She had an impulse to tip over the couch just to see if she was right.
She must be right about something, anything really would do. She certainly was crazy, had become, in a matter of hours, a woman who gushed tears and… damn, had she left the chef’s knife in the bathroom? That would cinch it. Her mother probably hadn’t witnessed enough crazy behavior after being called over at dinner time to see her daughter not serving a meal but hiding under one. Gwen never thought she’d see the day her mother looked more domesticated than she did.
Ellen had even done the finger snap and used her Gwen Melissa voice, but it hadn’t been incentive enough for her to come out. She wasn’t ever coming out. Her daughter was gone and not gone in the good way she’d previously thought was the bad way, leaving for college. Missy was gone to ladies night and that smell, ooh, ooh, that smell. She had to get those lyrics out of her head and think happier thoughts. "The comforter is lovely, Mom. I don’t think you saw it."
"No. Did you get it at Stapleton’s?"
"I looked there, but they weren’t in sets."
"Sure. You needed the shams and dust ruffle. I don’t know why they don’t always come in sets. Nickel and dime you with buying each piece, I suppose."
"The Linen Source."
"Of course."
Gwen heard a sip then the cup tap the wood. Everything was so normal, except for her hiding, which was so wrong. She was broken and couldn’t even bring herself to believe it. "I heard once that the Indians couldn’t see Columbus’ ships because they didn’t know what ships were. There was no way for their brains to get the message from their eyes."
The tea cup knocked on the table. "That’s absurd."
"Yeah, I thought that too."
"It’s… why, it’s made up and makes no sense at all."
"I think that’s the point."
"Columbus stories are mostly untrue, although I have never doubted the sheep tales."
Gwen laughed, surprised by the sound and the feel of it coming from low inside her, foreign and reflexive.
Her mother’s face appeared below the edge of the table, more lined leaning down, but still lovely and familiar, even the overly blonde hair and still too much cleavage gave Gwen an unexpected feeling of nostalgia. Her mother raised one penciled eyebrow. "I made a little joke, didn’t I?"
Gwen smiled, her eyes filling with tears, regular ones this time, she realized with relief.
"A nicely vulgar one. I’m surprised I got you to laugh at it." Her mother smiled back at her and eyed her empty tea cup and Gwen’s bottle of wine.
"Come on, Mom." Gwen scooted over to make room. "Don’t be sheepish."
She might have dozed off, but it couldn’t have been for more than a few minutes given the level of her mother’s tea cup. Would it be called a wine cup? She felt her mother pat her leg. "There now, a little sleep makes everything better."
She tried to sit up cross-legged but stiffness forced her to put her legs straight out in front of her. How had her mother crawled under the table and managed a near lotus posture? Reaching for her wine, she took a warm sip. She might have slept closer to half an hour. Was everything made better? "Let’s see… husband’s gone, daughter’s gone, daughter mean on her way out. I’m under a table. Outside there’s a couple hundred dollars worth of linens and supplies and an electric teakettle ten times better than mine all packed in M's car. By me."
Her mother sighed. "Not better."
"You could make it better by saying that Steve is a rat, Missy is ungrateful, and I have my whole life ahead of me."
"Steve is Steve. Missy is eighteen. And you have half your life ahead of you."
Gwen rubbed her hand over her chest. "Ow."
"Better than I’ve got. I squeeze ten more years out before I’m incontinent, and I’ll be thrilled."
"Mother!"
"I have some leakage when I sneeze. I’m seventy, Gwen. I won’t always be around to sit with you under the table."
"I’ve never asked you to before."
"You didn’t ask me this time, did you? No. You wouldn’t. You were a competent little girl, Gwen. And you do everything so very well now."
"Everything? I don’t do anything well anymore. I don’t wife or mother or have anyone around to even fail to appreciate my cooking."
"You make a frittata like no one ever did."
"And now you sound like I’m dead."
"No, dear, you sound like you’re dead."
"I’m only