“NOOO!” I cried, and rushed over to scoop up the leftovers until I realized that Bernadette was doing a better job of cleaning it up than I could, so I just let her go to town, while I found a spray bottle of disinfectant and some paper towels to do a final wipe down after she was done.
Without even having to be asked, Mom tightened the tie of her faded navy terry cloth robe, pushed up from the couch, and headed into the kitchen. Reaching into the fridge, she pulled out the second Tupperware and set the microwave to three minutes. When it finished, she pulled out the piping-hot dish and set it on the table. She poured a tall glass of milk, placed it beside the plate, and pulled a chair out, gesturing for me to take a seat.
“Thanks,” I said, giving the floor one last swipe before balling the dirty paper towels in my fist and tossing them into the trash. “You didn’t have to go to any trouble. I was planning on eating it cold.”
“Trouble? What trouble? I used the microwave.” She eased into the chair across from me.
I took a few bites of the lasagna and pushed the milk away from my plate.
“What’s wrong? You don’t like milk anymore?” Mom asked. “I can get you something else? I think we still have that bottle of wine you sent us for Christmas last year.” She went over to the sideboard, bent down, and shimmied a bottle out from the back. “Ahh, here it is. You like red, right?” she asked, holding it up.
“Mom, that’s an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of wine.”
She jerked the bottle away from her to examine the label, as if there was a price tag she’d somehow missed. “Why on God’s green planet would you ever send us an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of wine?!” Her voice shrieked to a whole new octave, clearly bowled over by the ridiculousness of the purchase. But it hadn’t been frivolous when we bought it, or so I thought. It was our attempt at a gesture of well wishes after having to reschedule yet another set of holiday plans with my folks.
“Well, you know Adam,” I said offhandedly, until the irony struck me between the ribs. “Knew Adam . . . Well, actually, turns out we didn’t, eh?”
Mom shifted her gaze, clearly uncomfortable at the mention of Adam, and turned back to where she kept the alcohol. “Here,” she said, pulling out a second bottle from the cabinet with a nondescript duck on the label, “this is an eleven-dollar bottle of wine. You can’t feel bad about drinking an eleven-dollar bottle of wine.”
I tilted my head to the side. “An entirely different kind of bad.” I waved the bottle toward me. “But go ahead, bring on the pain.”
Mom laughed and poured us both a glass of the cheap merlot and settled back down at the table. I took a sip and glanced around the living room, taking in the knickknacks, tchotchkes, and antique trinkets practically spilling off every shelf and stuffed into every cabinet. My parents weren’t exactly hoarders, their clutter more of an occupational byproduct, but no question Marie Kondo would have a field day in this place.
“I’m surprised you and Dad haven’t started selling any of this stuff yet. You know like less than a quarter of it’s going to fit into an RV, right? Unless you’re planning on renting a storage unit . . . or half a dozen? And I passed by the store today. It too is still crammed with inventory. Don’t you need to start unloading it all soon?”
Mom nodded. “I know, this house has become like a second showroom over the years. There’s a lot to go through.”
“I can help you tomorrow for a bit before I head back to the city? We can figure out if any of this stuff actually sparks joy.”
“It all sparks joy, that’s the problem,” she joked.
“You’d be surprised how easy it is to pare down when you don’t have any other choice.”
Mom rubbed my shoulder. “Oh, honey, why didn’t you take us up on our offer of coming home when you first told us about everything a few weeks ago? We could’ve helped. You know our door is always open to you for as long as you need it.”
“No, I’m a big girl. I needed to figure out some of this on my own. And I did, plus, I know your door is always open, but space in an RV is pretty limited. Seriously, let me help you at least get started,” I offered.
“There’s no rush. You have a lot on your plate. Another weekend you can come and Kondo me, it’s a promise.”
There was a tinge in her voice, like she was holding something back. It was the same warble she had when I was eleven and she had a hard time telling me my pet rabbit, Mary Hoppins, died while I was away at a two-week theater camp. “What’s going on? I thought you and Dad planned to be settled in Florida by the summer?”
“It’s no big deal. Really. But, we have to push things off a bit.”
Are her hands shaking?
“What? Why? Are you okay? Is Dad?” My heart suddenly felt like it had plummeted to my stomach, beating like a ticking time bomb deep within my core. Dad was diagnosed with stage one prostate cancer two years ago, but as far as I knew, it hadn’t progressed beyond that.
“No, no, it’s nothing to do with anyone’s health, thank heavens. Guess that’s always the silver lining. Aside from the RLS and a bit too much flatulence outta your dad for my liking, everybody’s doing great,” she joked with a half smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.
“So, what is it then?” I tried to remember the last time I’d seen my mother upset like this. Angry, sure. I’d seen her lose her shit a few too many times after one thing or another throughout my high school and college years. You know, the normal stuff for a mom trying to make ends meet while raising a moderately mouthy teen. But this distracted, distraught version of my mom was altogether foreign.
Her hands trembled and only stopped once she rested one elbow on the table and her forehead into her palm, closing her eyes like she was warring internally about how to tread next. “I wasn’t planning on telling you this. I figured you were dealing with enough as it is but, we . . . your dad and I . . . we were . . . well, are victims of Adam’s too.”
I exhaled with relief. “Oh, Mom, I know you loved him like a son. I mean, none of us could have seen that coming—” I started as an attempt at consolation until Mom jutted her hand out to stop me.
“No, Avery, I mean, we’re actual victims. A few years ago, Dad was talking to Adam about how we needed the store to turn more of a profit if we were going to be able to retire before we turned sixty-five and he convinced us to invest some money into one of his online marketing packages.”
“No,” came out of me as a whoosh of air as Mom’s words struck like I’d been pummeled in the solar plexus by a battering ram. My vision narrowed, creating a blackness around the edges.