Method(101)

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“As it turns out we don’t have a perfect marriage. Satisfied?”

“Absolutely not and you look terrible.”

“It’s been a hard couple of weeks.”

She waves her hand in the air. “You’ll get through it.”

“Says the woman who just admittedly fled from my house due to his wrath. So easy for you to say twice removed,” I snap. “You have no idea what I’ve been through,” I palm my hips, “and before you start with the ‘I told you so’ about marrying an actor, don’t. Or you can leave.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” she says evenly. “I raised you better.”

“I’m not myself lately, not many of us are.”

“I can see that,” she says, tossing her purse on the couch. “I’m going to make us some tea, and you’re going to talk to me.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Do you think the only reason I didn’t want you marrying an actor was because I worked for the press? Silly girl.” She walks toward the kitchen, leaving me temporarily stunned before I follow her.

“Oh, I don’t believe this. Who? Who did you date?”

She pauses. I read her right.

“Oh my God,” I say, covering my mouth. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!”

She pushes up her sleeves before flipping the water on and filling up the kettle. Once she has the bags waiting in the cups, she turns to me and rests her back to the counter.

“Mom!?” I snap impatiently as she stares at me.

“It’s not important who.”

“The hell it’s not, stop stalling.”

“Mel Gibson and you’re his love child.”

My jaw drops. “What?”

“Kidding.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I scold, before we both burst into laughter, mine reluctant.

“His name was Eric Byrne. Irish. Very, very good-looking, a tiger in the sack. He was all the rage for about ten minutes in the eighties, and I was madly in love with him. Well, I thought I was. This was before I met your father.”

“You are such a hypocrite,” I say, pointing the finger. “All this time, you made it seem like actors were the worst people when you had sex in the Kool-Aid!”

“I just didn’t want you falling in love in a way that could torment you. And look at you.” She raises a brow. “It’s not fun.”

“Point taken. Still, Lucas is not Eric Byrne. The way you treated him was unforgivable.”

She hangs her head. “I know. And for the record, that was the worst fight your father and I have ever had. He didn’t speak to me for almost a month.”

“Good. Tell me what happened with the actor.”

“He swept me off my feet. But those sayings about an Irish temper? Well, let’s just say I can testify to them.”

“He hurt you?”

“No, but he might as well have. He was a bastard best left to bed his co-stars and not put silly notions in my head. Maybe we should sit, Mila, you’re so pale.”

“I’m pregnant,” I say, depriving her of what should have been a happy moment. She bursts into tears, and I walk over to her and hug her tightly. “I’m sorry, Mom, I’m sorry. I’m just so miserable right now. I miss Lucas so much. I’m so pissed at him. I should have faked a happy phone call or something.”

“I ruined your wedding,” she sniffs, “it’s only fair.”

“You didn’t ruin it, Mom. Everyone thought you were making a spectacle because you were happy. I still laugh about it and the way Lucas squirmed.”

“I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s inexcusable, but I understand why you were scared. We’d only been dating nine months. I was scared myself.”

When we pulled away, she smiled. “I hope it’s a boy. We could use a boy.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I pour the water into the teacups to let them steep.

“Your turn,” she says, nodding in my direction. “Tell me what happened.”

For the first time in years, I spare no detail. I don’t see the point in hiding anything from her. I will probably regret it later, but for the moment, I trust my instinct to spill. It takes the better part of an hour for me to explain the last three months and the more I do, the angrier I get.

“Wow,” my mother says with wide eyes when I finish.

“I know.”

“I’m impressed,” she says with the lift of her lips. “You have to admit, it’s clever.”

“And insane and deceptive. I don’t know why he would hide it from me.”

For the first time since I started my rant, I study her while she sips her cold tea.

“It’s grief, and grief is another form of insanity in itself. You haven’t really gotten to experience that yet, and I pray it comes much later for you. You two will be fine. You need to go back to him.”

“I can’t. I’m too angry. Trust me, I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

“Haven’t you heard a word I said? He’s unreachable,” I say, pacing. “He’s acting like we should resume life as it was without acknowledging what he just put us both through. He’s still acting, and unless he drops the mask, we can’t get past it.”