Page 13 of Reel Love

When she steps back I glance over at her painting.

“What are you working on?”

“It’s a painting I started last weekend.”

“San Simeon?”

“You recognize it.”

“I’d probably be able to identify any part of the coast from Big Sur to Redondo Beach. That’s my office, so to speak.”

“What an office.” She sighs.

“I prefer Marbella.”

“Of course you do. Who wouldn’t?”

Mom loosens her paint apron and drapes it over the back of the easel.

“Have you seen your brother? I wasn’t sure if he made it back yet.”

“Dustin?”

“Do you have another brother I’m not aware of?”

I shake my head and chuckle.

“No. Just Dustin. I haven’t heard from him, but that’s how it is when he’s out on a fire. And when he comes back, he usually crashes. So we won’t hear from him right away anyway.”

My brother isn’t a full-time firefighter yet, but he’s a volunteer here and gets called out when there are wildfires in the California forests or other high-frequency areas. His life outside firefighting involves writing country music, singing at local bars and other venues, and working part-time as a bouncer at two of the clubs in Descanso on the south end of the island. How he ever came to love country music is beyond me. We’re a California island. Surf tunes. Pop. Even some R & B. Not country. But that’s Dustin. It’s like he was imported from the south.

“You might hear from him between naps once he’s home,” I assure my mom. “Since he has the typical short-term, post-traumatic symptom including an inability to regulate sleep due to the cortisol his adrenal glands over-emit during the fire response, he’s bound to wake intermittently. Maybe he’ll get the urge to let you know he’s home during one of his bouts of wakefulness. The maternal-child bond means he’ll think to call you first before anyone else in the family. So, you can relax.”

Mom stares at me. That same stunned expression passes over her face every time I lapse into scientist mode.

She squeezes her eyebrows together momentarily and then she asks, “Do you want some tea?”

“Sure. I’d love some. I came here just to hang out with you. I get bonus son points for that, right?”

She smiles at me. “Your points are maxed out. No need to earn more. And I see you’ve shaved that horrible thing off your lip. You’re such a handsome guy, Ren. Some people were not meant to sport the mustache. I’m just sayin’. Full facial hair? Maybe. But not the ’stache. Not for you.”

“Agreed.”

The ’stache. My mom.

“Well, good. Speaking of your mustache, I wanted to talk to you about painting.”

“Painting? What does painting have to do with my ex-mustache?”

Mom doesn’t clarify her poor segue. Instead she veers into a completely unrelated subject. “There’s this painting class. Do you remember Harry?”

“Harriet Symes?”

“Yes. That’s her.”

Harriet and I have one thing in common. Our parents must have been smoking crack when they named us. Again. I’m not telling you my name. Ever. At least I can go by my middle name. Harry was forced to choose between a name that makes her sound like a seventy-year-old with knee pain and hearing aids that squeal when they aren’t properly adjusted, or that man who met Sally in the classic romcom movie.

“Yeah. I know Harry. She was two years older than me in high school. We didn’t really hang out, but I see her around the island from time to time.”

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