“You’re learnin’.”
Mom coaxes both men to stay for lunch, and she puts me at the head of the table so she can sit closer to Simon. We eat roasted chicken breasts and coconut brussels sprouts off gilded Limoges china, and I feel like a third wheel.
Lindsey and Jim talk between themselves while Mom chats nonstop about herself and squeezes Simon’s arm. It’s embarrassing, but I remind myself that this was my big plan. Only it’s not working like I’d hoped. Mom is still ignoring me and rambling on about her “wonderful paintings” and “sexy swimsuit.”
“That’s where we bought our ‘Who Dat’ boots,” I add when Mom comes up for air.
She gives me the side eye, then returns her attention to Simon. “It has little holes in the back.”
I am invisible. My scheme is a bust, but more than anything, I hate brussels sprouts. You can sauté them in butter, smother them in cheese sauce, or sprinkle them with coconut, but they still taste like fucking brussels sprouts, and I flick one off my plate. It leaves a trail of shredded coconut as it rolls to the center of the table. No one notices but Simon, and he raises a brow and gives me half a smile.
“I always wanted to marry a doctor.” A piece of coconut is stuck to one corner of Mom’s red-lipsticked mouth, and if I wasn’t invisible, I’d help her take care of that. I’d give her a subtle hint, but I push my plate to the side and rest my chin in my hands instead. Lindsey asks if I’m okay. “Peachy,” I answer without looking up. I tune Mom out and pay closer attention to Lindsey and Jim’s conversation. The more I listen, the more I can pick out a few words here and there, or here and dere, rather.
A brussels sprout rolls into view, and I glance at Simon out of the corner of my eyes. Apparently, I’m not the only one who hates brussels sprouts.
“You should seriously consider what we talked about,” he says.
It takes me several seconds to recall our last conversation and I sit up in my chair. “It’s been so long since I took a day for myself, I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“Mais, dere’s nothin’ like a cool-a of beer and a bucket of fish.” Simon chuckles and points across the table. “Axe Jim.”
Jim’s smile lights up his brown eyes. “Talk about.”
“I think I’ll pass,” I tell them both.
“I got a massage at a day spa in Houma.” Lindsey gives me a tentative smile, and I feel like I’ve been mean to a pregnant puppy.
Ahhh… a spa. I check out my short fingernails and let myself wish. I haven’t had a manicure in months.
“I never get to go to a spa.”
&
nbsp; I look at Mom, sitting back in her chair and finally looking at me. “I’ll take you if you want to go. You always liked an aromatherapy pedicure.”
She folds her arms over her chest. “I don’t have money.” I mentally brace for impact because I know what’s coming. “You stole all my money. I never get anything.”
This is so unfair.
“I can never buy anything on a card.”
Now, that’s somewhat true. I had to lower the spending limit on her Visa due to her new QVC habit. I hadn’t realized the depth of her addiction until a UPS truck began to show up several times a week to drop off everything from palazzo pants to a police scanner with laser detectors and voice alerts. Mom said we needed it in the Escalade to “hide from cops” like we were boozed-up moonshiners. I’m just grateful that she used her own card and not one she managed to steal.
“You bought Tova Beauty just the other day,” Lindsey reminds her.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
“I hate Tova Beauty!” Then Mom points across the table at me. “She hides the remote so I can’t watch my shows.”
Funny. I hear her shows blaring every time she’s in her room.
“I think it’s just been misplaced,” Lindsey steps in. “We’ll find it.”
“My own child wants me dead.”
Says the woman I refuse to kill. “That’s not true. I love you.”
Jim makes an uncomfortable sound in his throat, and he’s looking around as if he doesn’t know what he should do.