“This is not full name serious,” I taunt.
“To you,” she digs in, ready for this fight.
“Fine,” I concede, running my hands through my hair in frustration, but wanting no part of the oncoming rant if she doesn’t get her way on this. Mom tends to get emotional more often than not, forever wearing her heart on her sleeve. She’s always felt things on a deeper level than most people do.
It’s one of the character traits I love most about her and identify with, which is why I’m well equipped to handle her because I have them myself at times.
A smile threatens at the memory of Natalie having her own moment hovering above me in the bar parking lot. Her long, strawberry hair whipping around her face, sticking to her lips. Even in the midst of her wardrobe crisis, she looked like a beautifully wrapped disaster, emotions warring, cheeks pinkening with embarrassment as her eyes battered mine with a plea to keep my company. She won that battle far too easily, and I let her because I would have been hard-pressed to leave her there looking as lost as she seemed. She reminded me of Mom a little then—and myself, too, her emotions prickling just beneath her skin. The exchange only sparked my interest.
Upon first meeting her, I assumed the conclusions I’d drawn about her since her threatening call were right. That she was privileged and ruthlessly abusive because of it. Turns out, she’s the opposite of what I expected, showing clear remorse for that call by apologizing more than once. Mom speaks up while stirring her sauce again, and I shoot up a silent prayer that she’s planning on dining alone. “What did you do today?”
“I cruised around and went to the Chihuly Garden.”
She tosses an inquisitive glance over her shoulder. “Alone?”
I nod, refusing to add words to my lie, but for now, respecting Natalie’s request that our parents remain out of it. I could easily relay anything to either one of them. As furious as they would be about how she cornered me, they wouldn’t interfere if I asked them to stay out of it, but I allow the white lie anyway.
Mom opens a box of pasta and dumps it into boiling water as Natalie’s confession about our parents’ dating comes to mind. Her back-pedaling today and request to forget she mentioned it has me curious.
“Hey, Mom? Did you ever seriously date anyone other than Dad?”
She turns to me, her brows furrowing. “What?”
“You heard me. Did you?”
“Yeah, I did. We didn’t get back together and marry until I was on the downside of my twenties, so of course I did,” she replies easily enough, her eyes going a little distant before focusing back on me. “Why?”
“Just curious…”
She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Oh, shit.”
She does the sign of the cross, and I snort. “Mom, you’re not religious.”
“I am religious, more so now if you met a girl. Did you meet a girl? Please lie if it’s serious, especially since you’re about to hit stardust.” She sighs dramatically, placing her palms on the island between us as if to draw strength. “Look, no matter which way JR,” she dips her chin to insinuate I call my junk JR, “is directing you right now, walk away from the light.”
When I give no reply to the utter ridiculousness of her statement, she mutters a curse before pulling the fridge open to check the egg carton for a count. Realizing what she’s up to, I quickly speak up.
“Mom, chill. No open eggs under my bed, or white sage, or whatever superstitious voodoo shit you’re conjuring up in that crazy brain. You don’t even really believe it.”
“Eggs are for bad dreams anyway. I think I’m supposed to clean your bedroom door and then bury the rag or something. I’ll check with your grandmother.” Mom is half Latina and practices the superstitious rituals her aunts in Mexico instilled in her—which Dad finds hilarious. I did too, until middle school when she chaperoned a field trip near Cedar Lake for a picnic. The second I set foot in the river, she placed her hand on my head and screamed my name three times, explaining if she hadn’t, the river spirits would take me away. The kids around us immediately fled the water, some crying. It embarrassed the shit out of me, and I still haven’t forgiven her. Even as I inwardly roll my eyes at her rituals, she pinches and disperses oregano into the bubbling saucepan in a cross formation.
“Do you really believe in that shit?”
“You know I do. Your father and I have had some really insane crap happen over the years, mostly in a good way. I believe in fate, karma, and things that work together for the greater good. If a little practiced superstition helps negate the bad, what’s the harm?”