“Quinn! So glad you’re home!” Marty greeted her at the door, but it sounded more like, “Thank Jesus and all twelve you’re back. Here. Take your mother.” Her voice was tight and her eyes were bleary.
Ingrid sat between them, a consoling hand on each of their laps. She mouthed “help” to Quinn.
Aw, hell.
Wanda’s face was weary when she looked up from her spot on the couch, a cold pack on her head. “Hi, honey. How was your day?”
Quinn rushed to the couch, ignoring the residual dull tremors still coursing through her body.
Her mother had struck. No one knew that look of total physical and mental exhaustion better than Quinn. “Don’t worry about me. How are you two?” She motioned for Ingrid to make room on the couch then grabbed Wanda’s hand and patted the space beside her for Marty to sit.
Wanda blew out a tired breath. “It would be a falsehood to say your mother is crazy hard to please.”
“I’m so sorry. I knew she’d wear even you two down. She’s difficult and critical and I shouldn’t have let you offer to take her to the other room, let alone a day of shopping and the bird sanctuary.”
Marty shook her head, tucking her mussed hair behind her ear and stretching her legs with a groan. “How did you do it, Quinn? That’s what I wanna know. Nothing satisfies her. From where we chose to take her to lunch right down to the way the bird sanctuary tour was set up.”
“She’s not exactly cookies and warm milk, is she?” Quinn said, patting Marty’s thigh.
“Oh no,” Wanda murmured, closing her eyes and pressing the cold pack to her forehead. “She’s shivs and testicle-hacking all the bloody way.”
“That poor man who mistakenly bumped into her in line to see the penguins. Do you think he’s scraped his ass off the floor of the sanctuary yet?”
Wanda giggled wearily. “Nope. But I bet he knows way more than he ever wanted to about male privilege.”
“It’s like she wrote it psalm and verse,” Marty said on a moan.
Quinn sat up and moved to the edge of the couch. “I’m really, really sorry. I knew she’d spoil things because that’s just my mom. It’s why I live in Manhattan in a rundown apartment and she lives in Jersey. We need that bridge to keep me from committing homicide.”
Wanda pulled the pack from her eyes. “You do know it’s not you, don’t you, Quinn? That you’re absolutely not the reason she’s so harsh and critical, right?”
Quinn shrugged. She’d tried for many years to convince herself it wasn’t her, but everything had changed once her father left. “Most of the time, yes. Logically I know her ball-busting has nothing to do with me. In my heart? Not always so much.”
Marty tilted her head and smiled, small lines of exhaustion wreathing her eyes. “Because you want her to find peace and it hurts to know she’s in so much pain. I get that.”
Guilt overwhelmed her. “You guys have done enough. I’d bet you want out of here pronto. So go home to your families. I’ll be all right. And I’ll handle my mother.”
Wanda shook her head. “That’s not how this works, sweetie. We stay for the long haul until we’re comfortable that you’re comfortable and all bad guys or the possibility of bad guys is eliminated. No man-hating mother can scare us off. It’s what we do.”
A commotion in the kitchen led to Archibald’s terse tone. “I believe I’ve told you, madam, I have the roast well under control. It must sit for ten minutes before one slices it. To do otherwise is unseemly!”
“Isn’t that just like a man to—”
“Mom!” Quinn was off the couch and around the corner to the kitchen where a harried Archibald stood, knife in hand.
“You’re finally back,” Helen said, readjusting her turtleneck.
Quinn held on to her patience—tight. “You say that as though I left you with Satan to the seventh level of hell. It’s not like I knew you were dropping in for a visit, Mom. I had plans today.”
“With your gay friend who couldn’t charm a woman if he went to charm school.”
Quinn felt that same old anxiety in the pit of her stomach her mother always stirred up. “Mom, please don’t be so rude. Marty and Wanda showed you a lovely time, and you’re in here harassing Archibald, who, by the way, is cooking you an amazing dinner.”
“Baby, you’re a firework!” Nina sang, gripping Helen’s shoulders and almost lifting her off the floor as she guided her mother out of the kitchen. “C’mon, Mama Bear. It’s time to yank that stick outta your keister and take a breather from your reign as Beatdown Queen. Even queens need a vacay.”