“You kids want something to drink?” Mom calls as she heads for the kitchen.
Sylvie sends me a look, her lips curved into a faint smile.
“Got any beer?” I ask her.
“Spencer, I am not serving you beer. It’s lunch time. Have some iced tea,” she chastises as she opens the refrigerator.
Sylvie and I stand at the kitchen counter, and I roll my eyes, making Syl giggle. “We’re not kids anymore. I can legally drink. So can Sylvie.”
“I’ll just have iced tea,” Sylvie says, eager to please.
Mom grabs a glass and fills it with ice before pouring the tea in, the ice crackling at first contact. “Here you go, sweetheart.”
Then she pours me a glass too.
“I made a nice lasagna.” Mom isn’t the one with Italian roots in the family, but living with my father all those years honed her Italian cooking skills. “It’ll be ready in thirty minutes.”
“I knew I smelled something cooking when we first walked in.” Sylvie takes a sip of her drink. “I can’t wait. I’m starved.”
“Me too.” Mom is a good cook. That’s about as far as her parenting skills took her.
I shouldn’t be so tough on her. Living and dealing with my father had to be rough. He’s demanding and volatile, and he took a lot of frustration with his work out on my mother. It was difficult to witness as a kid. After a while, I was grateful they sent me away to school. It was easier that way. They were so wrapped up in making each other miserable, and a lot of the time, I was miserable too.
Now they’re much happier without each other, and my relationship with both of them is better. Mom and I are still a work in progress though. I don’t see her Monday through Friday like I do my dad.
The moment I called her and said I wanted her to meet my girlfriend—still don’t love that description for Sylvie, feels cheap to me—I know Mom went and told my dad. Which was my plan all along. He said I wasn’t serious until I brought Sylvie around my mother so here you go, Dad. Proving to you that I’m dead ass serious.
Maybe that’ll get him to stop saying shitty things about my future wife. He opens his mouth again and utters something crude about her, there’s no telling what I might do to him.
“Sit, sit. I have appetizers.” Mom brings over an antipasto plate, and I grab a couple of slices of salami, fortifying myself for the onslaught of questions she’s about to ask Sylvie. “Spencer says you two have known each other a long time.”
“We have,” Sylvie admits, plucking a green olive from the plate and popping it into her mouth.
“Since high school?”
“I met him when I was in the eighth grade and he was a freshman at Lancaster,” Sylvie says after she swallows the olive. “He’s my brother’s best friend.”
“Right, Whit Lancaster.” Mom shakes her head, her lips curved in a barely-there smile. “I have a feeling those two were up to no good back then.”
The smile on Sylvie’s face falters and I silently curse my mother’s comment.
“He’s a married man now, Ma.” I haven’t called her Ma in years. She used to hate that shit and the irritation in her eyes tells me she still feels the same way. “And a dad.”
“You’re close to your brother?” Mom asks Sylvie.
“I am. I also have a younger sister,” Sylvie says.
“That’s nice. And what about your parents? Are you close to them? How about your mother? I always did want a daughter. A sweet little girl to dress up, a shopping buddy, you know? Instead, I got this guy.” Mom reaches out and ruffles my hair, and I duck away after a few seconds.
“My parents…” Sylvie’s voice drifts and she shakes her head. “I’m not as close to them as I used to be.”
Close enough to the truth.
“Aw, that’s a shame.” Mom is funny. She always talks about family, and how important it is. What a difference it makes in the way a person is raised, and how they act. Yet she wasn’t the most attentive mother during my growing up years, and she knows it. Her theories don’t make much sense, but I don’t bother questioning her.
“It’s okay. I’ve learned to deal with it. My father and I are working on repairing our relationship.” Sylvie’s gaze finds mine and I send her a reassuring smile. She’s handling this first meeting with my mother really well, not that I was worried about it. Not like she was.
“And how about your mother?”