Downstairs I see what Lola is talking about. Mom has lost her mind.
“Mom?” I ask, approaching her like she’s wearing a vest full of dynamite. “What are you doing?”
“I’m keeping myself busy, Nina,” she says, walking around the dining room table, touching a book here and a paper craft there.
“With every hobby known to man?” I ask.
“These are all the things I wanted to try out while your father was at Elm Village,” Mom says, admiring the array. “I bought all the supplies. I just never got around to doing them.”
The table is “set” with each place setting like a display ad for a different hobby or subject of interest. Lola’s childhood place is a “How to Knit Sock Puppets” project, complete with manual, socks, buttons, and yarn. Ray’s seat is laid out with tarot cards and a Magic 8-Ball. My place holds a paint-by-numbers set and Starting Fresh: A Widow’s Guide to Second Chances, while Mom’s place at the table is covered in colored tissue paper and sports one pre-made giant tissue paper flower. Dad’s is Mummies for All Occasions: How to Make Your Own Halloween Masks.
“I’m hoping something will spark my fancy,” Mom says and picks up the paper flower to smell it. “Do you think Cassie would want to do one of these with me?”
“Mom,” I say. “It’s barely daybreak. When did you set this up?”
“Isn’t it great?” Lola says, picking up one of Dad’s brown dress socks. “Mom, let’s do the puppets first.”
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” Mom answers my question. “I didn’t want to wake you kids up. Did I?”
Lola and I exchange a quick glance and smile.
Ray comes up from the basement den, rubbing his eyes. I get a flash of Ray as a child, back when he used to meet us in the kitchen for breakfast. Back when there was breakfast. Before Mom was forever at Lola’s side and we were left to fend for ourselves. There were also the mornings when Dad made French toast or crepes or something fantastic and elaborate to hold our attention so that we wouldn’t ask for mom and he wouldn’t have to explain that Mommy was in the bathroom and not feeling well. We knew fancy breakfast meant Mom was hungover.
“Do you miss Mom?” I had asked Ray once after the accident—after Mom flipped a switch.
“She can’t help it,” Ray had said. “She’s in a lose-lose situation.”
I didn’t really understand what he meant then. But I realize now that Ray was letting her off the hook. He was cutting the apron strings himself. It was brave of him, but, I think in part, it was also his way of taking on all of the blame.
Now, we all stand around looking at him like we’ve spotted a ghost.
Mom moves her hand like she’s going to reach out to him, but she hesitates.
“Good morning, Ray,” Lola says and hugs him.
He doesn’t put his arms around her, but she doesn’t let go. He looks at me over Lola’s shoulders, and I nod at him. He wraps his arms around her, but just for a moment. She turns him loose. He picks up a book titled Contacting the Dead for Dummies.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“I love you, Mom,” Lola says and gives her a hug, too.
“I know,” she says. “I know.”
Mom is one paper flower away from being committed. She picks up the book from Dad’s spot, flips through it, and asks Ray, “Do you want to be a werewolf for Halloween?”
“I’m forty-four years old,” he answers.
“Ok, then,” Mom says. “A mummy it is.”
It’s funny and I want to laugh, but I find that I can’t give her the satisfaction. I don’t like that I’m withholding it from her, even if she doesn’t know it.
“I’m going to go into the office,” I say and move dramatically—maybe overly so—away from the table of insanity. “I really should get some work done today.”
“I thought you took the day off,” Mom says. “What about Cassie? When is she coming back from Jack’s?”
“I did,” I say. “But I’ll go crazy just idling around. Too many things to think about. And I don’t know that she is coming back from Jack’s.”
“Oh, don’t be melodramatic,” Mom says.
“Happy daydreaming,” Lola says.
On my way out the door, I hear Ray ask Lola what she’s talking about. I don’t hear what she tells him. If I’ve provided a way for them to start talking I won’t even be mad.
Reaching for the door handle, I’m reminded of Oliver standing next to me last night, holding me close and kissing the tears off my face. I touch my cheek and think that I can still feel the warmth of his lips against my skin.
At work, I call Cassie and get her voice mail.
“Just call me back,” I say, trying not to sound desperate. “You can stay at Dad’s if you want to; I just want to talk to you.”
I hang up and wait for her to call. I figure she’s screening—mostly to avoid me—and try not to be too heartbroken over that. I fail. Her phone is a light blue, glittery extension of her hand. I know she’s seen that I have called.
When all else fails, I work. I read over way number sixteen to make lemonade. It involves fresh ginger root. Since the recipes are simple enough, I’ve decided to actually make them. I’ll photograph the ingredients, the process, and finally the finished glass. I’m outside in the “garden,” a space the company built for us to go and meditate. Translated: a place to storm off to when the stress is too high. But it is beautiful, and I have this idea to shoot the lemonade as if it were being made in the midst of a
