This Is Not How It Ends(35)

CHAPTER 16

August 2016, Back Then

Kansas City, Missouri

I was in my mother’s kitchen. The outline of her face was clear enough for me to see the mole on her left cheek, the one I tried to wipe off when I was three because I thought it was chocolate. Her tight blonde curls were wrapped in a bright-yellow scarf, giving off a youthful glow. She was preparing rack of lamb, and I watched her drop seasonings into the pan—each garlic clove, each sprig of rosemary, a touch of love.

“Charlotte, if you can read, you can cook,” she told me, but I disagreed.

“It’s innate, Mom.” I’d watched her in front of a pan of fish, sprinkling seasonings and sauces without a measuring cup in sight. I was a deliberate chef, a stickler for rules, directions, and precise measurements. That’s why my meals tasted bland and flavorless. Panache was a gift I hadn’t inherited.

A knock on the door meant Philip had arrived. It was his birthday, and all he wanted was for my mother to cook for him. He could’ve had his selection of delicacies, but he chose her, and that was one of his many gifts.

In lieu of customary flowers, he brought her a Cuisinart. She admired its size and capabilities, although she muttered under her breath, “I can do anything this overpriced machine can do. And better.”

Dinner was enjoyable and brimming with laughter. Philip had Mom in stitches with stories about his travels. The mishaps of lost luggage, the time he entered the wrong car in Amsterdam and ended up in the Red Light District with some of his more conservative clients. A business dinner that led to a trip to the emergency room with a foreign object stuck in a foreign location. Mom’s eyes glistened. She didn’t even attempt to wipe the dampness from the corners. And when the cheers died down, she did what she did best: snooped. Once Philip opened a bottle of wine, she moved in for the kill. She asked about his parents, his previous marriage, the bevy of women who followed, and why he chose me.

“Mother!” I exclaimed, though part of me shamelessly wanted to hear the answers. Philip covered my hand with his and revealed himself to my mom in the absence of his own. “Women,” he stated, “misunderstood, yet lovely . . . such a messy cause to love and be loved.”

“You’re not answering the question, young man.”

Philip held on to my fingers, never letting go. “Natasha was the closest I came to . . . well, I tried, I did. We married young. She wanted kids. Lots of them. And the marriage became secondary to what I termed an unhealthy desire—”

“You don’t want children?” Mother interrupted, not letting him finish.

Philip dropped my hand and crossed his arms.

“Mom,” I said, “you only had one . . . not everyone wants—”

“But at least one, Charlotte.” She was looking directly at me. “You want at least one child, don’t you?”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

Philip recognized what the probing was doing to me. “To answer your question, Katherine, I wanted children, but not after a week of marriage. And not at eighteen. I wanted to enjoy my wife, at the time, and she became hyperfocused on basal temperature.

“After that, there was never a good time. There was always the issue of geography and one case of stalking that left me rather skittish about these sorts of relationships.”

As I was half listening, a large sign trespassed through my mind. It was inscribed across crisp, white paper in large, bold letters: “Philip Doesn’t Want Children.” Though he chalked it up to being young, I heard a reluctance that sounded a lot like refusal. I felt it. I felt him. And I quickly dismissed it because I understood the wavering. It was similar to mine. Outside the window, the street lights shined on our shortcomings. For now, it was enough to be sheathed in the giddy high of a new relationship. Certainly, Philip and I had learned from our past experiences. Should we change our minds, we’d be the best parents possible. Yet the nagging persisted, and I wasn’t entirely convinced that Philip felt the same way.

When he finally landed on us and what attracted him to me, I bathed in his words, letting them wring out the fear and doubt that had pooled beneath my skin. “Perhaps I might have walked right by her on a crowded street, but Charley has an inner beauty far lovelier than . . .”

“Wait,” I stopped him. “Are you actually insulting me?” I turned to my mother. “You hear this, Mom, he’s letting you know about the prettier and skinnier girls . . .”

“I’m not saying that, Charley.” He was smirking. “I love your bum,” he said, proceeding to grab it under the table. “It’s a lovely bum.” Then he held out his hands to emphasize the size.

“She gets that from her father’s side of the family,” my mother joked.

“Okay, that’s enough,” I said. “My ass is not that big. Go on, Philip. Tell Mom why you fell for me.”

He cleared his throat. “Like I said, she was more brains than—”

This time I banged into him hard. “I’m kidding, darling. All in good fun.” Then he turned to my mother. “But seriously, Katherine, your daughter’s not ordinary. We actually shared a rather stimulating, philosophical conversation on the plane. She forgave my awful behavior—of course, a glass of wine helped—and I admired the way she listened. You know how people pretend to listen? They yes you while they’re off somewhere else? Charley doesn’t do that. Never. And she’s committed to those kids. It’s very endearing.”