Caleb
FortwohoursI’m left to feel entirely unnecessary. Keeping vigil in my dad’s old armchair, I watch as Mom and Lizzie dance about the place, laughing, joking, and becoming fast friends. Apparently, nothing encourages female bonding like the chemical smell of hair dye, plastic bags wrapped around heads, and the greatest hits of ABBA.
“Gotcha!”
I’m not sure when I closed my eyes, but I open them and tilt my head back. Lizzie is leaning over the back of the chair, victory stamped all over her face.
“You, sir, like ABBA.”
“What?” I blink up at her.
“You’ve mouthed all the lyrics to the last three songs. You like ABBA.”
Oh, goodie. Because my ego hadn’t taken enough hits today.
“Nostalgia has made it a guilty pleasure. At least it’s not eighties.”
Again, I get thumped on the shoulder. “Ow!”
“Lizzie!” The cry for help echoes oddly and comes from somewhere deep in the bowels of Ma’s ensuite.
“Does she have her head in the toilet?” I question.
“Probably the bathtub,” Lizzie explains. “Coming, Ellie!”
Before she can get away, I snatch out a hand. My fingers wrap around hers and I tug her back toward me. She braces herself on the arms on the chair, her body hovering above mine.
“Hey, Ellie probably needs me to rinse out her hair.”
“It’s ‘Ellie’ now, is it?”
Lizzie shrugs.
“That’s what she asked me to call her.”
I frown, trying to assess her mindset behind those smiling eyes. I’m hoping she’s not putting too much faith in the connection between her and my mother.
“You know she’ll probably not remember you if you come again?” I warn her. “That whatever friendship you think you’re building today, it’s not real. It won’t last.”
This time, it’s Lizzie who frowns. She untangles her fingers from mine and stands back. She stares down at me with a curious look in her eye.
“Just because something is fleeting, doesn’t mean it’s not real, Caleb.”
And she hurries into the bathroom, leaving me to wonder just exactly whose fleeting relationship she’s talking about.
In the end, we’re there for the whole afternoon. Mom stays lucid, the music continues to play, and the fun is extended when Lizzie turns her drug store bag upside down on the kitchen counter. She reveals several pieces of inexpensive make-up and a few bottles of nail polish from which Ma chooses a pretty pink.
As dusk begins to roll in, Ma confronts my little armchair fortress of solitude and holds out her hands.
“Dance with me, son,” she says. But the woman speaking is one I hardly recognize.
Her hair, gray for so long, is now a sun-kissed blonde, soft enough to appear natural against the lines of her face. Make-up now emphasizes her eyes and an elegant bone structure that hasn’t faded with the years. Her smile turns her eyes bright and her cheeks glowing.
I’m stunned, staring at this woman who I suddenly realize is the Ma from my memories. The mother who I’d help to clear the yard, and who would foxtrot with me around the trees.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. I can only stare.
“Come on,” Ma insists, waving a hand at me. “Don’t just sit there like a lazybones. Your pretty friend has many talents but dancing is not one of them. Come here, Caleb.”