauty. I wished I still had that look. Instead, I felt dull and used and, after last night, rejected. When I had woken up, the memory of Gray telling me he had to get out of my condo was the first thing that popped into my mind—not the long meaningful discussion we’d had afterwards. The invitation to do something adventurous felt like a pity date rather than a genuine desire to spend more time with me. I felt foolish and embarrassed.
“What does Mom say?” questioned our mother as she walked into the breakfast room dressed in slacks and a blouse. She must be meeting clients at the office today.
“That you work too hard,” I said affectionately. Mom leaned down and kissed both of our heads.
“Someone’s got to keep you girls in cereal,” she teased and went over to make herself a cup of coffee. “Your father says hello by the way and would like for you to Skype him tomorrow.” Dad was over in England teaching a summer fellowship on comparative American Lit at Cambridge.
A horn honked outside and Bitsy jumped up, kissing Mom goodbye and running out the door. A cloud of perfume and hairspray threatened to choke me as she sprinted past.
“Bad night?” Mom sat in Bitsy’s now-empty chair and pushed the abandoned cereal bowl aside.
I considered lying to Mom, but I hadn’t been able to get away with it when I was a teen and I doubted I’d get away with it now.
“Just felt a little lonely, I guess,” I admitted.
She mmhmmed mysteriously but didn’t say anything else, just sipped her coffee and looked at me like I wasn’t spilling all my secrets. I knew this trick. She’d once told me that the best way to get someone to start talking was to be quiet because people hated uncomfortable silences. Trying to resist the pull of her unspoken command, I looked everywhere but her. After not even a minute had gone by, I started blurting it all out.
“I met a guy last night and he…” There were limits to what I wanted to share so I tried to think of some euphemisms to describe what he’d done, what we’d done together.
“You were making out with some stranger in the hallway of Gatsby’s?” Mom offered with a choking laugh.
I pounded my head on the table. “Teresa Bush right? I thought she was too bombed to remember anything. She tried to pull down her dress and show me her tattoo, for crying out loud.”
Mom nodded with a smile. “Yes, Teresa wasn’t too drunk to remember seeing you being led away by a man god—I think that was the phrase that Teresa used—and then she watched as you…” Mom paused and tapped her chin, clearly searching for the most embarrassing way to put it. “Oh yes, acted out the first scenes in a porno.”