I'm Glad My Mom Died(82)

I do everything in my power to avoid looking at her leggings.

“Not a huge fan of animal print.”

“Oh,” she says, slightly offended. “Well, it would just be subtle accents. We could do some cheetah print, or cow print, or zebra print, that’s very in right now.”

Why are you pushing zebras on me, Liz?! I don’t want zebra print on my pillows or my blankets or my curtains. It’s a thing I’ve never understood, why we have to go and try to make pillows and blankets and curtains “fun” with prints. These things aren’t fun, they’re functional. Give me some simple, solid-colored, coordinating furniture and let’s call it a day.

“That’s okay,” I say as delicately as I can. “I just want simple stuff. I don’t have an eye for it, but I know I want simple.”

“But you’re so young! And fun! Don’t you want your space to reflect that?”

No.

“Uhh…”

“Why don’t we just try it? Why don’t we just start with this plan and then anything you don’t like I can return, except for the things that are nonrefundable.”

A pushover is a bad thing to be, but an opinionated pushover is a worse thing to be. A pushover is nice and goes along with it, whatever it is. An opinionated pushover acts nice and goes along with it, but while quietly brooding and resentful. I am an opinionated pushover.

“Okay,” I say politely, brooding.

Three days later, mint-and-cream cheetah-print curtains show up at my doorstep with a receipt: $14,742. Liz is clearly used to working with clients who don’t mind dropping fifteen grand to block the sun, but I am not one of those clients.

Prints and pricing aside, I’m starting to accept that it doesn’t matter what kind of blankets or curtains or pillows I have, they won’t make up for the constant construction and the loneliness and the stalkers with the bloody roses. I can’t be in this house.

I call Liz to tell her I won’t be needing her services anymore.

“Well, I am disappointed,” she tells me. “But I totally understand and wish you the best of luck with decorating your home.”

“Thanks, but actually I think I’m gonna sell it.”

“Oh?”

“Yep.”

“Well okay…”

“Yeah. So, anyway… let me know where you want me to drop off the cheetah curtains so you can return them.”

“Oh, those are nonrefundable.”



* * *



Now, days later, I’m trying to reason with Grandma.

“I don’t understand why me selling this house is such a big deal to you.”

“Because!” Grandma shouts.

I always forget that trying to reason with the unreasonable is… unreasonable.

“This is what’s best for me. And I’d really appreciate if you’d support the decision.”

“Well I don’t. I just don’t!” Grandma buries her head in Grandpa’s armpit.

“It’s all right, hun. It’s gonna be all right,” Grandpa tells her.

“Where are ya even gonna be movin’ to, doll?” Grandma asks with a sniffle.

“I’m moving into an apartment above The Americana.”

“The Americana?” Grandma turns to face me, sniffle-less. “That fancy shopping center with the fountain and the Frank Sinatra music?”

“That’s the one.”

She hesitates.

“I guess it won’t be that bad. They do have an Ann Taylor Loft there…”





84.


“IS THIS TRYING TOO HARD?” I ask Colton and Miranda. They’re helping me pick out the outfit I’m gonna wear to the big event.

“I’d take off the skirt. It’s a little… much,” Colton tells me.

I appreciate his honesty and grab some jeans instead.

“Better.” He nods.

“What if he doesn’t like me?” I shout to them as I head into the bathroom to change.

“He’s gonna like you,” Miranda calls out to assure me.

I’m so jittery. I’m way more nervous than I’ve ever been to go on a first date. Maybe because the stakes are higher. This isn’t just any first date. This is my first date with my biological dad.

We’re in Miranda’s Porsche on the 405 as we head down to Newport Beach to the hotel where the concert is happening.

“So your bio-dad plays the trumpet?” Colton asks as we get close to the destination.

“Trombone,” I correct him.

“Same thing,” Colton says with a shrug.

I know he’s trying to keep the conversation going because the mood’s gotten heavier the closer we’ve gotten to the hotel. With good reason. I’m showing up unannounced at the jazz concert performed by my biological father who I’m not sure even knows I exist.

Even though I wasn’t able to find out much from Mark-Dad about the situation, I was able to get bio-dad’s full name and occupation, which was enough for a quick online search to lead me to his official website. He had a list of credits that he’s played on the soundtracks of—various Star Wars films, Jurassic World, Lost, and countless others—and a list of upcoming tour dates for his fun side passion project, a jazz band. I chose the latest possible LA area date to attend, because I wanted as much time as possible to emotionally prepare.