“Three.”
Dodd: “Good.”
Liv: Finn. He gos 2 UMass. We mt on MyPg.
Me: W8. Whn did ths hppn???
Liv: IDK. 2 wks ago?
Pops: “Any bodily harm?”
Us: “No.”
Dodd: “Any heartbreak?”
Us: “No.”
Liv: Enuf me. U. How ws ur nite?
Me: OMG. Whr 2 bgin? . . .
All the way back to my house, we text so furiously, it’s amazing our phones don’t explode. After we say our good-byes I sprint up my front steps, fully amped, prepared to tell my mom everything. I’m ready for the couch, the popcorn, the whole heart-to-heart, mother-daughter, let-it-all-hang-out thing that happens every time I come home from a party.
Except for this time.
This time is something else entirely.
Try walking into your living room to find your mother tangled up on the couch with some guy she just met, her shirt bunched up around her neck. Try clearing your throat and watching them pop up, grinning like a couple of bobblehead dolls and frantically adjusting their clothes. Try reminding yourself of who is the teenager in this scenario and who is the parent, without actually saying, Oh my GOD, Mother, did you WANT me to see this?!
I know. I was the one who encouraged her. I was the one who said, Put yourself out there , who told her how cute Jonathan was, that I was happy he asked her out. But now, watching the whole thing unfold in my living room, I feel like—OK, this is going to sound completely juvenile, but it’s true—I feel like the cheese in “The Farmer in the Dell.” The cheese stands alone. When Jonathan stands up to introduce himself, what I really want to say is, “ I’m not the cheese. You’re the cheese.”
Instead, I make my head nod. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Nice to meet you, too , while my mom stands between us, smiling. She gestures to the couch and says, “Josie, sit. Tell us about the party.”
“Nothing to tell.” It almost hurts to say this, but I do. “My night was totally uneventful.”
Normally my mom would know I’m lying and call me on it.
Not this time.
“Well,” I say. “I’m beat . . . I guess I’ll go up.”
She hugs me when I say this, relieved that I read her mind. When she says to me, “Good night, sweetheart,” it’s actually code: Thanks, sweetheart. For beating it .
Six
JONATHAN IS A jazz aficionado .
This is what my mother tells me over breakfast. Latin jazz, soul jazz, jazz fusion—you name it, he knows it. Jazz is the reason he became a music teacher. My mom recounts a story he told her last night, about the first time he heard Eddie “Lockjaw” Davis (whoever that is) play the saxophone.
“He cried ,” she tells me, one hand patting her chest. “He was twelve years old and he was so moved by the music, he actually wept .”
“Wow,” I say.
“Can you imagine?”
Yes, actually, I can. I can imagine him getting shoved into a locker by the junior-high football team.
“Syrup?” my mom says.
I nod, take the bottle.
It’s waffles this morning. Waffles that feature an assortment of dried fruit—apricots, raisins, dates—which give them an oddly diseased appearance.
Jonathan is a Samaritan .
This is the next thing she tells me. One weekend a month he volunteers at North Haven Hospital, doing art projects with terminally ill kids. Friendship bracelets, decoupage, quilts. . . .
My mother goes on and on, and I don’t want to burst her heart-shaped bubble, but it sounds to me like Jonathan is trying awfully hard to impress her. Ridiculously hard. Obscenely hard.
“What’s next?” I ask. “Leaping tall buildings in a single bound?”
“Well, he was a high-jumper in college.”
“I was kidding.”
“I know.” My mom laughs, delighted. “I know! He sounds too good to be true, right?”
I shoot her a look that says, Exaggeration of the century much? —which she either ignores or doesn’t catch.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” is what she says now, sounding every inch the enamored schoolgirl. She even looks the part: blue eyes shining, cheeks
Dodd: “Good.”
Liv: Finn. He gos 2 UMass. We mt on MyPg.
Me: W8. Whn did ths hppn???
Liv: IDK. 2 wks ago?
Pops: “Any bodily harm?”
Us: “No.”
Dodd: “Any heartbreak?”
Us: “No.”
Liv: Enuf me. U. How ws ur nite?
Me: OMG. Whr 2 bgin? . . .
All the way back to my house, we text so furiously, it’s amazing our phones don’t explode. After we say our good-byes I sprint up my front steps, fully amped, prepared to tell my mom everything. I’m ready for the couch, the popcorn, the whole heart-to-heart, mother-daughter, let-it-all-hang-out thing that happens every time I come home from a party.
Except for this time.
This time is something else entirely.
Try walking into your living room to find your mother tangled up on the couch with some guy she just met, her shirt bunched up around her neck. Try clearing your throat and watching them pop up, grinning like a couple of bobblehead dolls and frantically adjusting their clothes. Try reminding yourself of who is the teenager in this scenario and who is the parent, without actually saying, Oh my GOD, Mother, did you WANT me to see this?!
I know. I was the one who encouraged her. I was the one who said, Put yourself out there , who told her how cute Jonathan was, that I was happy he asked her out. But now, watching the whole thing unfold in my living room, I feel like—OK, this is going to sound completely juvenile, but it’s true—I feel like the cheese in “The Farmer in the Dell.” The cheese stands alone. When Jonathan stands up to introduce himself, what I really want to say is, “ I’m not the cheese. You’re the cheese.”
Instead, I make my head nod. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Nice to meet you, too , while my mom stands between us, smiling. She gestures to the couch and says, “Josie, sit. Tell us about the party.”
“Nothing to tell.” It almost hurts to say this, but I do. “My night was totally uneventful.”
Normally my mom would know I’m lying and call me on it.
Not this time.
“Well,” I say. “I’m beat . . . I guess I’ll go up.”
She hugs me when I say this, relieved that I read her mind. When she says to me, “Good night, sweetheart,” it’s actually code: Thanks, sweetheart. For beating it .
Six
JONATHAN IS A jazz aficionado .
This is what my mother tells me over breakfast. Latin jazz, soul jazz, jazz fusion—you name it, he knows it. Jazz is the reason he became a music teacher. My mom recounts a story he told her last night, about the first time he heard Eddie “Lockjaw” Davis (whoever that is) play the saxophone.
“He cried ,” she tells me, one hand patting her chest. “He was twelve years old and he was so moved by the music, he actually wept .”
“Wow,” I say.
“Can you imagine?”
Yes, actually, I can. I can imagine him getting shoved into a locker by the junior-high football team.
“Syrup?” my mom says.
I nod, take the bottle.
It’s waffles this morning. Waffles that feature an assortment of dried fruit—apricots, raisins, dates—which give them an oddly diseased appearance.
Jonathan is a Samaritan .
This is the next thing she tells me. One weekend a month he volunteers at North Haven Hospital, doing art projects with terminally ill kids. Friendship bracelets, decoupage, quilts. . . .
My mother goes on and on, and I don’t want to burst her heart-shaped bubble, but it sounds to me like Jonathan is trying awfully hard to impress her. Ridiculously hard. Obscenely hard.
“What’s next?” I ask. “Leaping tall buildings in a single bound?”
“Well, he was a high-jumper in college.”
“I was kidding.”
“I know.” My mom laughs, delighted. “I know! He sounds too good to be true, right?”
I shoot her a look that says, Exaggeration of the century much? —which she either ignores or doesn’t catch.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” is what she says now, sounding every inch the enamored schoolgirl. She even looks the part: blue eyes shining, cheeks
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