Page 48 of Three Not-So-Little Words
“Okay, Veronica, I’m sitting.”
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“I already told you. I came because I don’t want you to fall into some sort of deep depression.”
“What makes you think I’m depressed?”
“Look at you. You’re in sweatpants with no makeup on. Everything around here is a mess. This isn’t like you. With you, everything is always so neat and tidy and…” She looks me up and down. “Presentable.”
“Mom, I am always those things because Ihaveto be. I’m always neat and organized because I’m always on the go, staying in places that aren’t mine. It’s easier that way. And because I’m always traveling, I try to look good.”
“Exactly,” she interrupts, but I stop her.
“Nope, I’m not done. For the first time in forever, I get to decompress a little bit. I don’t have to look perfect, and I have my own space. So, I don’t have to keep things perfectly neat and organized. For the record, I’m not depressed. Far from it. I’ve been sitting around, watching all of the TV that I didn’t get to when I was constantly busy with work.”
In the middle of my talking, a sudden question pops into my mind. “Wait, how did you even know I was being lazy? I haven’t talked to you.”
“That was my first clue. I hadn’t heard from you. When you’re in town, you’re always trying to spend as much time with family as you can. When it was radio silence, I called Dylan who told me you were here. You know, the weird twin thing.”
I roll my eyes at the twin comment. “Mom, I would spend time with everyone because I had a finite amount of time with all of you. Now that I will be here more, I don’t have to spend every single second with you guys. Do you want us all to get sick of each other?”
She smiles. “You’re all my kids. I could never get sick of you.”
She and I both burst out laughing.
“Good one,” I tell her. “But really, I’m okay. Not depressed. Not wallowing.”
She leans forward in the armchair, resting her elbows on her knees. “Okay, I can appreciate that you’re trying to decompress. I also know that the longer you sit here alone and doing nothing, the easier it will be for you to fall into that hole.”
“Mom, why are you so worried about me?” I ask.
“Because you’re going through a whole lot of change all at once. That can be hard to process. When Liz had to come home—”
I hold up my hand to stop her again. “I am not Liz. First of all, Lizhadto come home. Shit fell apart, and she didn’t have a choice. I came back because Iwantedto. And if I really was depressed, you’d probably never know. Liz wallowed. I would put on a smile and pretend that I’m fine.”
She glares at me while pursing her lips together. “You both could use some therapy.”
I grin. “Been there. Done that. She said all of my problems stem from my dysfunctional mother.”
With an eye roll, she says, “Very funny.”
“Moral of the story is that I’m fine. You can go home now.”
“You’re not getting off that easy. I’m thinking we need to find you a hobby.”
“I have plenty of hobbies.” I hold up my hand to count them on my fingers. “I travel. I drink. I fuck. And I watch competitive baking shows.”
“Veronica, you travel for work. That doesn’t count. Watching baking shows doesn’t count either. That’s you watching someone else dotheirhobbies. And drinking and fucking are not hobbies.”
“They are when you do them the way I do.”
Her eyes narrow in on me. “With the way you do them, they’re more of a talent.”
I walk into the kitchen. “Do you want to explore one of those talents?” I open up my liquor cabinet.
“I sure hope you mean drinking.”
“You couldn’t handle the other thing,” I joke.
