Page 50 of Meet Stan

“Hey Mom,” I said blearily into the phone. I stifled a yawn and tried to sound pleasant. “If you need funds, I’ll have to do it through Zelle because it’s a Sunday.”

“I don’t need any funds,” she said, a bit stiffly. “Can’t a mother just call her son?”

“Sure, a mother can call her son—it’s just that I’ve come to expect a certain protocol from you. If it’s not my birthday or a holiday, I assume it’s because you need help.”

“This time is different. I want to start being a bigger presence in your life, Stan.”

I frowned. “You do?”

“Yes. I really feel like I did you wrong. You looked so much like your father, and he broke my heart when he left us.”

I sighed.

“I’m sorry, too, Mom. I know I didn’t make it easy on you. I think I kind of blamed you for Dad leaving, even though he was the one who had an affair.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “That’s perfectly normal. Listen, can I take you to brunch? There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Um, sure,” I said, checking the time. “When and where?”

“I’m saying at the Sheraton, and they have the loveliest little bistro right off the lobby. We could meet there, say, around eleven o’clock?”

I checked the time. Half-past seven. Jesus Christ, she called me at seven on a Sunday? I ran a hand over my stubble.

“Could we make it eleven-thirty?”

“Yes, that would be fine. I love you, son.”

I was a bit taken aback. We weren’t the kind of family who said that much when I was growing up, even before my dad left.

“I love you, too, Mom.”

I wondered if it were some kind of portent, my mother suddenly coming back to town. And stranger still, she didn’t want money. I wondered what could be so important.

A cold, awful thought gripped me as I stood in front of the mirror, my face covered in shaving cream. What if she’d gotten some bad news at the doctor? And she was circling the drain? That might explain why all of the sudden she’d made contact.

I almost threw up in the shower, I worried myself so much. By the time I made it down to the lobby of my building, I had sunk into something approaching despair. I guess my lack of sleep and all the turmoil with Ivy and our fake relationship ending had me a little screwed up. It made me terrified.

I arrived at the bistro and spotted my mother sitting near the far side at a comfortable-looking booth. I had to admit, it was a nice little bistro, with darkly stained wooden floors and rustic decor, complete with a lighting fixture consisting of old wagon wheels and industrial light bulbs.

“Mom,” I said, as she rose to her feet. She stood a foot shorter than I, her blonde hair belying the gray she dyed out of it. She was looking good, healthy and happy. I hoped that meant she wasn’t as sick as I’d feared.

She rose from the booth, and I hugged her tight.

“Stan,” she said with a sigh, hugging me back. “I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you, too, Mom.” I sat down at the booth. “How are you feeling? Anything, you know, troublesome about your recent checkups?”

“I’m fine, honey,” she said, putting her hand on top of my own. “I might be getting cataracts in my left eye, but my vitals are good. Ironically my blood pressure has never been this good.”

“That’s excellent news.” I relaxed. “When I heard that you wanted to talk to me, I was afraid it would be something bad.”

“It’s not something bad, but, well, I’m not sure how you’re going to react, Stan.”

My eyes narrowed.

“What’s going on?”

She dropped her gaze, and then sighed.

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