Page 2 of Make Me Bee-lieve

I suppress the urge to gag as I grab the bag of peas and drop them onto the coffee table.

“Mom, don’t ever talk about my crotch ever again, okay?”

My mother, ever the unphased one, shrugs as she pours the boiling water into a different mug. “What? I’m your mother, for cryin’ out loud! I birthed you, bathed you, changed your diapers?—”

This is an old song and dance of ours. Ever since I moved out of my mother’s basement five years ago—at the age of twenty-eight, mind you—she’s been … a lot. You question her, even a little? Suddenly you’re in for an earful about how it took her forty-eight hours of agonizing labor to pop you out and she couldn’t even have an epidural. And then the ripping, so much ripping they had to spend an eternity stitching her back up. Trust me, it’s enough to make you want to move to another state, or even another country, just to get away from it.

I give her a peck on the cheek as she dunks the tea bag into the mug and hands it to me. “Thanks, Mom. Listen, why don’t you relax today? Go check on your garden.”

Mom’s eyebrows lift, and then she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth before saying, “Oh, I couldn’t. I simply don’t have the time. Maybe later. Maybe when there’s actually something for me to do over there.”

“There’s always something for you to do over there,” I say as I lean against the kitchen counter. I inhale the spicy aroma of the chai. My mom always makes the best cup of tea, and I still have no idea how she does it, even when I watch her make it from start to finish. “Besides, when was the last time you saw Rhoda and Marley? They’re probably getting worried sick about you.”

My mother rolls her eyes. “Bah. They’re sick all right, but not because they’re worried. Rhoda’s got a nasty cold and Marley’s been dating some new beau of hers. I’m much more worried about you. All alone on your rooftop with your crazy science experiments, living in here like a sad bachelor.”

She gestures to my living room, and I wince. I know what’s coming. I should have pushed her out the door sooner, before she could really get started. Now it’s too late. I’m cooked.

“All alone for years in this cramped apartment! With your salary, you could afford a house, Calvin. Why don’t you buy one of those new homes on the river they’re putting up?” she asks, abruptly changing the topic. Which … I’m also used to. Because she does this every time I see her. When are you moving out and into a proper home? When are you going to get married and give me grandchildren? When are you going to own the company? Or any company, for that matter?

She is right about one thing, though: I do love spending time on the rooftop with my “crazy” science experiments, and the fact that I’m not up there right now with the Shrinkatron is making me twitchy. Lately, I’ve been obsessed with the damn thing, but that’s because I’m so close to perfecting it. I know I am. It just needs a little more testing, is all.

Mom waltzes into the living room and sets her own tea mug down on the coffee table, and I immediately slip a coaster underneath it.

“What? You think your table’s made of mahogany or something? It’s plastic, honey. Don’t be precious. It’ll wipe off,” she clucks, then sits down next to me, almost squashing the cat.

I wince. “M-Mom, Bonnet?—”

Bonnet lets out a cranky meow and hops down onto the rug before tossing a glare at my mother, then sauntering off to my bed in the far corner.

“Oh, she’ll get over it. She always does.” Mom flaps her hand dismissively as Bonnet climbs onto my bed and curls up to nap again. I reach for my steaming tea mug and inhale the scent of chai, lavender, and … something else. Something is different about this cup of tea today.

“Did you put honey in this?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.

She nods, her pink-stained lips pulling back into a wide smile. There’s lipstick on her teeth, but I don’t say anything. “Your brother’s new bees. Do you like it?”

I take a sip of the tea and relish the warmth that spreads throughout my body. It’s the middle of summer, but I still prefer my tea hot, not iced, and this is perfect.

“Yeah, it’s delicious. But since when did Elvis get into beekeeping?” I ask.

“Oh, who knows. You know how your brother is, always getting caught up in something new,” Mom mutters. She glances around the living room and takes in the newly framed portrait I hung up behind the bed. The Artist’s Garden at Giverny, by Monet. It was just something I found randomly in a box during one of the weekend markets and thought was pretty, so I brought it home.

She sneers at the print and says, “Gaudy thing. When did you get that? And when are you moving out?”

I run a palm down my face, suppressing the urge to groan. “Because I don’t need all that space. It’ll be annoying to clean.”

My mother’s nose scrunches as she takes in the state of my kitchen and living area. “You don’t clean what you’ve got now.”

I check the clock above my fridge and frown. It’s almost five, and I haven’t even managed to run those experiments yet because I was at that stupid company picnic. Okay, I get that the picnics are meant to facilitate teamwork and camaraderie with our co-workers … but truth be told, I don’t think anyone would give a shit if I skipped them outright. All I got out of it today was a mediocre hot dog and a bruised groin.

“Listen, Mom, I appreciate your visits, but?—”

My mother puts her hands up in defeat, gets up off the couch, grabs the bag of peas, and starts for the door. “I get it, I get it. Just…” She stops in front of the doorway for a second before whirling around to brush her hand against my cheek. “Think about it, okay? You don’t deserve to be all alone in here like this forever.”

Just as she says that, Bonnet brushes up against my leg and purrs loudly. Right on cue. It’s her dinner time. I look down and smile at her. My mother has never enjoyed pets of any kind, so she barely manages to glance at the cat. “I’m not alone. I’ve got Bonnet, here.”

My mother rolls her eyes again. “Oh, please. The cat can’t give me grandchildren.”

I roll my eyes. “No, because she’s spayed.”

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