by Paisley Ray
Mom moved toward them. “Maeve O’Brien. I don’t believe we’ve met.” Trudy registered a curious stare. My mom’s arrival was as welcome as a turd in a punch bowl.
Six people standing around a farmhouse kitchen was like being in a nylon tent at Girl Scout camp, and I moved toward the screen door for airflow.
“Rachael, aren’t you going to introduce your friends?” Mom asked. “Please stay for dinner, there’s plenty.”
“Dinner? Maeve, you can’t just show up and expect us to—eat.”
I was miffed that she invited Dad’s girlfriend and her sister to stay, but figured they wouldn’t. They’d get it. I was wrong. Trudy clasped her hands together and said, “I’ve heard so much about you. I mean, um—er,” her words bumbled in nonsense.
“Well yes, lovely to meet you. Were all you girls in high school together?”
Dad cringed and Sky snorted. I didn’t know Trudy’s precise age. It was somewhere between too young to be my mother and too old to be my sister. I guessed I wasn’t the only one who wished there was an open bottle of something alcoholic nearby.
Mom hadn’t processed that this was Dad’s girlfriend until he told her. “Maeve, this is my girlfriend, Trudy.”
God, it was hot in the kitchen.
“And her sister, Sky.”
An uncensored wince took hold of Mom, and her friend reached an arm around her. “Hi everyone, I’m Betts, Maeve’s friend.”
Great, Mom was traveling with her head-nut-o, which probably meant she hadn’t returned to woo herself back into Dad’s arms and my good graces.
Betts reached to shake Trudy’s hand. After they shook, she flipped it over and traced at her palm. Upon release, Betts stepped back and made a show of rotating her head as if encircling Trudy from head to toe, which I thought brave. I normally took the opposite approach and tried not to look below Trudy’s neck where she glowed in a lightning-bug-colored thongtard over bumblebee leggings. “Aquarius,” Betts said, hanging on the ‘s’ like a serpent.
Trudy rubbed the hairs on her left arm. “How did you know?”
“It’s in your aura. Purple. You are visionary and inventive.”
Dad scoffed, and I smirked. Betts had a creative way of complimenting Trudy.
The kitchen went awkward-silent as eyeballs darted around the room. “Maeve,” Dad said. “You can’t just show up and expect us to eat pot roast.”
Mom started opening drawers, pulling out serving utensils. “I know we have things to discuss, but that can wait.” Her eyes lingered on me. “It would be a shame to waste the roast.” Moving past me, she opened the screen door, “Rachael, can you carry the bread?”
“No, she can’t carry the bread. You can’t just walk back into our lives like you never left.” Dad kicked the metal garbage can, knocking it over, and rolling it into the butcher-block island.
The sweet and savory smells sent me into my file cabinet of memories. Not a specific event, but more of a slide show of the seasons of my youth. I looked at Dad, waiting for his lead, wondering if he’d chuck the roast and Mom out of the house. He threw his hands up and pressed them into his scalp.
“The pot roast does smell amazing,” I said. Mom rubbed her hand across my back.
Exasperated, Dad gestured to the back door. “It’s too hot to eat inside.”
After a second helping of baby carrots smothered in gravy, I pushed my paper plate aside. Darkness began to swallow the last flicker of dusk. Mom’s unannounced visit confused more than enraged me. Since she’d left, time had snuffed out the embers under Dad’s and my emotional cauldrons, but her return was the spark that slowly brought wounded feelings bubbling back up.
Backyard floodlights baited a growing congregation of winged insects and they fluttered under the warm white glow. I waited for Trudy and Sky to peddle the protein powder to Mom and her psychic-leader. They didn’t mention it, but the night wasn’t over.
Plastering a toothy smile on her face that stuck as she chewed, Trudy took advantage of the crammed wood bench, merging her left side into Dad’s right, like two colors of Play Doh pressed together.
Sky carried the dinner conversation, firing questions about parapsychological phenomena, which I found out is the umbrella for haunting, out of body and near death experiences, clairvoyance, and reincarnation. The topic sent Dad’s brow into a crinkle, and I guessed he wished he could transport himself somewhere far away.
Betts, not Mom, answered Sky’s questions with non-definitive statements, which in my book translate as bullshit. “Meditation and levitation,” she said, “are about tuning into one’s spiritual energy. Maeve’s progressing. Just last night under the trees before sunset, she had a breakthrough and reached a higher plateau of consciousness.” Betts’s red aura blinked on my radar.
Dad asked, “Where are you two staying?”
“At a campsite near Lake O’ Pines,” Mom said.
His mouth gaped. “You have to be kidding. You’re staying in a tent? Without running water, or a shower?”
Mom’s eyes turned down.
“God Maeve, is that what you want? To live like a gypsy?”
“Maeve and I prefer a more simple existence. We don’t require all the materialism in our lives.”
Dad held his hand up. “Just stop. You two can stay in the apartment above the shop.”
“John, that’s kind of you, but…”
“I insist,” he said, slipping Mom the key from his ring.
Mom thanked Dad.
Sky looked up into the night, and asked Betts, “What’s your sign?”
Betts followed Sky’s heavenward gaze. “What an insightful question. There is a correlation between the planets and horoscopes.”
I stared at the spikes in her hair. They grew out of her scalp like a forest of toothpicks. How had she enticed my mother to run off to Sedona? Was it a change in lifestyle that Mom craved, or the thrill of an adventure she couldn’t fulfill living in Ohio with Dad and me? Had Mom gone lesbian? I didn’t want to go there, but couldn’t squelch the thought. Betts’s towering, thick-boned shell looked androgynous-ish. She softened it with billowy clothes, dangly bracelets, and rings on her thumbs. The thought of Mom “romantically” liking a woman twisted a nervous-sickish feeling in my stomach. She and Dad weren’t into PDAs, which would be gross. No one wants to see their PUs making out. I’d always merged them into one parental team: working at the shop, keeping the day-to-day going, falling asleep on the sofa in the evening. Had Mom been that conflicted sexually, and run away so she could let loose with Betts?
Sky poked a carrot and asked, “Do you levitate?”
“As I mentioned, levitation can only be attained during high levels of consciousness. I work towards clarity and mystical rapture.”
“Have you read that collection of prophecies by that French dude?” Sky asked.
Mom sipped her wine. “You mean Nostredame?”
“Yeah, that dude. He wrote a book in like the Fifteen
Hundreds. Predicted wars, earthquakes, natural disasters.”
Patting Betts on the shoulder, Mom said, “Betts is a follower of Nostradamus. She’s fluent in French and Latin, and spent years studying spiritualism outside Lyon.” Betts waved Mom’s bragging aside.
I found myself paying more attention to my mother’s movements than to her words. How did she react to Betts? Did her hand linger? Dad was right. Pot roast was a crummy idea. Now it felt like a brick in my stomach, distracting me from sorting out my head. Initial joy had surged at seeing Mom in person, but now my emotions were unraveling, and I felt a loss thinking that the mom who sat across from me may not be the person that I thought I’d wanted back. Outwardly, she worked to appear carefree, though I wondered if she slept soundly, or did something inside her knot, giving her fitful sleep that created the circles under her eyes.
“We’ve studied Nostradamus in group,” Mom said.
“What museum houses his manuscript?” I asked.
Gulping from a highball glas
s, Betts clunked it onto the patio table. She’d produced her own whisky bottle when everyone else opted for wine. She had a peculiar habit of clearing her throat with a thwarty grunt when she emptied her glass.
“The book isn’t in a museum,” Dad said.
“Where is it?” Sky asked.
Betts twirled the ruby cabochon stone on her antique thumb ring. “It’s been debated for centuries as to whether or not there is a missing fifteen sixty-six edition of the prophecies.” Her eyes twinkled, and she downed her whisky to the bottom. “It would be a priceless artifact to have in a collection.”
Trudy forgot how to speak in sentences, and replied with nervous single syllable grunts of recognition, wary of the two self-professed psychics, as though they were capable of altering her fortune.
“Are you a collector?” I asked.
Dad hadn’t eaten Mom’s pot roast, only poked it around his plate. For the first time all night, he looked at Betts with curiosity.
“Anyone for dessert?” Mom asked as she stood to move inside. “Cherries Jubilee.”
Topping up her glass, Betts said, “I travel under the guidance of the stars, and prefer an unmaterialistic existence. The only thing I collect is knowledge.”
Bile rose in my throat at her empty meringue rhetoric. The BS washed fatigue into my shoulders. I didn’t know my mom, and probably never had.
The back screen clanked. Kitchen gadgetry was Mom’s weakness, and it looked as though there was one thing about her that hadn’t changed. She held a pie plate in one hand and a blowtorch in the other.
Sky slid off the bench and helped Mom with dessert. She pointed to the pyro device and asked, “What’s that for?” The table went quiet, and the neighbor’s pool pump provided background noise.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Dad asked.
Mom turned on the torch. It made a noise like the spit sucker they put in your mouth at the dentist. “Burns off the cognac and puts a warm crust on the top shell of the jubilee.”
As Betts took a hefty swig from her glass, I locked my eyes into hers and raised my voice. “Are you and my mom involved—sexually?” I looked at Mom. “Is that why you left?”
No one moved, unless you count the wind and Dad’s jaw dropping.
“Rachael,” Mom blurted out, forgetting to point her lit torch at dessert. Betts choked, hosing a spray of whisky out of her nose. When the two connected, a flame arched from Betts’s face to the napkin that rested in front of Trudy. Dad threw Trudy’s mint water on the flames that burned the red and white plastic check tablecloth. We all jumped out of the picnic benches, and Dad ran for a fire extinguisher.
Trudy assessed the front of her leotard. Splatters of flaming whisky had made contact with the spandex and bored a series of random holes in the fabric.
Returning at a sprint with an extinguisher, Dad fumbled with the safety catch. He shouted, “Stand back, everyone.”
I stared at Betts. She dabbed the corners of her mouth, and under her nose. “Your mother and I were born under complementary planets. We see our future pursuits with clarity, and do not muddy the divine calling with fleeting desires.”
“I’m confused,” Sky said. “Does that mean you are or aren’t lesbo’s?”
Tossing the safety pin aside, Dad fired the extinguisher sending clouds of white fog over the flaming table.
“Oh, the dessert,” Mom complained.
I wasn’t in the mood for anything named jubilee.
Deflating his shoulders, Dad clipped, “You left me to be with a woman?”
Mom’s eyes analyzed invisible lint on her lap.
A sheath of foam covered the picnic table. Turning on his heel, Dad stormed toward the garage. Trudy scurried behind him and Mom trailed along, mumbling something about sleeping arrangements.
After the outdoor-flame-show-gone-amuck, I cleared the melted-plastic tablecloth, paper plates, and silverware into the trash. Betts dug in her purse and pulled out a pack of tarot cards. “Would you like a reading?” she asked.
“I don’t believe in fortune telling.”
“Come on, Rachael,” Sky said. “It’s just for fun.”
Betts laid out a five-card spread. “These,” she said giving her spiel, “represent your present position, present desire, the unexpected, the immediate future, and its outcome.” Was this how you lured my mother?
If she could actually see the future, I wondered if she’d tell me when my mother would tire of her company and move back to Canton.
“The magician,” Betts said. “You have an extraordinary memory. A talent you’re not using at full potential.” I scowled. Mom must have told her about my photographic memory. She flipped over another card and spoke from across the table as I tried to look disinterested. “The high priestess.” Betts traced the corners of the card with her finger and lowered her voice. Sky leaned in to listen. “You think you want a neat and orderly life. With time, you’ll realize that you can’t resist untangling confusion, creating order. Righting a wrong.” She looked up. “It’s your gift.”
Wide-eyed, Sky glanced at me but kept her thoughts to herself.
“The Chariot. An emotional battle will ensue.”
A mosquito landed on my leg, and I killed it. “I’m going in.” At the screen door, I asked, “Why are you in town anyway?”
“There’s a psychic expo at the convention center. Maeve and I have a booth.”
I knew it. Mom wasn’t here to see Dad and me. She had an agenda. From inside the kitchen, I watched Mom wander back to table, apparently having given up on talking to Dad.
Sky stroked her chin and I could see her gears grinding. “How many people visit a psychic convention?”
“Thousands,” Betts said. “I met the most interesting young man. He’s an entrepreneur, sells herbal remedies at a booth near ours. Maeve told him all about you attending North Carolina College. He said he knew some people from that area.”
“North Carolina is a big place. The chances of my knowing him are like zil.”
“Do you need any help in the booth?” Sky asked. “I could drum up business, talk to customers, and help peddle what you sell.”
Still standing outside, I asked, “How long are you and Mom in town?”
“Until the beginning of August.” She flipped two more tarot cards.
“The tower and the lover’s card,” Mom said.
“Does that mean Rachael will find love in a high rise?” Sky asked.
Betts smiled. “Rachael attracts complication.”
Stepping behind Betts, I looked at the card. In a huff, I gathered the salt and pepper shakers, and took them inside. My focus became lost in the spice drawer somewhere between cumin and paprika. Attracts complication. Like all this was my fault. I gritted my teeth. Betts was a professional head-gamer, trying to pin the family dysfunction on me.
The screen door opened, startling me. “Thanks Sky,” I said, taking some glasses from her hand.
“Your mom showing up is kind of funky,” she whispered. “I think my sister is going to have a heart attack. She doesn’t look so good.”
I’d warmed to Sky since we’d shared the moment of clarifying that my mom had a lesbo lover. Although Mom hadn’t willingly professed their relationship, it seemed obvious. I reached into the liquor cabinet and pulled out crème de menthe. “Want some?”
Sky found two coffee mugs while I popped cubes out of the freezer trays. “Can we talk?” she whispered.
After pouring the green liquid over ice, I tucked the bottle away.
Stepping out of earshot from the screen door, Sky said, “Your dad seems nice enough, but he’s too old for my sister. Your mom showing up complicates things. It’ll force Trudy to think about finding someone her own age without baggage.”
Sky Blueax’s words were the most sensible enlightenment I’d heard all evening, but I wondered, did Dad consider me baggage?
She clinked her glass to mine. “Why don’t you and I compare notes? Help the stars between Trud
y and your dad combust.” She smiled with green stained teeth.
I downed my after-dinner cordial. “I’m in.”
OUR NINETEEN THIRTY FARMHOUSE was charming, except in summer. Mom and Dad had original plaster walls, wood floors, and ditsy floral wallpaper in the hallway, but had foregone installing central air-conditioning. A second floor electric ceiling fan hummed as it battled the summer heat. Like the spinning blades cutting hot air, I wrestled with the insanity of my family dynamics. Corpse-like I lay motionless on my bed, somehow hoping to squelch the fact that both Dad and Mom had girlfriends. The light bulb that glowed on my bedside table emitted a wave of heat, as warm air circulated over my lethargic body. My brain had short-circuited and an ache pinged in my head. I couldn’t sleep.
I turned off the lamp, lit a cigarette, and dialed Travis’s number. He had a knack for perspective, could massage my insecurities, and offered sensible advice. Besides professing his gaydom to me when I had made a pass on him in his dorm bed, our friendship was drama free, purely cerebral. I figured that talking to him would help soften the drumbeat that kept me from thinking straight.
“Hey Travis,” I squeaked.
“Rachael, your voice sounds funny.” How could he tell?
“Mom surprised Dad and me. She showed up at the house with her friend, Betts. Trudy and Sky were here. Everyone ate pot roast and broke bread. It was a big love fest.”
“Was anyone poisoned or stabbed with a sharp utensil?”
I smiled. Travis thought I was a magnet for trouble. “Not yet. There was a fireball, but dad extinguished it before the picnic table turned into embers.”
“Sky? Does Trudy have a dog? And is your mom over this psychic thing?” he asked.
A growl vibrated my words. “No and no.”
“Explain. And go slow.”
“Sky is Trudy’s younger sister. And Mom still claims to be receiving clairvoyance.”
“Did she have any premonitions?”
“Nothing moving or life-altering was uttered. No apologies or explanations. She and her mystic obsession are in town for a psychic expo. Apparently you can make a living telling people what they want to hear.”
