My mom had always been pretty. I look a lot like she did at my age, with the same blonde hair, blue eyes, and a frame both tall and thin enough to have slightly knobby knees and elbows. Unlike me, though, my mom had never wavered from her chosen path in high school, hitting all the marks that were expected of her as a popular southern girl: cheer team captain, homecoming queen, debutante. She dated the son of a congressman all the way from sophomore year to graduation—wearing a promise ring on a gold chain around her neck—volunteered in service league, and sang in the church choir every Sunday. In her high-school yearbook, she appears on page after page: group shots, candids, club photos. That girl in your class you can’t help but feel like you knew well, even if she never learned your name.
College, however, was not as easy for her. During her second week as a freshman at Defriese, Mr. Promise Ring dumped her over the phone, claiming their long-distance relationship just wasn’t working. She was devastated, and spent the next month holed up in her dorm room crying, leaving only to go to class and eat. It was at the cafeteria, red-eyed and pushing a tray down the food line, that she met my dad, who was doing work-study there to subsidize his tuition. He’d noticed her, of course, and always made a point of giving her a bit extra of mac and cheese or Salisbury steak, whatever he was doling out. One day he asked her if she was okay, and she burst into tears. He handed her a napkin; she took it and wiped her eyes. They were married five years later.
I loved this story, and as a kid I insisted on hearing it over and over again. I could see my dad in his hairnet (my mom called it cute), hear the hum of the bad Muzak the cafeteria always played, feel the steam from the broccoli cuts drifting up between them. I adored every image, every detail, as much as I loved the fact that my parents were so different and yet perfect for each other. Rich, popular girl meets working-class scholarship kid, who steals her heart and whisks her away to the ramshackle charm and chaos of the restaurant world. It was the best kind of love story . . . until there was an ending to it.
With my dad, my mom was different. Growing up, she’d had years of manicures and blow-outs, heels with everything, dressing not just for dinner but for breakfast and lunches as well. But when I was a kid, she was Katie Sweet, who wore jeans and clogs, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her only regular makeup a slick of clear lip gloss. At the restaurant, she could just as easily be found up to her elbows in Clorox water, scrubbing the walk-in, as at her desk in the office, where she tracked every dime that came in and out. Occasionally, when she went to charity events or weddings, Ihisd see flashes of the person I’d seen in her yearbooks or old photo albums—makeup, hair, diamonds—but it was like she was wearing a costume, playing dress-up. In her real life, she wore rain boots, had dirt under her nails, and squelched around in the garden in the mud, picking aphids off the tomato plants one by one.
Now, though, my mom looked exactly like Katherine Hamilton, high-profile coach’s wife. She wore her hair long and layered, got blonde highlights every other month, and sported TV-ready outfits that were selected by a personal shopper at Esther Prine, the upscale department store. Today, she had a black skirt, shiny boots, and leather jacket over a crisp white shirt. She looked gorgeous, even though she didn’t resemble my mom, or Katie Sweet, one bit. But then she said my name.
“Mclean? ”
Despite everything, I felt my heart jump at the sound of her voice. Some things are primal, unshakable. I’d long ago realized my mother had a pull over me, and me her. All the angry words in the world couldn’t change that, even when sometimes I wanted them to.
“Hi,” I said as she came toward me, arms already outstretched, and pulled me into a hug.
“Thank you for meeting me,” she said. “It means so much. You have no idea.”
I nodded as she held me tightly and entirely too long, which was nothing new, but it felt more awkward than usual because we had an audience. “Um, Mom,” I finally said over her shoulder, “this is Dave.”
She released me, although she still slid one hand down to take mine as if she was afraid I’d bolt off otherwise. “Oh, hello!” she said, looking at me, then back at him. “It’s nice to meet you!”
“You, too,” Dave said. Then he glanced around at the crowd of fans streaming past us to the Will Call window and through the main doors of the arena, nodding at the multiple people trying to buy tickets, to no avail. “Look,” he said to me, under his breath. “Like I said, I really appreciate this invite. But I don’t think you understand—”
“Just relax,” I said again. He’d spent most of the walk explaining to me that because I just moved here, I didn’t understand how hard it was to get tickets to a game like this. You couldn’t just buy them. There was no way he’d get in. I knew I could have explained the entire situation, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do so. I was stressed enough about seeing my mom; rehashing the divorce, in detail, would not help matters.
“Did you find your way okay? ” my mom asked me now, squeezing my hand. “This place is a madhouse.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Dave’s been here before.”
“Which is why I’ve been trying to tell Mclean that,” Dave said, glancing at someone to our left holding a sign that said NEED TWO PLEASE!!!!!!, “you really can’t just get in at the last minute.”
My mom looked at Dave, then back at me. “I’m sorry?”
I swallowed, then took a breath. “Dave’s just a bit concerned about whether we can actually get him in.”
“In?” my mom repeated.