My mother, ladies and gentlemen. Meet Nancy Walsh.
Believe it or not, this isn’t the most awkward conversation we’ve had this month. Or even this week. On Monday, she sent me a photo of a mole on my father’s hip, asking if it had always been there. Because apparently I track these things.
Also, Dad was asleep at the time the picture was taken, and I can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.
Mom is, well . . . a mom.
She worries, she interferes—all because she loves hard.
Topics of concern range from her grandkids not having home ec as an option at school, unfamiliar moles, my sister’s inability to bake a cake that doesn’t “fall” in the middle, and when it comes to me:
The fact that I live in New York City.
I’m the only one of her four children who doesn’t live in the same time zone as her. Hell, I’m the only kid who doesn’t live within a thirty-mile radius of my parents.
And all of this manifests in her exaggerated concern about crime in New York. Shout-out to my mischievous younger sister for setting up a Google Alert for “New York City crime” on Mom’s phone, which, as you can imagine, means I get a lot of texts verifying I wasn’t in Morningside Heights at 3:00 a.m. or a bar in Alphabet City at midnight.
“Just promise me you won’t get on the subway while you’re carrying the ring,” she continues. “Did I send you that video about the subway pirates? I saw it on the YouTube.”
Okay, that one’s on me. Last Thanksgiving, I sent her a link to a YouTube cooking video explaining that you don’t have to cook the turkey in a bag anymore.
(Spoiler alert: We had turkey cooked in the bag.)
But the point is, I introduced her to YouTube. Which she’s very into, and the algorithm has been feeding her a steady diet of “the country’s on the brink of disaster” videos.
How many disasters can one country have? Lots if you ask my mother.
“Anyway, if you do have to take the subway, I wouldn’t think less of you for packing heat,” she says.
“Mom. Don’t say ‘packing heat.’ And why do you say it like Robert De Niro?” I step into the street to avoid an oncoming family of eight wearing matching sweaters on the sidewalk. A bicyclist swerves dramatically and digs his bell at me, even though we avoided any sort of collision by at least six feet.
“What was that?” she asks, having to raise her voice over the sound of a passing ambulance’s siren. “Tom? Were you knifed?”
“No, Mom. I wasn’t knifed because I’m not in the chorus of West Side Story.” I take a deep breath. “Look. The ring is safe. I’m safe. Please, for the love of God, don’t put Mace in my stocking again.”
“Oh, don’t worry, honey! I already tucked it into your underwear drawer so as not to embarrass you on Christmas morning. I know this particular Christmas is special.”
Finally. A normal topic.
“Yes. Very special. Is Lo there yet?” I ask.
In a perfect world, my soon-to-be fiancée and I would be flying from New York to Chicago together. Especially since it’s her first time meeting my family.
But Lolo’s best friend from college had a baby shower in Minneapolis last night, so we’ll be arriving in Chicago from different cities, a couple hours apart.
“Not yet,” Mom replies. “Lucas just went to pick her up. I’m just so excited that all four of you will be here for the holidays, and that two out of the four of you have a special someone. The highlight of Brent’s Christmas will be having another non-Walsh at the table.”
“Definitely.” I know my brother-in-law as well as I do my actual brother, and I’m betting the real highlight of Brent’s Christmas is the new grill Meredith bought him that he already spotted in the garage.
“It’s a mother’s dream come true, Tommy. Hearing you so happy. You are happy?”
“Yes. Mom,” I say automatically. “I’m very happy.”
“I can’t wait to meet her. Your dad too. Everyone! I know we’ve talked on the phone and FaceTime, but I really want her to feel like part of the family. Now, I know you said she’s a vegetarian. So I added some mushrooms to the Bolognese this year. She eats those, right?”
“Well.” I blink. “Yeah, she can have mushrooms, sure. But isn’t there still . . . meat in the Bolognese?”
There’s a puzzled pause. “Well, of course, Tom. It’s Bolognese.”
I rub my forehead. “A” for effort? Sort of?
“Okay, Mom, I’ve gotta run. I’ve got to find a cab in the middle of rush hour. So I don’t risk it with the subway pirates.”
“I knew it!” she says, a little smugly. “I just knew those were a thing.”
I roll my eyes, but only because she can’t see me.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Tom.”
I smile. “I can’t wait to see you in a few hours.”
SEVEN
KATHERINE
December 23, 11:48 a.m.
I do a double take when Irene comes back into my office a short while later. “What are— Get out of here! You should be on your way home. Better yet, you should be on your way to the airport!”
“I’m going, I’m going.” Irene needlessly adjusts her glasses, the way she does when she’s nervous. “I just keep wondering. What if this isn’t the year, sweetheart?”
My stomach clenches a little at the words, but faking calm and confidence, I set my phone aside. “It’s the year.”
Irene’s worried expression doesn’t waver. “But if he doesn’t . . . You’re going to be heartbroken. I can’t watch that again.”
“I’ll stop you right there,” I say with a smile. “Haven’t you heard the rumors? I don’t have a heart to break. Or if I do, it’s three times too small.”
Irene doesn’t smile back. “You don’t have to pretend with me. You don’t have to pretend like nothing matters to you.”
I look away, uncomfortable as ever with overt references to emotions. Specifically my emotions. I know Irene believes otherwise, but it’s genuinely never bothered me when people call me cold. Or a robot. Or the Grinch. In fact, I prefer it. When people believe you don’t care about much of anything, they don’t try to talk to you about the sticky stuff.
They don’t bring up things that make your eyes start to tingle if you think on it too long. Or the topics that trigger that strange lump in your throat when you try to swallow.
“I just wonder if you haven’t placed a little too much importance on this one single moment,” Irene adds in a rush. “There are other things in life. Important things. Especially this time of year . . .”
I stifle a sigh. This topic again?
“This time of the year isn’t created equal for everyone,” I say gently but firmly. “I love that it’s such a happy time for you and Manny and the kids. And I respect that, for most people, this time of year is about family and connection, and blah blah blah. But for me, December has meant something else, a lot of it painful. So, please. Please don’t disparage me for wanting this one thing very badly. It’s something to look forward to. It’s important to me.”
It was important to Dad.