is finely tuned, an invaluable tool when it comes to Love Guru advice.
“How are you feeling?” Mom asks.
Groggy and disoriented. “Okay.”
Before I can grab onto something to help myself stand, Lindsey hauls me to my feet. First class breaks out in applause, and I’m so embarrassed that I think I just might pass out again.
“Scoot over, Pat,” Lindsey says, and dumps me in the aisle seat.
I knew Lindsey was strong the moment I opened the door a month ago. She’s tall and big-boned, like a Valkyrie—the kind that sings opera and wears a big iron breastplate and horned helmet. Instead of golden braids, her hair is different shades of fried blond that she pulls back in a stubby ponytail. She towers over Mom and me and is a little rough around the edges and some of her manners are a bit raw.
“We’ll need some water and juice,” she tells a flight attendant as she takes her own seat across the aisle from me.
I didn’t think she was going to work out at first, but I was wrong. Lindsey’s a godsend. Mom really likes her, and they have several things in common. One, they talk about Mom’s daily bowel movements. While I understand that Lindsey needs to know if Mom’s insides are working properly, it’s not a proper topic for discussion at the dinner table. Two, they both think it’s necessary to announce when they’re “feeling bloated and gassy,” any time of the day or night. Like anyone wants or needs that information. It’s like they have a membership to the same bad-manners club, and I am the odd man out.
Which is fine with me.
My pump appears from over the top of the seat in front of me. “Thank you.”
Mom grabs it by the four-inch heel as I thread my arm through my jacket sleeve. I push my skirt to my knees and re-tuck my white blouse as best I can.
“You’re getting your color back,” Mom says, and puts the shoe in my lap.
“I’m tired.” I open the vents above my head and let the recycled air blow across my face. Normally, I close the vents because I don’t want recycled germs and cold air freezing me out, but nothing about this day is normal.
Before leaving for Sea-Tac this morning, I’d braided my hair and given Mom a side ponytail. She’d pulled on a cozy jogging suit while I’d pulled on my wool suit and four-inch heels. I could have left the house in cozy, warm sweats, but I am Lulu the Love Guru. I always have to look my best in public because the one time I don’t will be the one time I am recognized. The one time I have a big zit on my nose and bags under my eyes and I run into the store to grab a box of tampons and a Snickers will be the one time I hear someone behind me whisper, “That looks like Lulu the Love Guru—only uglier.”
A female flight attendant returns with a little bottle of cold water and a glass of orange juice and hands them to me.
“Where’s that foxy man?” Mom asks her.
Not foxy man again. This is getting embarrassing.
“Greg? He’s making coffee.”
“Ohhh… coffee.”
“Would you like me to bring you a cup?”
“No, but I would like Greg to bring me that snack basket so I can have another look at it.”
This will be her fourth go-round on snacks, and I suspect her hunger has more to do with “that foxy man” than with biscotti. I’m drinking the juice and holding the cold plastic bottle against my forehead when Greg returns with the basket.
“You’re so big and strong,” Mom coos as she plays with her side pony. “I like a big strong man. You make a girl feel safe.” The steward doesn’t know what to say to this old woman who keeps coming on to him. Some men look at my mom and just chuckle, while others look like they just want to run like hell. Greg falls somewhere in between.
“Mom, just pick a snack.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Biscotti, same as before,” I tell her.
“I wasn’t asking you,” she says without looking at me.
“You can’t go wrong with the biscotti,” he says.
“Ohhh, biscotti sounds wonderful.”
He hands it to her along with a napkin, then beats feet up the aisle.
“I wonder if he has a girlfriend.”
“He’s gay, Mom.”
She pauses for a heartbeat, then says, “Well, some men just haven’t met the right woman.”
I have to laugh. Mom’s never suffered from low self-esteem,