The Dream - Whitney Dineen Page 0,29
the popcorn in my mouth. I’m hoping he hears that as hello.
“Don’t be mad,” he blurts out.
The last time I saw him, he took me out for a ridiculously expensive meal and even briefly held my hand. “Why would I be mad?”
“I didn’t think she’d do anything with the information. I just thought I was answering a harmless question.”
“What are you talking about?” I demand.
“My mama. She knows I picked you up yesterday and she asked where you lived.”
“Why would she care where I live?” I’m suddenly worried that if she knows I live at Shady Acres, she won’t think I’m good enough to take care of her mother-in-law. If that happens, then there goes my opportunity to spend more time with Davis.
“That’s why I thought it was small talk. I didn’t expect her to use the information. I mean, I sure as heck didn’t think she was planning on going over to see you.”
“What? Your mother is coming over to my place?” And just as I ask the question, there’s a knock on the door. “Oh, my god, I think she’s here now,” I whisper into the phone.
“Please don’t be mad. She’s just overzealous and excitable. Perhaps a bit high-strung.”
There’s another knock, only louder this time. “Yoo hoo, Ashley! It’s me, Lee. Honey, are you home?”
I’m tempted to pretend I’m not, but the lights are clearly on and the television was just blaring. All she has to do to see me sitting on my couch is to look through the window to the right of the door, which, yup, there she is. She waves madly, so I tentatively return the gesture. I hold up one finger to suggest that I’ll be with her in a minute.
“She’s here all right,” I tell Davis.
“Just tell her you have a headache or something. She’ll probably leave if you do that.”
“Fine,” I say before hanging up. I don’t tell people where I live for a reason. I like to think it has nothing to do with being embarrassed, but the truth is, that’s part of it. When I socialize, I don’t like to do it crammed into my rundown single-wide.
I open the door to see a smiling Lee Frothingham standing on the stoop. “Hi, honey, how are you?” she greets.
“I’m okay, I guess,” I tell her. “I just have a bit of a headache.” This is where she’s supposed to apologize for stopping by unannounced and go back to her car. That’s not what happens.
She pushes past me carrying two shopping bags. “I brought you leftovers from last night. I figured you didn’t have a chance to eat your dinner, and I didn’t want you to miss out on my beef Wellington and garlic mashed potatoes.”
She veers toward the kitchen and drops her two bags on the peeling red Formica countertop. Then she starts unpacking them. “Have you eaten yet?” she asks.
“I was going to have popcorn while I watched a movie.” She appears to be making herself at home by rummaging through my cabinets.
“Popcorn?” she exclaims like I’d just told her I was going to barbecue the neighbor’s shih tzu. “Honey, popcorn is no meal. You work too hard to just eat snacks for dinner. Go on,” she shoos me with both hands. “Sit down and I’ll heat up a plate for you.”
I’m completely torn as to what I should do. My gut says to show Lee the door as soon as humanly possible, but she seems intent on taking care of me and I kind of want to let her. It’s been a long time since I’ve been on the receiving end of motherly concern, and it feels nice.
“Get going,” she says again. “I’m not leaving until I see that you’ve eaten a good meal.”
“I actually had a great meal last night. Davis took me to Filene’s on the way home,” I tell her.
“Well, that was last night. You need a good supper every day to keep your strength up. Just sit down and let me take care of you.”
For some reason I do as she tells me. I curl up on the couch and watch how elegantly Lee plates the food she brought. She looks as out of place as “a whore in church” though. That lovely saying came from mom who used it in conjunction with how she felt whenever she didn’t fit in. Davis’s mom does not look like she belongs in my trailer.
It turns out that Lee hasn’t just brought me dinner, she’s brought it for herself