On the Rocks(31)

I thought about what to do as I walked home when my phone rang. I looked at the caller ID and sighed. I loved my mother, I really did, but she didn’t make it easy. No matter how good her intentions were, she always managed to make things harder than they needed to be. If the road to hell is really paved with good intentions, my mother will be going on the express bus. You should answer it, I said to myself. You can’t hide forever. Answer the phone.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, all of my energy sucked out of my body before she even said a word. That was a skill. The woman could make plants wilt just by entering a room.

“Hi, Abby. How’s the beach? You’re staying out of the sun, aren’t you? You’re not a young girl anymore, and you’re single. You need to wear sunscreen—you have mature skin now—really slather it on. You can’t be too careful, your days of not having to worry about wrinkles are over, I’m sorry to say.”

My mother the wordsmith.

My mother had been straddling the line between crazy and clueless her whole life and had no idea how to deliver advice without making you feel like you were smacked with a blunt object. She believed that it was her job to tell you the truth even when you didn’t ask for it. It made for difficult teenage years, to say the least.

“Thanks for the tip. Is there a reason you called? Other than to remind me that I’m single and alone?” I should not have picked up this phone call.

“We need to talk about the limos for your sister’s wedding.”

“Why exactly?” I asked. I could think of no reason we needed to discuss that.

“We’re going to use the same cars that you were going to use because they’re lovely and people should be able to see me getting out of a limo at one of my daughters’ weddings, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know how many times I have to remind you, Mom, that my broken engagement was not my fault and this is not about you!”

“Tell that to all the ladies in my bridge club. Do you know how hard it’s been for me to show my face there?”

“Why, did you overdo your lip injections again?”

“Don’t talk to your mother like that.”

“Don’t talk to your daughter like that.”

“Can you at least pretend to be happy to hear from me?” she asked, pretending her feelings were hurt, which was impossible since I was pretty sure she didn’t have any.

“Sorry. Seriously, what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Do you think I’d look better in a black or a white car?”

I felt like telling her she’d look best lying under one with only her legs sticking out, like the Wicked Witch of the East when the house fell on her, but that probably wasn’t a nice thing to say to your mother. Even if she was a witch.

“You called to ask me that?” Why, why, why did I answer this call?

“There will be photographers, dear. People will be looking at these pictures for years to come, and you of all people should know that details matter.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh nothing.” Silence. And then she clearly couldn’t help herself. “Only, if you had paid more attention to the details in your own life, like the ones that should have alerted you to your fiancé skipping town without you, maybe you could’ve prevented that mess from happening.”

“Are you sure I wasn’t switched at birth?”

“I’m not answering that. By the way, have you slimmed down at all?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“I’ll take that as a no. Have you thought about doing one of those juice cleanses before the wedding? Julie Brink’s daughter did one and lost about four pounds in just one week. I know that losing the weight has been frustrating for you. Maybe that will be a good jump-start to get you moving in the right direction.”

“You want me to pay money to not chew so that I can look presentable in that disgusting pink dress? Are you kidding?”

“Just because the dress is ugly doesn’t mean you have to be. It’s not an excuse to not look your best. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Get the black car, Mom.” The color of evil.

I hung up and fought back the urge to stand in the middle of the street and scream in frustration. I had been trying for thirty-one years not to let my mother get to me, but had yet to figure out how to make that possible. I stared at my phone for a minute before sending an emergency text to the only other person on earth who really understood how screwed-up my mother was and, like me, was stuck with her until death did them part. Her older—and somehow normal—sister, my aunt Patrice.

Mayday. She’s going to drive me crazy Aunt Patrice, she really is.

Sadly she can have that effect on people. Shall I come down to Newport next week? Let’s have lunch.

You wouldn’t mind? How’s next Tuesday?

Great. I’ll make a reservation at Castle Hill. Cheer up, whatever she said, she didn’t mean it.

Feeling somewhat better that my fairy god-aunt was coming to my rescue, as she always did when my mother pushed me to the brink of hysteria, I decided that I’d join the guys at the bar. I needed a drink, which was completely normal following a conversation with my mother.

I headed over to meet the boys and pretend that I was interested in, or even knew anything, about European football when my phone beeped again. I figured it was Wolf telling me that I was missing the greatest feat of German athleticism ever seen. But no. It was Ben.