acquaintances and phantom dates all called me on my cell phone.
“Whoops,” I said.
My mother rolled her eyes. “Well, anyway. Now you know. What do you think of my hair?” It was blondish when I’d last seen her. Now it was reddish.
“Nice.”
“It looked fabulous in Rhode Island; I went to your sister’s hairdresser. I thought it was the cut, but the minute I walked off the plane in Phoenix—” She shook her head. “This dry air is impossible.”
In the past three years, my mother had abandoned the New England matron look in favor of Arizona glitz. She’d pierced her ears and started wearing eye shadow. Talbots was out; overpriced boutiques were in. She had a closet filled with drapey pastel pantsuits, espadrilles and southwestern print blazers. She wore visors and pink-tinted sunglasses.
“How is Shelly?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “That boyfriend.”
“Still no ring?”
She pursed her lips and shook her head. “It’s killing your father.” My older sister started dating Frederick six years ago, when she was twenty-eight and he was twenty-five. Frederick was a big advocate of “taking it slow” and “making sure we’re making the right decision.” Now that they’d been living together for four years, my parents thought it was time to make a decision one way or another or, as my mother so eloquently put it, to “shit or get off the pot.”
“Maybe for Christmas,” I said lamely.
In the garage, I heard an engine purring, followed by a car door closing.
“The Lexus is still running smoothly,” my father announced as he entered the kitchen. Unlike my mother, my father dressed exactly the same as always, in khakis, polo shirts and the occasional sport jacket. The Lexus was his one concession to Arizona flash. He worried that his last car, a Camry, stuck out at the AJ’s parking lot. Whenever I bought groceries at AJ’s (not often; I couldn’t afford them), I parked my crappy Civic as far away from the other cars as possible. I didn’t care about appearances; it was the possibility of scratching a BMW, Mercedes or, God forbid, a Bentley that terrified me. I’d never recover from the increased insurance premium.
“So, who’s the stalker?” my father asked after putting down his paper grocery bags and giving me a hug.
“He’s not a stalker. He’s just . . . this guy.”
“He ran like hell when your mother opened the door.”
“Maybe he’s shy,” my mother said. I was twenty-nine years old. My mother was willing to overlook a little social awkwardness in my suitors. “Did you have any plans with him tonight?” she asked. “I mean, here at the house? Because your father and I could go out.”
“We just got here!” he said, pulling a carton of lactose-free milk out of a paper bag. “Where does this go?”
My mother raised her eyebrows. “Where do you think it goes?” “Refrigerator?” He paused a moment before opening the stainless steel door, putting the carton on an empty shelf and closing the door softly.
“If you’ve made plans, Natalie, we wouldn’t want to be in the way.” My mother smiled expectantly. If only she had been this accommodating when I was sixteen.
“I don’t have any plans,” I said. Her face fell, just a little. “And I am happy to see you. I’m just surprised, that’s all. I thought you’d be in Connecticut about now.”
“We went to Connecticut. Humid. Would you believe your aunt and uncle still don’t have air-conditioning? They kept saying, ‘There’s only three or four days a year when we wish we had it.’”
“Unfortunately, we were there for those four days,” my father interjected. “Does potato salad have to be refrigerated?”
“Only if you don’t want botulism,” I said.
“What did you buy potato salad for?” my mother asked.
“I like potato salad,” he said. “Besides, we needed something to go with the soup.”
“Soup?” I asked.
“It’s too hot to cook,” my mother said. “I told
“Whoops,” I said.
My mother rolled her eyes. “Well, anyway. Now you know. What do you think of my hair?” It was blondish when I’d last seen her. Now it was reddish.
“Nice.”
“It looked fabulous in Rhode Island; I went to your sister’s hairdresser. I thought it was the cut, but the minute I walked off the plane in Phoenix—” She shook her head. “This dry air is impossible.”
In the past three years, my mother had abandoned the New England matron look in favor of Arizona glitz. She’d pierced her ears and started wearing eye shadow. Talbots was out; overpriced boutiques were in. She had a closet filled with drapey pastel pantsuits, espadrilles and southwestern print blazers. She wore visors and pink-tinted sunglasses.
“How is Shelly?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “That boyfriend.”
“Still no ring?”
She pursed her lips and shook her head. “It’s killing your father.” My older sister started dating Frederick six years ago, when she was twenty-eight and he was twenty-five. Frederick was a big advocate of “taking it slow” and “making sure we’re making the right decision.” Now that they’d been living together for four years, my parents thought it was time to make a decision one way or another or, as my mother so eloquently put it, to “shit or get off the pot.”
“Maybe for Christmas,” I said lamely.
In the garage, I heard an engine purring, followed by a car door closing.
“The Lexus is still running smoothly,” my father announced as he entered the kitchen. Unlike my mother, my father dressed exactly the same as always, in khakis, polo shirts and the occasional sport jacket. The Lexus was his one concession to Arizona flash. He worried that his last car, a Camry, stuck out at the AJ’s parking lot. Whenever I bought groceries at AJ’s (not often; I couldn’t afford them), I parked my crappy Civic as far away from the other cars as possible. I didn’t care about appearances; it was the possibility of scratching a BMW, Mercedes or, God forbid, a Bentley that terrified me. I’d never recover from the increased insurance premium.
“So, who’s the stalker?” my father asked after putting down his paper grocery bags and giving me a hug.
“He’s not a stalker. He’s just . . . this guy.”
“He ran like hell when your mother opened the door.”
“Maybe he’s shy,” my mother said. I was twenty-nine years old. My mother was willing to overlook a little social awkwardness in my suitors. “Did you have any plans with him tonight?” she asked. “I mean, here at the house? Because your father and I could go out.”
“We just got here!” he said, pulling a carton of lactose-free milk out of a paper bag. “Where does this go?”
My mother raised her eyebrows. “Where do you think it goes?” “Refrigerator?” He paused a moment before opening the stainless steel door, putting the carton on an empty shelf and closing the door softly.
“If you’ve made plans, Natalie, we wouldn’t want to be in the way.” My mother smiled expectantly. If only she had been this accommodating when I was sixteen.
“I don’t have any plans,” I said. Her face fell, just a little. “And I am happy to see you. I’m just surprised, that’s all. I thought you’d be in Connecticut about now.”
“We went to Connecticut. Humid. Would you believe your aunt and uncle still don’t have air-conditioning? They kept saying, ‘There’s only three or four days a year when we wish we had it.’”
“Unfortunately, we were there for those four days,” my father interjected. “Does potato salad have to be refrigerated?”
“Only if you don’t want botulism,” I said.
“What did you buy potato salad for?” my mother asked.
“I like potato salad,” he said. “Besides, we needed something to go with the soup.”
“Soup?” I asked.
“It’s too hot to cook,” my mother said. “I told
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