Page 6 of Lovebug
“Gotcha,” I say.
I pull my lasagna bowl away from Bert and finally take a few bites.
“Bertie, you’re up,” Doreen says.
“Up? I’m up?” He panics.
“You’re up,” she repeats. “It’s time for the other thing. We did the first thing, so now we’re moving on to the other thing.”
“The other thing. Yes. Take two.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. His feels wet.
“Mabel,” he says with intensity.
“Bert,” I mimic the same solemn tone he used with me. He doesn’t laugh, though.
He launches into a speech. “I love that you count the days we’ve been together. It makes me feel loved. I love how you give me nicknames. They make me feel appreciated. I love the way you notice all the little things about me. It makes me feel seen.”
Am I imagining it? Or did we already cover this territory? Also, is his mother really mouthing along to the words he’s saying?
“Oh, wait, wait, wait!” Doreen says suddenly. Then she stands up and starts making hand gestures like she’s an air traffic controller at Philadelphia International Airport. And with just a few spastic strokes of her arms, our plates are cleared—wait, I barely got to eat!—and a circle of humans holding champagne flutes assembles around us. Not just any humans. My mom and dad, my childhood best friend Cyndi—who is clearly still not at the Sixers game—Bert’s Uncle Fred and Aunt Sybill and… our high school zoology teacher Mrs. Preston?
What the heck is going on here?
Suddenly, a sea of frozen smiles surrounds me from where I’m sitting. But their smiles aren’t the only things that are rigid. Bert’s entire body seems locked in place. His eyes are wide, his lips are tight, and I don’t think I’ve seen him breathe in at least sixty seconds.
“Bertie?” Doreen says.
Silence.
“Bert?” She tries again to shake him from whatever state this is he’s in.
“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh” is his only response.
“Fine. It’s fine. I’m used to doing things myself,” Doreen says with a smile, but she certainly doesn’t seem happy.
She takes my hand in hers, much like Bert did a moment ago. In fact, his clammy fingers are still wrapped around my other hand, clinging for dear life. Then she connects her free hand with his, so we now have a triangle of familial hand holding happening. Like we’re about to say grace. Or hold a séance.
For the record, none of the events of the past few minutes are characteristic of our typical Sunday night dinners.
“Sweetheart,” Doreen says. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot my mother beaming and clapping silently in child-like anticipation.
My hand gets a squeeze, and I snap my full attention back to Bert’s mother, who is smiling sweetly.
“Yes, Doreen.”
“These past seven years with you in our family have been a beautiful thing. You bring so much joy to my son’s life. And to my life too. You are the daughter I absolutely never wanted but am so blessed to now have.”
“Thank you?” I say. I mean, I think that was a compliment. Right?
Before I can ponder that too much, Doreen snaps her fingers with a flourish, and our eccentric waiter appears again, this time with a beautiful, thin biscotti set on a tiny porcelain plate, surrounded by some sort of delicious-looking cream. He plops it down right in front of me.
Dessert! Thank goodness, because I am still ravenous. Hm. Gosh. No one else has been served yet, and I know it’s rude to eat before the rest of the table gets their food, but maybe I could just take a tiny little…
“Will you make me the happiest mother in the world and marry my son?”
“No, Mabel, don’t!”
