Pug Hill - Alison Pace [97]
“Hi, Mom,” I say, and she puts down her knife and we hug and we kiss and she pulls away and studies me for just a second and says, “You’re looking well, Hope.”
What I actually hear is, “You’re hair looks frizzy and with everything colorists can do these days I don’t know why you insist on walking around with it red; have you switched foundations because I’m not sure the one you have on properly matches your skin tone; have you done something new with your eyebrows, dear?; and, I don’t see why you insist on wearing these camisole-type shirts out in public when a) they are not appropriate and b) no one ever said your arms were your best feature.”
I try to go back, to hear only, “You’re looking well, Hope,” but it’s impossible. When you live so much of your life really close to the bad place, it’s hard not to occasionally take quick trips back there.
“How’s everything?”
“Everything’s great,” I tell her, and ask, “Are you excited for your trip, for your party?”
“Oh, I am, it’s all very nice. And I appreciate it, that you’re here,” she tells me.
“My pleasure,” I say, and without even realizing that I’m doing it, I tuck my hair behind my ears.
“Don’t screw your hair behind your ears, Hope. It looks so unattractive that way,” she says, reaching forward and pulling my hair out from behind my ears for me. “Here let me show you,” she continues, but rather than actually tucking her own hair behind her ears to show me how much less attractive she feels one looks with their hair “screwed” behind their ears as opposed to not (which she has been known to do on numerous occasions) she turns instead to the kitchen counter, to show me something there.
“I’ve made lists, and I’ve separated Captain’s medicine into packets. One for each morning I’ll be gone, and one for each night. It’ll be easier for you and Dad this way. Dad will do the insulin shots, you don’t have to worry about that.”
Mom shows me her lists, her packets of medicine for Captain, shows me a chart she’s made where we can check off what medicine has been administered and when.
“Do you want me to show you how to put the pills in the cream cheese?” she asks.
“No, thanks,” I say, “I’m okay.”
We talk a little about how things are at the museum and how I’m fine with not getting the promotion, and how it hasn’t clouded everything else. We talk about her book club and what they’re reading, and the incident with the hair tucking is forgiven.
“Hope,” she says very seriously, “while I’m gone, please do not bring up the tent again to your father. Your father is very upset about the tent.”
“No, I won’t,” I say, and while part of me still wants to explain that I didn’t technically bring up the tent, right now, really, it’s better just to leave it. But for some reason, I feel compelled to ask instead, “Is Darcy sleeping in the tent, too?”
“Yes, I imagine she is.”
Clearly, this whole thing is terrible, because the tent will, of course, serve all next weekend as a blatant reminder of the commune that may very well be kicking up dust in the future.
“This REI, this was your idea, I understand?” she says.
“Uh, yes.”
“Well, you’re father is very upset. He went online and ordered up a tent from REI, and it’s in the garage in this very large box, you can go see it.”
“No,” I say, “that’s okay, I don’t want to see it.”
“Well apparently C.P. won’t sleep in an REI tent either. C.P. himself actually called up your father, he said to explain. He said he is trying to shun materialism and that sleeping in an L.L. Bean tent or an REI tent doesn’t jive with his beliefs.”
I am afraid, very afraid, that I’m going to start laughing. I focus all my attention on trying not to; I focus all my attention on trying my best just to listen.
“I swear to God your father had to just give me the phone. I just said, ‘Henry, just hand me the phone,’ because I think your father is about ready to kill C.P. and that won’t help anything,”
“No,” I say.
“I think the spa will help, do you think the spa will help?”
“I think the spa will help,” I say, even though, at this point, I’m not so sure.