remember the last time I went home.
Well, it’s not exactly home. Home will always be the house in which I grew up, which is in Westfield, New Jersey. It’s the same distance from Philadelphia, but in the opposite direction of where Mom now lives. A few months ago, Mom sold our Westfield house and bought a townhouse in a development called The Garden. With Dad gone, Mom said she didn’t need a whole house. I have visited The Garden townhouse twice. It’s nice. The thing is this: Mom’s new house is Mom’s house. Not Mom and Dad’s house.
Sally and I cruise down the Ben Bridge and merge onto Admiral Wilson Boulevard. The sign on my right says, “Welcome to New Jersey.”
I hold back my tears as if I’m holding my bladder and looking for a rest stop. We’re almost there, I tell myself. Hold it in.
Up and over a ramp and onto another highway. This one is Route 108. It carries me past full-service gas stations, dollar stores, and more Dunkin’ Donuts than seems necessary. Lonestar Steakhouse, Outback Steakhouse, Subway, Quizno’s, TGI Friday’s, Houlihan’s, Pizzeria Uno, Pizza Hut. Only yesterday I was sipping a café crème on Boulevard Saint Germain.
When I get to Kean Road, I turn left and drive quickly away from the highway to strip mall hell. Then comes heaven, or at least purgatory. Trees. Woods. A farm. And hey, a farmstand. Oh, Jersey. My schizophrenic state.
Finally I see the giant sign for The Garden, Mom’s development.
The Garden’s neat townhouses sit side by side, ten to a street. The houses have identical gray siding. The color of the trim varies. Cranberry red, spinach green, dark peach. Mom lives on Tomato Road and when I turn onto it, I breathe easier.
“Come on, Olga.” I wheel her to Mom’s front door and realize that I don’t have a key to Mom’s townhouse. Why would I? I don’t live within shouting distance like my brother.
It feels weird to ring the doorbell at my mother’s house. But I do, and hear the chimes. Quickly, I smooth my frantic hair and try to wipe away the black mascara that leaked onto my cheeks. It’s no use. I’m a mess. Lace curtains on the door separate and a pair of green eyes look at me. The door opens. “Hello, gorgeous,” Mom says.
I start to cry.
Bobbi Louis
“Oh, honey!” Mom pulls me into her house. I leave Olga by the door and let Mom lead me to her taupe couch.
“What happened?” Mom says as she puts her arms around me.
I tell Mom my tale of woe. Rather, I start to tell her. The phone rings, interrupting me. “Let me get that,” Mom says. But the phone gets her. Mom chatters away to someone named Helen.
Leaning out of the kitchen, Mom says, “I’ll be off in a minute.”
No hurry. I’ll still be a mess when she gets off the phone.
While Mom continues her conversation, I look around the living room. Mom’s done quite a bit of decorating since last I was here. The room is done in soft, feminine colors. Pale peach walls, beige carpeting, glass and chrome etagere, egg white couches, champagne and peach pillows. A vase of white tulips sits on the blond wood coffee table. Nice. Different from Westfield. But nice.
“Sorry,” Mom apologizes when she comes back to the couch. “That was Helen.”
“Okay,” I say, having no idea who Helen is. “Did you have plans for tonight?” It didn’t occur to me that she would.
Mom waves her hands, which I see are French manicured. That, too, is different. Dad liked his woman to wear red nail polish. “Helen and I are taking a sculpture class. She can go without me.”
“You sculpt?” Who is this woman?
“I’m not going anywhere,” Mom says firmly. “Tell me the rest of the story.”
Lipstick Theory
When I finish describing Nick’s philandering, Mom looks angry. She says, “I’m going to call his mother.”
I laugh.
“I’m serious,” Mom says. “I called Stevie Klein’s mother when he broke up with you right before the winter dance.”
“That was in eighth grade, Mom.”
“Stevie got grounded for a month for being a schmuck.”
“I don’t think Nick’s mother is going to ground him,” I say. “But I appreciate the sentiment, Mom.”
“Nobody makes my little girl cry,” Mom says fiercely. “Although…”
“What?”
“Well, Mimi, you did rush into the relationship with Nick. You dated him for, what? Three months? You should’ve gotten to know him better before you quit your job and gave up your apartment.”
“Mom,” I say, wounded.
“What? You came to