Our relationship since I’d left had been tepid at best. Under the custody arrangement, I was required to visit in summers and for holidays, both of which I did with about as much enthusiasm as anyone would do something court ordered. Each time, the same thing immediately became clear: my mom just wanted a clean, fresh start. She had no interest in discussing our previous lives or the part she may or may not have played in the fact that they no longer existed. No, I was supposed to just fold myself in seamlessly with her new life, and never look back. It was one thing to reinvent myself by choice. When forced, though, I resisted.
In the two years or so we’d been on the road, I did miss my mom. When I was really homesick in those first lonely, bumpy days at a new place, I wasn’t lonely for my old house or friends, or anything else specific, as much as just the comfort she represented. It was the little things, like her smell, the way she always hugged too tight, how she looked just enough like me to make me feel safe with a single glance. Then, though, I’d remember it wasn’t her that I was really yearning for as much as a mirage, who I’d thought she was. The person who cared enough about our family to never want to split us all into pieces. Who loved the beach so much that she thought nothing of packing up for a spur-of-the-moment road trip east, regardless of weather, season, or if we could really even afford to stay at the Poseidon, the dumpy ocean-view motel we preferred. Who sat at the end of the bar at Mariposa, glasses perched on her nose, reviewing receipts in the lazy hours between lunch and dinner service, who sewed together cloth squares in front of the fire, using all the bits and pieces of our old clothes to make quilts that were like sleeping under memories. It wasn’t just me that was gone. She was, too.
When I thought of my mom most, though, was not on the first day of a new school, or a holiday we weren’t together for, or even when I caught a glimpse of her—fleeting—when the TV cameras flashed to her at a Defriese game before I could change the channel. Instead, weirdly enough, it was when I was cooking dinner. Standing in a strange kitchen, browning meat in a pan. Adding a chopped green pepper to a jar of store-bought sauce. Opening a can of soup, some chicken, and a bag of potato chips at dusk, hoping to make something from nothing.
Whenever my dad came in to take over a new restaurant, there was always one person who pretty much personified resistance. Someone who took each criticism personally, fought every change, and could be counted upon to lead the bitch-and-moan brigade. At Luna Blu, that person was Opal.
She was the current manager, the tall girl with the tattoos who’d finally gotten us a waitress. When I came in the next day for an early dinner, she was dressed like an old-style pinup girl: dark hair pulled up and back, bright red lipstick, jeans, and a fuzzy pink sweater with pearl buttons. She was pleasant as she got me a Coke, smiling and gracious as she put in my order. Once I was settled with my food and they sat down to talk, though, it was clear my dad had his work cut out for him.
“It’s a bad idea,” she was saying to him now from the other end of the bar. “People will revolt. They expect the rosemary rolls.”
“The regular customers expect them,” my dad replied. “But you don’t have that many regulars. And the fact of the matter is, they’re not a cost-effective or practical thing to be offering to people as a complimentary appetizer. What you want is more people ordering more drinks and food, not a few filling up on free stuff.”
“But they serve a purpose,” Opal said, her voice slightly sharp. “Once people have a taste of the rolls, it makes them hungrier, and they order more than they would otherwise.”
“So those people I saw sitting up here last night, drinking discount beer and eating rolls and nothing else,” my dad replied, “they’re the exception.”
“There were only, like, two people at the bar last night!”
My dad pointed at her. “Exactly.”
Opal just looked at him, her face flushing red. The truth was, no one looked kindly on their bosses bringing in a hired gun to tell them what they were doing wasn’t working. It didn’t matter if the place was losing money or had the worst reputation/food/bathrooms in town, and any and all improvements would only benefit them. People always complained at the beginning, and usually the senior staff members did it the loudest, which was why EAT INC often fired them before we even showed up. For whatever reason, this was different and therefore difficult.
“Okay,” she said now, her tone even, controlled, “so suppose we do away with the rolls, then. What will we offer people instead? Pretzels? Peanuts? Maybe they can throw the shells on the floor to add more of that ambiance you’re so sure we’re lacking?”
“Nope.” My dad smiled. “I’m thinking pickles, actually.”
Opal just looked at him. “Pickles,” she repeated.
I watched as he picked up the menu in front of him. It was the same one I’d found on our kitchen table that morning, covered in notes and cross-outs in black Sharpie pen, so ravaged it looked like one of my term papers from when I’d taken AP English with Mr. Reid-Barbour, the hardest teacher in my last school. Based on just alance, things didn’t look promising for most of the entrées and all of the desserts.