Page 40 of Pick-Up
“Hi!” she says. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
She narrows her eyes. “You look weird.”
“You should talk.”
“What?”
“Nothing, Mom.” I slip my raincoat’s hood off. “I love being told I look weird before nine a.m.”
“Sorry.” She shrugs, not sorry.
I give myself the once-over in the FaceTime window. My hair is a little worse for wear, but everything else appears to be in place. I always thought I looked cute in this coat. It’s army green and so are my eyes. But… maybe not.
“I’m at the supermarket”—I sigh—“grabbing some last-minute items before I leave for the airport.”
“The airport?!” my mother says, furrowing her brow. “Where are you going?”
This is a surprising question for multiple reasons: (1) She knows I’m going away because I asked my parents to watch the kids before I discovered they were busy. (2) We have discussed my trip multiple times, including when we debated the name of that one sunblock we both like that doesn’t clog our pores and when she told me that taking care of myself doesn’t make me a bad parent. (3) Five seconds ago, I assumed she was calling to wish me safe travels.
“Mom,” I say, trying not to panic. “I’m going to that private island in Turks and Caicos, remember? For the magazine shoot?”
“Oh, right,” she says in a tone that is not at all convincing. I try to ignore the worry strumming though me.
“Why are you still in bed? Is your neck bothering you again?”
“No. Just a lazy morning. Actually, my neck has been feeling way better ever since I started taking this new medication. Thank God Carol recommended her doctor.”
“Oh, great. I’m so glad!”
Not that I’m not enjoying the chitchat, but my local supermarket has narrow aisles and I’ve already had to smoosh myself against the chilly shelving twice to let people pass through to the apples, potatoes and tomatoes.
“So…,” I say, inspecting and rejecting a container of overpriced blackberries as I weave my way past bruised kiwis. I stop to contemplate the cotton candy grapes, then decide they’re triggering. Cotton candy. Too soon.
“So…”
“Mom, not to rush off, but did you call for a specific reason?”
“Hmm. Good question. I can’t remember!”
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath.It’s going to be okay.
“Oh,” I say, trying to modulate my voice to an approximation of normal. “Well, I’m not leaving for a couple of hours. I’m around if it comes back to you.”
I slip into the cereal aisle. I grab a box of Cheerios from the bottom shelf, then start scanning for Crispix.
“Ron, why did I call again?” my mother is asking my father.
“Dad is there?” I say. That man is always hiding in plain sight.
I glance down at the phone, as she lets it tilt to the side. There is my dad, lying beside her in his reading glasses.
I’m so distracted that I manage to get my earbud cord tangled on the buckle of my bag strap. My free hand is holding a shopping basket, so I can’t tug it off. So I am contorted into some bizarre yogic pose, trying to yank myself loose, when another customer behind me clears his throat, hoping to get through. My supermarket. Again, with the world’s narrowest aisles.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say, as I whirl around and flatten myself against the shelves. I look up and find myself face-to-face with Demon Dad. Of course. I’ve only seen him in passing since Monster’s Ball, though I’m unsettled by how often he’s been popping up in my head. Now, his face is just inches from mine. His hair is damp. He clearly got caught in the downpour without an umbrella. And, in the most annoying way, wet looks really good on him. My chest flutters.
“You’re wet,” I say like a full moron.
