Odd Mom Out

by Jane Porter

  The ferry warning sounds. We’re less than ten minutes from disembarking. Luke and I head back downstairs to his bike, pull on our helmets, and prepare to unload.

  Once on Bainbridge, we travel up Winslow Way, past a beach and fishing pier to the quaint downtown once known as Winslow but that now is just Bainbridge.

  Luke parks the bike and we walk the length of town, which I’m surprised to see is already closed. The only places still open are restaurants, a coffeehouse, and a lone drugstore.

  I peek into the window of the dark bookstore. “I wish something was open. It’s so pretty here!”

  “We do have dinner reservations,” Luke says, glancing at his watch. “In fact, we should probably head to the restaurant now.”

  “Is it far?”

  “Nope. Just a couple blocks from here. We could take the bike, but it’s such a pretty night I’d like to walk.”

  I shoot him a swift side glance. Luke Flynn, Man as Big as a Mountain, rides a Freedom bike, drives an old Land Rover, heads a multibillion-dollar company, and also happens to be a romantic. “Good.” I smile at him, a giddy sensation in my heart again. “Let’s do it.”

  Dinner’s at the Four Swallows, an amazing restaurant tucked inside a historic little house. Each room of the house has tables and booths, and each room has a different ambiance, too.

  The menu’s spectacular, everything sounding so mouthwatering, ranging from an appetizer of kiwi, pears, and feta cheese dipped in toasted pine nuts and served with crackers and roasted garlic, to succulent lamb and freshly prepared northwest seafood.

  We eat by candlelight, squeezed into an antique booth that looks as if it came from an island church. We talk and laugh over dinner and dessert.

  “Tell me about your mom,” he says, sitting with a black coffee in front of him. “How long has she been diagnosed?”

  I think of my mom, picture her slim elegance, her once impeccable manners, and my smile falters. “Five years, I think.” My shoulders lift and fall. “My dad ignored the symptoms as long as he could. He didn’t want to believe it, especially as my mom was definitely young to be diagnosed.”

  “I take it you and your mom were close?”

  Another stab in my heart. It takes me a long moment to answer. “Not as close as we could have been.” I’m silent again, and I think about all the could-have-beens and should-have-beens. “I was a rebellious teenager.”

  “What teenager isn’t?”

  He has a point, but I know how I behaved, and I know it’s because I thought we had so much time. I took my mom for granted. I guess I thought we’d all live forever. “Dad doesn’t want to put Mom in a home, but even with help, he’s having trouble managing her. Mom wanders a lot right now. Some specialists say Alzheimer’s patients wander because as they regress, they go back to another point in their life, to an earlier point, and they’re looking for someone or something.”

  Luke’s expression is concerned. “What would your mom be looking for?”

  And I suddenly know. “Eva,” I murmur.

  “Your daughter?”

  “My sister.” I look up at him, candlelight flickering, throwing shadows off and on his face. “I had a sister named Eva. She died just before her second birthday. I was four.”

  “Do you remember your sister?”

  I feel hollow inside. “I remember her being gone.” Which is true. No one talked about “Sissie” after she died. She was never mentioned again, and all her baby things were quickly removed from the house. I don’t think I really even remembered I had a sister until my daughter was born and the only name I could think of in the hospital was Eva. I held my six-pound-five-ounce baby girl against my chest, and as I held her, I kept hearing over and over, Eva Rose.

  Mom was livid that I gave my daughter my sister’s name. For weeks after Eva’s birth, she wouldn’t speak to me, and when she finally sent something for the baby, she didn’t include a card.

  I thought Mom was such a bitch for doing that. I don’t think I forgave her for a long, long time.

  We’re still sitting deep in conversation when the waitress brings us the bill. “Just a reminder that the last ferry to Seattle tonight leaves in a half hour.”

  It’s a scramble now to pay and hustle back down the hill to Winslow to get the bike.

  By the time we reach the ferry, they’re already boarding and we’re waved on and parked in record time.

  We’re laughing as we pull off our helmets. I’m laughing so hard that Luke’s arm goes round to steady me, and then we’re kissing.

  As he kisses me, my legs give way, my mouth trembling beneath his. I slide my arms around his waist, beneath his leather jacket, and as the kiss deepens, I hold him close and closer still. It’s been so long since I was kissed like this. So long since I felt what I feel.

  Later, we climb the stairs, heading for the top deck to watch as we sail toward the spectacular Seattle skyline, the lights of the city glittering beneath a sky full of stars.

  Everything tonight is perfect. The wind’s crisp and cold, yet the moon overhead shines fat and full, and our ferry pushes through the water, humming and creating a white foamy wake that looks iridescent in the moonlight.

  Luke stands behind me, his arms around me, and I hold his arms against me, hold him tight, hoping I know what I’m doing, hoping no one will get hurt, hoping this amazing, happy feeling will last at least till morning. That Luke will maybe stay till morning.

  On the doorstep of my house, I invite Luke in.

  “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he says, cupping my face. “It might be too soon.”

  “I think you’re chicken,” I taunt softly.

  His body hardens almost instantly against me. I hide a smile. I always did like playing with fire.

  We end up inside, kissing against the front door. Then, still kissing, Luke walks me backward, step by step, through my living room and down the hall. “Which is your room?” he mutters, tugging my black cash mere V-neck sweater over my head.

  I shiver in my black lace bra. “That way—” I indicate toward my room, and after sweeping me into his arms, he pushes open the door and carries me in, dumping me unceremoniously on the bed.

  He strips off his shirt and then stretches out over me on the bed. Our chests are bare, yet we both still have jeans and boots on, and the feel of his chest with its warm skin over taut thick muscle makes me want all of him just as bare.

  Luke kisses me more deeply, his tongue teasing mine, and I arch against him. Reaching up, I clasp his face and then slide my hands down to his shoulders, amazed at the feel of him. He feels amazing. Unreal. Perfect.

  I caress down until my hands reach his belt. “Can we dispose of these?” I whisper against his mouth, tugging on the belt and jeans.

  “You’re so impatient,” he answers, kissing the hollow beneath one ear and then lower, on the side of my neck, making me shudder beneath his delicious weight.

  “I’ve only waited ten years, baby.”

  He pushes up to prop himself with his elbows. “How long has it really been?”

  “Ten years.”

  “Ten years without sex?”

  I cringe at his incredulous tone. “I do have toys, some very nice toys—”

  “Pocket Rocket?” he guesses.

  I grin and nod. “Among others.”

  He drops his head to kiss the swell of one breast and then the other. “Are you nervous about making love?”

  “No,” I answer without hesitating, and then I wait until he looks me in the eye. “I just want it to be good.”

  Luke laughs that deep, sexy laugh of his and runs his hand through my hair. “No pressure there.”

  “None at all,” I agree solemnly. “Oh, and Luke?”

  “What, my darling chicken?” he asks, now unzipping the zipper of my jeans and leaning lower to kiss my abdomen just above the lace of my very low-cut black thong. I shiver as his tongue snakes across the lace, going low, lower, until the tip of his tongue hits right
where I’m most sensitive.

  “I want to come, too,” I pant, the air now strangled in my throat.

  He slides off my jeans and parts my knees. “You’ll come, baby. You just leave it to me.”

  I do come. Not just once, but twice, and I think I could even have another orgasm, but Luke teases me that I don’t want to be sore, and he’s right. He doesn’t have a problem staying very big and very hard, and it has been a long, long time.

  Luke stays the night, sleeping next to me, his right arm wrapped securely around me.

  I don’t sleep, though. Instead I lie there, strangely at peace.

  I’ve missed this so. I’ve missed being someone’s woman.

  I’ve missed belonging somewhere, to someone.

  Luke leaves early in the morning before I can even make him coffee. Turns out he has a flight to the East Coast in just three hours, and he’s got to get home, pack, and grab his computer.

  I wander around the house until Eva returns at ten.

  “What did you do last night?” she asks me.

  I feel myself redden. “Had dinner with Luke.”

  She turns on me eagerly. “Was he here, or did you go out?”

  Oh, he was here all right, I think, biting my lip and hiding my smile. “We went out. He took me to a restaurant on Bainbridge.”

  “Was it fun?”

  I picture his bike, the dinner at Four Swallows, the ride home on the ferry, and then I remember the feel of his mouth on me. I go hot, and the breathless feeling is back, the one that makes me want to find Luke and strip off my clothes and beg for a repeat of last night’s performance. He was good. And he was right: He knew exactly what to do with my body. “Very,” I croak.

  She looks at me from the corner of her eye but says nothing more.

  But she knows something’s up. How can she not? I can’t stop smiling.

  We spend the rest of the day at Mom and Dad’s house, making roll-out sugar cookies that Mom helps us frost and decorate for Halloween. Dad’s housekeeper has put a roast in the oven for us, and I whip up mashed potatoes and green beans and salad.

  Mom goes to bed early, though, almost as soon as we eat, and Eva and I go home to watch Desperate Housewives. It’s not a show for kids, but Eva loves it. She thinks she’s Eva Longoria.

  Monday morning I get another big call at work. Trident wants to go with us.

  How’s that for getting exactly what I don’t want?

  We don’t get Freedom Bikes, but we do get Trident.

  I should be thrilled that we’ve got new business, but my gut has told me from the beginning that Trident’s going to be a mistake. They’re based in New York, and they’ll require some serious travel. Fortunately, Chris likes to travel, and since he once lived in Manhattan, he’s looking forward to getting home more.

  But as the team pow-wows after the phone call, I don’t feel better about the deal. I feel worse. I mention my concerns to the group, and Chris shoots me down with a dismissive, “Without Freedom we need them. We don’t have a choice.”

  I shuffle papers, change subjects, but my gut says we’re in trouble. My gut says we’ve just boarded a sinking ship, which is always a bad, bad, bad decision.

  Monday evening, I get a text message from Luke. When can I see you again?

  I text back, When do you get back?

  He texts right away, Tonight. But I leave in the morning again for 10 days.

  I stare at the screen on my BlackBerry for a long time before texting my reply: Then stop by tonight on your way home.

  Luke arrives late enough that Eva’s already in bed sound asleep. I quietly close the door to Eva’s room before leading Luke to the kitchen. “Hungry?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he answers, backing me up against the refrigerator. The kiss is explosive. Hot, so hot that I grab on to his shirt and hang tight.

  “Let’s go to my room,” I whisper.

  “Eva’s here.”

  “We’ll be quiet.”

  “You’re not that quiet.”

  My eyes flash. “You shouldn’t be so good.”

  We head to my room, and Luke barely gives me time to lock the door before he’s sliding his hands from my waist down my hips and over my butt.

  I gasp a little at his touch and grab the ends of his hair, tug on them, before covering his mouth with mine.

  I feel like a savage, but as he strips the clothes from me, he seems just as fierce and hungry.

  Making love is wild. When he enters me, I’m not even properly on the bed, but somehow it’s right. Everything about being together is right, as long as we are together.

  It’s the being apart that’s getting hard.

  Luke leaves at midnight, and I stand beneath the hot, steamy spray of the shower.

  I won’t see him again for at least ten days. He’s heading in the morning for Europe, and this is what he does. He’s on the road more than he’s home.

  I touch my breast, still feeling the imprint of his hand on my skin. Ten days until he touches me again. Ten days until I see his blue eyes again.

  After turning off the shower, I grab my towel and press the terry cloth to my face. Even if I wanted to see Luke more, I couldn’t.

  And that thought somehow fills me with despair.

  Luke calls me Tuesday noon from Hamburg. It’s evening there, and he’s just wrapped up a day of meetings. “How are you?” he asks.

  “Good,” I answer, taking the phone and heading from the studio outside so I can have some privacy. “How about you?”

  “Long day, but productive.”

  “Good.”

  His voice drops. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  I wrap one arm across my chest. “I feel the same way.”

  “Ten days is too long.”

  “I agree.”

  “Come see me.”

  I laugh. “Can’t. I have a business to run. Come home.”

  “Can’t. Have a business to run.”

  I laugh again. So does he. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says.

  “You don’t have to.”

  Luke makes an exasperated sound. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

  “Okay. Be careful.”

  “You too.”

  The rest of the afternoon passes, and before long it’s six o’clock Tuesday night and we’re all still buried in the studio, even Susan, and she’s got three kids at home waiting for her.

  “Susan, get out of here,” I tell her, rubbing a knot at the base of my neck. I’m currently on hold with Gord from Jet City—he’s going to round up his partner to continue our unhappy conference call.

  Jet City Coffee feels as if we’re dropping the ball. We’re not as creative or responsive as we used to be. They’re not getting phone calls returned. They don’t like the numbers on their last ad campaign. And frankly, they’re beginning to think it’s time they moved to another agency, one with fresh ideas and new blood.

  Susan does eventually leave, but Allie, Chris, Robert, and I remain to finish the conference call.

  By the time the call ends, it’s seven and Eva’s curled up in a bean bag chair that she’s brought from the house, reading a book.

  “That was a long call,” she says.

  “Tell me about it.” I look over her head at my exhausted team. They all are grim and gray. There’s no way anyone’s in the right mind frame to discuss the call tonight. “We’ll talk about it in the morning,” I tell them.

  Nodding and muttering good-byes, they grab their coats and go.

  Eva watches everyone leave and then looks at me. I smile tiredly down at her and then stoop to give her a kiss. “You must be starving,” I say.

  She shrugs. “I made myself a peanut-butter sandwich.”

  “Good for you.”

  She reaches up, touches my hair and then my face. Her dark hair curls in little wisps around her face. “Mom, I know you’re tired and you’ve just had a really bad conference call, and I don’t want to bother you . . .”


  Eva reminds me of Natalie Portman right now with her big dark eyes and pixie cut. “What, baby?”

  “Tomorrow’s Halloween, and Phoebe’s party,” she blurts out. “And we never got me a costume.”

  Oh, shit.

  We head out immediately to Redmond to look at mermaid costumes, princess costumes, cowgirl and Native American costumes. We look at scary, gory, bloody, pretty, charming, classic, silly.

  As we shop at the cavernous Halloween Outlet, I catch a glimpse of my image in one of the tall, skinny mirrors and hardly recognize myself. I still feel so young, yet right now I look disturbingly middle age, with shadows under my eyes and creases at the corners and pinched lips that look as if they could use some collagen.

  Suddenly, I remember the older ladies I saw at Tully’s and how each looked so stretched and pulled and tucked. I remember how I vowed I’d never do that, never chop me up and pull me back together again, but I don’t want to look old, either. Don’t want to look . . . beaten.

  And maybe that’s how those older ladies ended up getting all that work done. Maybe one day they looked into the mirror and they didn’t recognize the face they saw anymore. Maybe one day the face in the mirror wasn’t familiar.

  Last year, Shey told me a story about aging and our faces. She said she and her mom were talking, and Shey said on the inside she still felt thirty, and her mom laughed and said that was good, because she only felt like forty.

  Perhaps that’s the difficulty with aging gracefully. Our hearts don’t age, yet the rest of us does.

  Which sends us to the doctors in search of miracles, drugs, and cures. Nips and tucks and little fixes. A bit of Botox here, a touch of filler there. Yet no matter how little or much we do, we can’t ever stop time, so in the end we must make peace with the little girl inside us, the one that doesn’t want to grow up, or age, or ever die.

  “There,” Eva says, plopping a witch’s hat on my head. “Now you look like that lady. Morticia. The mom from The Addams Family.”

  If I recall, Morticia didn’t exactly look young. In fact, I thought she was downright old. But I don’t say any of that to Eva. I just pat her head and murmur, “Isn’t that fantastic?” even as I wonder what time Luke will call tomorrow from Hamburg. Will it be day or night?