Mothered (15)

“I know you’re afraid I’m just going to get in your way, but all I want to do is be helpful. And I know . . . I wasn’t always there for you. When you were little. I didn’t mother you. And maybe you don’t want my mothering now, but . . . I can try, Grace.”

Grace blinked, unsure if this was real—unsure if her mother was telling the truth. She’d always wanted her mother to admit such faults to her, but Grace didn’t know Jackie well enough anymore to know if this was a performance. The right words, well placed—with company as a witness? At a loss for a better response, Grace simply nodded. Smiled. Slid her glass over to Miguel for a refill of merlot.





10


“And then there was that school assembly . . .” Jackie slapped her knee and laughed. She was playing it up—Grace was sure of it; she couldn’t possibly be that tipsy. “And the kids were all in a row, taking turns stepping up to the microphone to recite a few facts about vegetables. Grace had cabbage. Cabbage.” She cackled so hard there were tears in her eyes, but laughter was contagious, and Miguel had been infected. “The second she got to the microphone. Ththththththth.” Her tongue made a crude noise. “It was like she farted right into it and the fart came through the speakers! Her line woulda-coulda-shoulda been ‘That’s what happens when you eat too much cabbage.’”

“Hilarious.” Grace couldn’t have been more hollow but no one cared. They might not even have heard her over the uproarious effects of the punch line. Wine always amplified Miguel’s ability to laugh, even when it threatened to put Grace to sleep.

“Poor Grace!” he said.

After supper they’d regrouped in the living room. Jackie and Grace were on opposite ends of the sofa, while Miguel had opted for her IKEA chair—Koarp—from where he could appreciate his paintings and crane his neck toward the photographs of Hope. Grace had always been reticent about her sister; Hope’s death polluted all her childhood memories. Even once-good times came with an asterisk* (*but then she died). Miguel knew only sketchy basics.

Given how the evening was progressing, Grace was starting to think he was taking advantage of the situation. He hadn’t even asked what medications “Miss Jacquelyn” was on when she requested a teensy refill and he splashed more wine into her glass. It was a fraction of what he and Grace had consumed—she had a cheap shiraz on hand that they dived into after finishing Miguel’s much better merlot—but his conversational efforts were revealing a mischievous undertone; she got the feeling he was plying her mom with alcohol.

His questions played into Jackie’s worst social tendency to spin a funny tale—often at someone else’s expense—to make herself look witty. Miguel made it almost too easy, focusing on Grace’s awkward elementary school years; he asked what sorts of hobbies she’d had, if she’d sung in the choir or played any sports. The less drunk part of her thought he was probably hoping to hear Jackie boast about Grace’s early talents, and maybe he was ready with supportive retorts, “She always loved a good karaoke night!” or “So that’s how she learned to crush her opponents!” (Miguel believed she was too competitive when it came to board games.) He might also have been digging for details about Hope.

“Can we do something else now?” Grace asked, lifeless. The school assembly memory was all the more bitter for being one of the few times her mother had been in attendance. Grace had been so excited, so nervous.

Miguel blew her a kiss and she read in his expression This will be over soon, which made her feel a smidge better. Maybe this was good, give Miguel a hearty dose of Brassy Mommy—which was a better match to Grace’s descriptions than the Jolly Chef and Carefree Hostess he’d witnessed for much of the evening. Maybe Jackie really hadn’t changed as much as it sometimes seemed. Her stresses were different now and her culinary skills improved, but perhaps underneath she was still the poisonous viper from Grace’s youth, waiting to lash out.



For a moment there were just the sounds from outside—a car with the radio too loud, the jarring detonation of a pre-Fourth of July firecracker. Grace hoped, in the conversational lull, that the evening was winding down. But then Jackie caught the direction of Miguel’s gaze. “You’ve never seen Hope?”

“No.”

“Gray isn’t big on family photos. Hope was a dear, a little sweetheart. Difficult, but that wasn’t her fault.” Just as Grace thought her mother was about to slip into a more somber mood, Jackie rebounded. “Hope was smart as a whip. When they were about six, she convinced Grace that Grace was pregnant and gonna have a baby. They didn’t even know the birds and the bees—at least Grace didn’t!—but Hope said something to her and Grace came to me crying, said she wasn’t ready for a baby. I about panicked, thinking someone had messed with her, but no, it was just her sister, playing a little trick.”

Was this a funny story? No, not really. Miguel didn’t look as amused as before, but he was alert and keen to pick up more clues about Hope. Jackie never knew exactly what Hope had said to convince Grace she was pregnant, but Grace remembered.

“Did you pee this morning, then poop?” Hope had asked.

“Yes.”

“Did Jacob tag you when you were playing tag?”

“Yes.”

“Was he sweaty?”