Page 135 of Pick-Up
I have spent a good deal of my time as a mother poised to shield Bart and Nettie from anything hurtful that comes their way, to be two parents at once for them, always present and available. I want them so badly to be happy, unscathed. But it occurs to me now, thinking about Ethan and Kaitlin and Jamie and Celeste, that even with two parents, you are not guaranteed such things. And maybe you shouldn’t be. Maybe everyone needs a chance to be a person inorder to be a parent. Maybe things never quite turn out as planned. Maybe that’s okay.
And maybe, I am willing to admit, Ethan understood that better than I did when he suggested I skip Halloween. Maybe, thanks to the less pronounced pressures of being a dad versus a mom, he understood that beingthereisn’t better than being happy, even if that means you’re there a little less.
Definitely, Kaitlin needs a break. A real one. Maybe we’re all just steps away from spiraling into that state.
On Monday morning, the video editor sends me a rough cut of the footage. Peter has done a spectacular job. His aversion to flying and people be damned. The reel is beautiful and funny and cool and, obviously I’m biased, but it definitely makes me want to frolic through Citrine Cay. They even managed to crop out my jellyfish sting. (There is a God. And that deity is a benevolent digital editor.)
Still, it’s all a fantasy. That’s what’s enticing. The hotel is beautiful and unusual and otherworldly. The food is fresh and bright; the service is impeccable. There are no words for the softness of the sand or bumping into a stingray like a next door neighbor.
But the owner is a terrible person. And, as good as I feel about how the footage came out, I don’t feel great about us giving him a pass. Do any of the rest of them care? Ethan? Derek? Jackie? Charlie? Certainly not Stephanie, who was still interested in hitting that. What is our responsibility to the world with regard to this man? And how much is it worth now that I know jobs hang in the balance?
On Monday evening, my mother calls. On FaceTime, of course. I am happy to see her face, but I feel an immediate pang of worry. My stomach tilts.
“I wanted to tell you, I sent you a text confirming Tuesday-night dinner with the kids at your place.”
The whole point of a text is not having to call, but I don’t even rib her about it. I’m worried that whatever is messing with her memory may also have done away with her sense of humor. It has certainly hampered mine.
I pull myself together to have my parents over for dinner on Tuesday. And, as planned, they show up. It’s taco night! Which basically means I mix a packet of powdered orange MSG with ground beef, throw a bunch of toppings on the table and everyone goes to town. Old-school. Back to when preservatives were wholesome, dammit!
My mom stands beside me as sous chef, ostensibly helping to prepare the bowls full of tomatoes, onions, cheese, beans and such. But really she is just drinking a glass of red wine and inhaling an entire jumbo bag of organic tortilla chips.
Larry the cat stands beside her, pleading with his eyes. The injustice of her stuffing her face while he starves! That cat loves a chip.
“Mom.” I smile. “You wanna leave a few of those for the kids?”
“Oh, sorry!” she says, stuffing another in her face. “Just ravenous lately.”
I am trying to be gentle with her, not force things. After this evening, I plan to reach out to my dad separately to discuss her confusion. The things she forgets. The sweatpants.
It’s time.
She is wearing them again, which, considering that my mom once informed me in no uncertain terms that yoga pants were not, in fact, pants, also feels like cause for concern.
What. Is. Happening?
After dinner, while the kids watchJunior Bake Offin the living room, there is a moment of calm. I am somewhat lulled by the sound of the TV: British children cooking “sponge” in the adjoining room. And by my father’s occasional exclamations of “I love sticky toffee pudding!” and “Scrummy!”
I have taken a load off and am sitting at the kitchen table with my feet up on a nearby modernist chair.
“So,” my mother says, settling beside me. “Should we talk about me losing it?”
My mother. Always with the subtlety.
“Yes, let’s.”
I drop my legs down and turn to face her. “So—what’s new?”
She shrugs. “I mean, not much. Did I tell you we got a new toaster oven?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Mom! I mean, has anything changed in your day-to-day that you think could have triggered a change in you?”
“You mean beyond getting old?” She frowns.
I smile at her. Tip my head onto her shoulder. She gives me a squeeze.
“You’re not old, Mom,” I say. “You’re vintage couture.”
She raises an eyebrow. Shoots me a look that I recognize from the mirror. “That’s just another word for ‘used.’ ”
