I set Dad up in a cheap motel and he acted like I put him in the Bel agio. I paid two nights in advance and I gave him $500, because a man had to have money in his pocket.
This left me $50 in the bank; groceries to buy and my car needed gas.
Dad and I planned to meet up at Fortnum’s the next morning with me bringing the donuts. Luckily, I’d have my tips from Smithie’s in my pocket by tomorrow morning so I could probably afford the donuts.
I went to the grocery store, got necessities, hit the gas station and arrived home later than usual. I needed a nap but probably wouldn’t have time. There was laundry to be done. Mom tried to help but she got tired quickly. She was trying to get back to doing things around the house and cooking for herself, but was finding it frustrating so I’d have to hang with her in the kitchen and help when she needed it.
We’d need to do some exercises too because she had PT
tomorrow and they didn’t like it when you didn’t exercise in between appointments. Then I had to cake on the makeup for Smithie’s and rol back out the door.
The minute I walked into the living room, lugging the groceries, Mom took one look at me and said, “What’s wrong?”
She freaked me out sometimes.
“Nothing.”
I had no intention of tel ing her Dad was in town. Un-unh, no way.
I went into the kitchen and started unloading the groceries. She rol ed into the doorway and blocked me in.
“Something’s wrong,” she said.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Henrietta Louise,” she said.
She always used my real name when she was ticked at me. Either that or “Missy”. I didn’t know where “Missy” came from but that name came out when she was super angry.
Mom had bright green eyes and great, thick blonde hair (blonde because Trixie came to the apartment and gave her a cut and color every six weeks—Trixie also gave her a manicure and pedicure every two weeks. Trixie had been my Mom’s best friend since high school, she loved her to death and she was an absolute gem). Mom also had a great smile, before the stroke, now it was stil good but kind of lopsided. She was a baton twirler in high school and she said they taught you how to smile when you were a baton twirler. They did a good job, she had a world-class smile, even Dad said that.
She wasn’t smiling now, she was frowning. “You look worried,” Mom said.
I always looked worried, how she could decipher that I w a s more worried was beyond my powers. I had no children and thus had not yet been instil ed with the “Mom Ability” to sense danger, worry, sadness, boyfriend troubles and when girls were bitchy to you at school.
I decided to take the path of least resistance, choosing a topic that would throw her off the scent (in other words, I kinda lied).
“Eddie thinks I’m a racist.”
She gasped. “What? ”
I shrugged.
“What would make him think that?” she asked.
I put away the milk, “It’s a misunderstanding.”
“I’l say. Do you want me to cal him?”
I had my head in the fridge but at that, I straightened and whirled around.
“No! Do not cal him!”
My Mom would cal him, no doubt about it. She didn’t have his number, but she’d find it. Not only would she cal him, she’d cal his mother, just to cover her bases and get the mom-to-mom business going. And not only that, she’d get Trixie to cal him and I really didn’t want that. Then, they’d get my ex-boyfriends, Javier, Alex, Luis and Oscar to phone him as well , as anti-racist character references.
“Indy’s straightening it out for me,” I said. This was also kind of a lie but also kind of the truth because I got the distinct feeling Indy was the kind of person who meddled.
“Wel I hope so. That’s awful. No wonder you look worried sick.”