“He did some work for the store a while back,” I tell her. “He’s the one who headed the crew that did the remodel.”
“So he’s an employee?” my mom asks.
“No,” I tell her. “He’s helped a bit after the remodel and all that, but I wouldn’t say that he’s an employee.”
“So who is he?” she asks, but just as quickly moves on, saying, “You know, there are spiders in this world that flick their hair at you when you invade their space?”
“I didn’t know that,” I answer, smiling.
“Does Eric?” she asks and leans her head forward a bit, whispering, “Who is he again?”
“I did, actually,” Eric tells her. “We used to have a Chilean rose tarantula when I was a kid. That thing would urticate every time we’d go to feed it. It was a pretty foul-tempered thing.”
“Oh, how nice,” my mom says, looking at him ever so briefly. She looks back at me, saying, “You know, I think the nurses are after my sugar free gum.”
She gives an exaggerated nod of her head, and I’m trying not to laugh.
This is actually about the best case scenario. Not only is she being semi-polite to Eric and me, but she’s got some color back in her face. She’s already looking healthier.
“Eric,” my mom says, “I’m wondering if I could impose upon you for a favor.”
“Sure thing,” he answers. “What can I do for you?”
“I keep asking the nurses to bring me a diet cherry cola, but they always seem to come back with a diet cola, no cherry, or a cherry cola, no diet. Last night, one of them came back with a diet cherry soda that wasn’t even a cola. I was wondering if you might have the sense enough to bring me the right thing for the first time since I’ve been in this hospital,” she requests.
“Not a problem,” he says. “Did you want a can or a bottle?”
“It doesn’t matter, dear,” she answers. “Thank you.”
He walks out of the room and I sit next to my mother’s bed.
“You’re sleeping together, aren’t you?” my mom asks.
I’m a teenager again, coming home in the passenger’s seat of my then-boyfriend’s Camaro, asking him to just keep driving for a little while longer.
“Why would you say that?” I ask.
“Well, for one thing,” my mom says, “he’s g-r-e-g-o-n-s-e-u-s, gorgeous.”
“You do know that’s not how you spell gorgeous, right?” I ask with a chortle.
“What did I spell?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “Something like gregonseus.”
“Well, that’s not a word, sweetheart,” my mom says. “You really should have paid more attention in school.”
I’m hoping that we’re past her question and onto something else, but that’s a hope that never seems to see fruition.
“You are, aren’t you?” she asks.
“I’m what?” I ask, just going for that last-ditch possibility that there’s still time for me to avoid this conversation.
“You’re having sex with him,” she says. “I may be your mother, but I was a young woman once. I know the signs.”
“What are the signs?” I ask.
“I know what you’re doing,” she says. “Answer the question.”
“Mom, I think it’s just the drugs talking,” I answer.
“So you’re not having a relationship with him?” she asks.
“I wouldn’t say that,” I answer.
“What would you say?” she asks. “Remember, if you don’t tell me, I’m just as happy watching my nature program.”
She lifts a finger toward the television which is on some ultra-violent prison show.
“Mom, what are they giving you for the pain?” I ask, smirking.
“You can’t have any, dear,” she answers. “You know, if I was your age, I wouldn’t waste a minute with that man.”
“Really?” I ask. “You don’t like him?”
“What?” my mom asks, “Why would you say that?”
“You just said that you wouldn’t waste a minute with him,” I remind her.
“No,” she says, “I meant that I would be bent over the arm of the couch with my pants around my—”
OMG.
“Is there any way I could get you to not finish that sentence?” I interrupt with a shudder.
“Do you love him?” she asks.
“Can we talk about something else?” I return.
“If you don’t, that’s okay, sweetheart,” she says. “I just want to know that you’re well taken care of.”
“I like him,” I tell her. “I think love is a ways off, though.”
I was lying to myself…to my mom. I hoped the questions would stop by saying that.
“Is there potential for it?” she asks.
I was wrong.
“I don’t know,” I tell her, “maybe.”
“Oh, I hope so,” she says. “The two of you would have the most beautiful grandchildren. Don’t you think?”
“I really haven’t given it that much thought,” I answer.
“No,” she says. “I was talking to him.”
I spin around and sure enough, Eric’s in the doorway with a bottle of diet cherry cola in his hand.
He pretends like he doesn’t hear the question and, opening the bottle and handing it to my mother, he says, “I think this was the last one, but if you like, we can pick you up some from the store so you have them while you’re here.”
“That’s very kind of you,” my mom says and I know the smile on her face is in reaction to the hot redness of my face. “I was just asking my daughter if she thought the two of you had a future together and she didn’t seem to have a clear answer to the question. I was hoping maybe you might.”
It’s been so long since I’ve dated anyone that I’d forgotten about her little gambits with my significant others.
She did something similar with Will when I was in high school, only that time it took the form of asking him whether he had any useful knowledge about the female anatomy. After he left and I demanded an explanation, she just told me that it was a character question.
When I pressed her on the subject, she said that there was no right answer. If he said yes, he would be admitting that he’s either slept with me or some other floozy (she made sure to include the word “other” before the word “floozy) before he and I got together. If he said no, then he was an idiot. The truth, she said, was in how he answered, not what he answered.
“I don’t know,” he says. “The relationship’s still very new, but I’m hopeful.”
He looks at me and then winks. And that’s all it took to fill my body with warmth.
“And what are you hoping for?” my mom asks.
“How’s your treatment going?” I ask, knowing it to be a futile exercise.
“The doctors are hopeful,” my mom says.
I did kind of open the door for her on that one.
“Thank you for the cola, dear,” my mom says and for a minute, she stares off at the TV.
A doctor comes in the room, but doesn’t say anything. He just checks her SATs and walks back out again as quickly as he entered.
“When I was Jessica’s age,” my mom tells Eric as she continues to stare at the television screen, “I never thought that I was going to meet the right man. Then,” she says, turning toward me, “your father came along.”
“That’s very—” I start, but my mom isn’t done.
“Then I knew I was never going to meet the right man,” she howls.
Eric and I look at each other uncomfortably for a moment, waiting for my mom to stop laughing.
Finally, she catches her breath and says, “Your sister was here earlier. Did you hear that insect she’s been dating managed to slip one by the armed guards?”
Eric cocks his head, not understanding, but my answer to my mom’s question clarifies things well enough, “Yeah, she told me she’s pregnant.”
“Now, there’s a grandchild I already know is going to need some counseling,” my mom says. “It wouldn’t be so bad if your sister’s boyfriend wasn’t such a twat.”
“Mom!” I exclaim and Eric quickly turns away, unable to hide the fact that his shoulders are sharply moving up and down.
“He is, dear,” my mom says. “I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone who’s that high-strung, and I raised you for crying out loud.”