She didn’t flinch away as I anticipated when I slid back her headphones. “Andee, what happened?”
Her arms folded over her chest. “Nothing.”
“You didn’t get suspended because ‘nothing’ happened.”
My phone rang; the office was calling.
More calls from the office had interrupted family events, milestones, talks, and moments than I cared to tally. This time, I hit Decline when I detected what appeared to be a clear globe forming at the outer corner of Andee’s eye.
“What did those boys say?” I let a few moments of silence pass before continuing. “Did they do anything to you?” My throat moved with the bloated suggestion, wondering how I could speak so skillfully in a courtroom and fail so grievously when speaking to my own child.
“What? Like assault me?” Andee snorted, gracing me with a look that announced I was as ineffective of a parent as I estimated I was. “If either of those assholes had tried, they would be in need of a surgeon skilled in appendage reattachment.” Shaking her head, she snapped her headphones back over her ears. “How much longer are you going to pretend to give a shit, Mom? Just so I can prepare myself for how many more minutes we’re going to play make-believe.”
My jaw locked, trapping the words or cries trying to escape. “Buckle up.” I sped out of the driveway.
“Careful. Your act’s starting to crumble,” Andee muttered, clicking her seatbelt into place.
When the phone rang—the office again—I hit Accept. “What?” I barked.
Andee clucked her tongue. “There she is.”
Two
My phone was my life—it was also a malignant tumor that would lead to my untimely death, I was convinced.
It hadn’t stopped ringing the rest of the day. I’d hung up with Connor less than a minute before it chimed again. My shoulders dropped when I saw who it was this time.
“Hey, Mom,” I answered in the liveliest voice I could conjure at seven thirty at night after waking up at five and squeezing in a month’s worth of items in fourteen odd hours.
“Did I catch you at a good time?” she asked.
“Actually I was just getting dinner set out—”
“Dinner at this hour?” I could see the look on her face based on her tone.
Fighting with the lighter, I finally managed to coax a flame from it to light the candles. “Noah isn’t home yet.”
“He works so many late nights. It’s got to be catching up with him.”
“Yeah, it’s exhausting working seventy hours a week.” After adjusting the wine glasses, I gave the table a satisfied nod. It was rare the three of us were under the same roof on any given week night, and sharing a dinner at the table was even rarer.
“I’m sure it is.” Mom paused, the sound of ice clinking against a glass following. At this time of day, it was iced tea with a twist of lemon and splash of rum. Some days it was less of a splash and more of a dump. “So what’s for dinner at nearly eight o’clock at night?”
I hadn’t realized I’d reached for the bottle of red wine I’d set out until I’d filled the wine glass in front of me. “Pot roast with scalloped potatoes and braised carrots.” Taking a drink of wine, I found myself adjusting the silverware at Noah’s setting, creeping the knife closer to the fork.
Mom made a sound of approval. “And what internal temperature did you make sure to get your pot roast to?”
My neck rolled.
“And you were sure to let it rest for how long before carving it?”
Back in the kitchen, I tossed the empty food containers from Luca’s Bistro into the garbage. Not that my mother couldn’t see through my attempt at selling the concept of a home-cooked meal. “I think I hear the garage door opening. Noah must be home. I should let you go—”
“Sweetheart, you know I only bring up these kinds of things because I care. I want you to have as happy and fulfilling a marriage as I have with your father.”
This time when I heard the ice clink in her glass, I took a sip with her. Mom either lived in a state of denial or adhered to the belief that extramarital affairs were a healthy part of every relationship. My father was well known for his strength in the courtroom . . . and his weakness for women. Despite remaining married for forty-five years, the two of them lived more as co-workers than spouses, their marriage a business instead of a relationship.
“Mom, everything is fine between Noah and me. We both have careers that demand a lot of our time and focus.”
“Let’s hope not so demanding there’s no time for intimacy.”
I almost choked on my wine. “Mom. Too far.”
“Yes? And when was the last time you and your husband were intimate?”
“First of all, by intimate do you mean spiritually or sexually because I’m struggling to keep up with your agenda of items to check off with me tonight?” I absently scrubbed at a water spot on the granite countertop, hoping Noah would come ambling into the kitchen any second.
An exasperated sigh echoed on the other end. “When was the last time you and your husband screwed? Does that clarify things for you?”
I checked behind me as if I were worried Andee or Noah were standing there and had overheard. “That is none of your business.”
“Which is all the confirmation I need to know it’s been too long.”
“Mom. We’ve been over this. I don’t feel comfortable sharing that part of my marriage with you.” Leaning into the counter, I closed my eyes. Would this day ever come to an end? “Pick a different topic or I really have to go.”
“Men have two appetites, darling. Just two, but they are bottomless.”
“Abort. Abort,” I mumbled, bracing for what was coming with a long drink of wine.
“As a wife, our role is to fulfill these appetites as frequently and capably as needed. However, for those of us who elect to have a career, it’s imperative you meet one of those appetites without fail.” Mom’s voice slowed the way a person’s did when they were trying to get a point across. “A husband can get takeout and delivery for the other kind of appetite, but you don’t want him ordering off of the value menu at some back alley Asian spa downtown.”
I finished what was left of my wine. “So eloquently put. Thank you. Is this the modern version of one’s mother advising a bride on her wedding day to keep her husband’s balls empty and stomach full? Because a few things have changed since then and modern marriage is more of a fifty-fifty partnership.”
Mom gave a broken sigh. “Things never change. Least of all how the game between men and women is played.” Another sigh, though this one was brief. “Just promise me you’ll do your best with Noah. They don’t make them like that anymore.”
My footsteps were soundless as I went to check the front window for signs of Noah’s car. “You mean men like him who do the honorable thing and marry the young woman they accidently impregnate?” My tone was biting, to better mask the emotion swelling within.
“He’s a good man.” Mom’s voice was soft, edging on maternal.
I almost broke down and flooded her with my fears where our marriage was concerned, but I caught myself before the cursed words slipped free.