I refused the bait, said my goodbyes and followed my daughter outside, wondering how we’d make it through the day without wanting to throttle each other.
Dear Diary,
I think Benjamin Franklin said, “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.” Well, me and Mum would never make it that long. We stink after three hours.
People say I’m like her. I suppose we have the same hair, nose and maybe eyes. But that’s it. Thank god my personality’s much more like Dad’s because Mum’s a nightmare.
For example, even though I was shattered this morning, I was still looking forward to spending time with her and getting my boots. That lasted about thirty seconds until we got in the car. First of all, Mum had a go at me about the Word of the Day calendar she gave me for Christmas. The conversation (not that it was a proper conversation) went something like:
Mum: Why aren’t you using it? Don’t you want to be a journalist? I thought it would help.
Me: I haven’t had time.
Mum: Oh, come off it, Sarah. You spend forever on that phone of yours.
Ugh!
And when I tried on the combats, Mum went all passive-aggressive with eye rolls and huffs. We studied the behavior at school when Ms. Phillips tried to show the class how pathetic it was, hoping we’d stop. Except of course we didn’t because we knew how much it peed her off.
So, when I asked Mum what was wrong she huffed again and said the boots were “aggressive looking” and “not very feminine.” I told her not to worry. That during the summer I’d only wear flip-flops and micro shorts where half your bum hangs out.
Me: What do you think, Mum? Those shorts are really feminine.
Mum: You will not be wearing those, young lady. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.
She even used the tone. God. I’d meant it as a joke. Like I’d ever be seen dead with half my bum hanging out. Not that it’s a bad butt. Actually I think it’s a quite okay butt, thank you very much, but (and that’s a lot of buts, ha ha) I wouldn’t walk around with it on display. I thought Mum would get the joke. I mean, doesn’t she know me at all?
Anyway, I bought my combats (black leather, funky, sassy, kick-ass and 60% off, yes!). Mum found a coat (black wool, single-buttoned, boring, predictable, 40% off, still not bad). And then, of course, we couldn’t agree on lunch. I wanted a burger. She wanted sushi. We ended up at Pret. Sandwiches must be the gastronomic equivalent of neutrality. Hey, that’s not a bad line. Must remember that one for my next essay.
We’re home now, and she said we should visit the new neighbors. She texted Dad, and he’s helping them put furniture together or something. Hardly a surprise. Dad’s always fixing stuff. I thought he was Bob the Builder until I was six. Might even have called Mum Wendy once (oops!). Speaking of, she told me to hurry up again. I’d better go before she flips her lid.
Later,
Sarah x.
PS. Word of the day: fantod, noun.
1. plural a: a state of irritability and tension.
b: fidgets.
2: an emotional outburst (fit).
As in: Going shopping with my mother gave me the fantods! Hahahaha!
“COME ON, SARAH.” I stood by our front door with a bottle of chilled white wine in my hand. Nate always said people liked chardonnay. I hoped he was right. Sarah trudged down the stairs in her new boots at a glacial pace before giving me an uninspired look.
“Why do I have to go?”
I stifled another sigh. “It’s the polite thing to do.”
She glanced at the bottle. “What if they don’t drink?”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“You don’t drink.”
My eyes darted involuntarily to Tom’s photograph. “No, I don’t,” I snapped, then took a deep breath. Sarah hadn’t had anything to do with the accident—she hadn’t even been born.
“But what if they’re recovering alcoholics?” she gasped and put a hand to her mouth in a deliberately dramatic gesture. “Or Muslim? Or Amish?”
“Don’t be a smarty-pants, Sarah.”
“Wowzers, Mum. I can be smart without even trying.”
I counted to ten in my mind. Slowly. I knew exactly what she was doing. She thought if she annoyed me enough I’d lose my temper and tell her to stay at home. Too bad for her, I used to play the exact same game with my mother. For once I was half a step ahead of her.
I smiled. “Yes, you can be. Come on. Time to go.”
She pouted as she pulled on her jacket, and I made sure I kept my expression neutral to avoid another feud. A minute later we plodded over to the neighbors and rang the doorbell.
A teenage boy who looked like he’d been stretched like a rubber band opened the door. “Can I help you?” His voice was deep, gravelly and a little on the husky side.
“Hi.” I smiled. “I think you still have my husband.”
He gave a blank look, then flicked his shock of chocolate-brown, gold-streaked hair.
“Nate from next door,” I offered, and put a hand to my chest. “I’m Abby. This is Sarah.”
He smiled. Sort of. “Oh, yeah. Come on in,” he said in a monotone, then turned and called out, “Mum, it’s the neighbors.”
A woman’s voice came from the back of the house. “Great. Bring them in, Zac.”
“Go on through.” Zac gestured with his hand.
I walked into the eccentrically wallpapered hallway, which always reminded me of The Who’s Magic Bus. Barbara had loved bright colors and flowers, and almost every room was papered in a different pattern. She used to say it meant spring sprang eternal in her home. We always assumed she’d eaten a lot of magic mushrooms in the seventies.
As we made our way down the hall, the sweet perfume of apples and cinnamon filled the air, warm and inviting. Zac disappeared up the stairs, and Sarah and I continued to the kitchen. A candle—one of those scented ones—glowed in the middle of a table otherwise covered in stacks of plates, glasses and cutlery.
Nate leaned against the fridge with his arms crossed and a half-full Heineken in one hand. “Hey.” He smiled.
A woman with long, curly brown hair in an untidy ponytail took two steps toward us. When she smiled, her face lit up like a very pretty fairground.
“Hi.” She threw a rag on the counter and wiped her hands on her jeans before stretching one out toward me.
“This is Abby.” Nate winked at me. “Abby, this is Nancy.”
“It’s great to meet you.” Nancy shook my hand, and I noticed how warm and silky her skin felt. “Nate’s told us so much about you already. And your daughter.” She looked past me. “You must be Sarah. It’s such a pleasure, really, it is.” I didn’t know the woman, but she seemed incredibly nervous, almost desperately keen to make a good impression.
“Uh, hello,” Sarah mumbled back. She still got embarrassed when introduced to strangers. It concerned me sometimes, especially