Page 42 of The Bodyguard Affair
She’s right. Emma and I always begged for bacon like we saw families eat on TV. One night for dinner, when Mom was feeling particularly good, she fried up some bacon and potatoes. We talked about it for months, hoping she’d surprise us with them again. She never did.
This is my time to say something, to remind her how dangerous it is to cook something like this, but one look at her face and I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I park myself at the table, entirely dumbfounded.
She’s practically vibrating with excitement when she serves me my plate. I can’t help but wonder whether she remembers that one dinner or if whether she just made bacon because it’s a normal breakfast food. Either way, she seems to be having a goodmorning. She’s even dressed in a pair of pleather leggings and a faded leopard print T-shirt, a relic of the past.
“Wow. Thanks, Mom,” I say, a little taken aback. Last night when I got back from Squamish, she was confused, thinking I was back from tour. In fact, she was mad at me for coming home “without prior notice.” “How’d you get into the cupboards up there anyways?” I ask.
“The chair. Not sure why you keep insisting on rearranging my stuff. But it was driving me crazy, having all my things out of place.”
“Remember, if you want anything, all you have to do is ask me or Theresa.”
I expect this to start an argument, but she just nods like a child, purses her lips, and watches me with interest as I clear my plate. “So I’ve been wondering.”
Oh no. Do I even want to know? Probably not.
She catches the alarm in my expression, but presses on. “Whether you’d thought about settling down before you go off gallivanting around the world again.”
“No,” I say through a mouthful.
She remains unconvinced. “You don’t want to give yourself some time to find a nice hometown girl? There’s a woman in my book club. I think her name is Sari, or Sarah. Anyway, the important thing is she has a daughter.” She takes a couple moments to debate whether Sari or Sarah’s daughter is thirty-five or forty-five, but I gather she’s single and works as a preschool teacher, which Mom points out means she’s good with children. “I told her about you and how you’re newly single and lonely—”
Despite all she’s going through, obsessing over my dating life is something that’s remained pretty constant in her mind.“Mom, I appreciate your concern for my relationship status, but I’m good. And I’m not lonely, for the record.”
She brushes my words away with her fork, the sunlight from the kitchen window drenching half her face. “You are lonely. All alone in the world.” Jesus. She needs to work on her delivery.
“Ouch, Mom. That’s harsh.”
“Life is harsh, honey. You know, the doctor told me Alzheimer’s is genetic. Do you really want to die alone with no one around? No wife or children?”
What’s the point in having a wife and children if I’m barely going to be in their lives like she was? I’m tempted to ask that, but I refrain. “Well, no—”
“You must miss the intimacy.”
“Mom!” A violent shudder snakes down my spine, taking me out emotionally and physically. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the death of Nolan Crosby.
She doesn’t register the abject horror on my face. Either that, or she doesn’t care. It’s probably the latter. “I know you don’t feel comfortable bringing women back here, but our bedrooms are on opposite ends of the house—”
“Can we please stop talking about this?” I beg, pushing my plate forward to shield my head in my hands.
She leans forward and peels one of my hands away to maintain direct eye contact. “Sweetheart, there’s no shame in getting help to find the right person. Someone you want to settle down with.” The very thought of “settling down” makes me itchy. I’ve never been settled anywhere in my entire life. I don’t even know what that would feel like.
“Well, actually, I met someone.” It seemed like a good idea to say it, for a fraction of a second. Just a white lie to get her offmy back. But when she shifts forward, her eyes round and big like saucers, the regret crashes through me like a car accident.
“You met someone?” she practically yells. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her so excited on my account. There were plenty of times she’d get riled up when she’d get a date, or when she’d get a lead to perform at some random bar. But never did she express that sort of excitement when it came to me and Em. Until now, I didn’t know she was truly capable of caring about anyone but herself.
I shift uncomfortably, grateful she’s moved on from talking aboutintimacy. “Yup.”
“Who is she? When do I get to meet her?”
I back away a little. “Soon. It’s, um, new.” Why do words keep coming out of my mouth?
“New? How new?”
“Like…a week ago? But if it gets serious, I will absolutely introduce you.”
“What’s her name?” she asks, not missing a beat.
“Um, Andi,” I say through a glug of tea, wishing I could swallow my lie down with it.
