The Perfect Mom

by Janice Kay Johnson

  “What is it?” he asked, trying surreptitiously to look past him.

  “Southwestern wraps. Black beans and rice and jack cheese. They’re good.”

  He nodded. “Emma home?”

  “Up in her room.” She made a face. “I’m sure she knows you’re here. She has excellent radar. She’s just waiting to make a casual, I-don’t-care entrance.”

  She had her daughter pegged. Exactly five minutes later, Emma sauntered into the kitchen.

  Logan was leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping a glass of wine and contemplating his own cabinets, installed in the far corner. They looked damn good, if he did say so, as long as he zeroed in on them and didn’t widen the lens to include the rest of the kitchen with shabby, painted cabinets and peeling vinyl.

  Kathleen was spooning rice onto tortillas when the teenager walked in.

  “You look just like your mother,” he exclaimed, startled by the resemblance. The minute the words were out, he wished them back. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say to a teenager with mixed feelings about her mother.

  A flash of…something showed on her face. Pleasure? Irritation. Whatever it was, she shut it down right away and gave him a cool look.

  “You don’t have to say that. Mom likes you anyway.”

  He felt Kathleen turning and hoped she wouldn’t jump in to rescue him even if he did already feel like a dumb oaf.

  “I’m sorry. Don’t you like the comparison? Your mom is beautiful, and you are, too.”

  The girl sneered. “Right. Sure.”

  “That’s not very polite,” Kathleen said mildly. “‘Thank you’ is always an appropriate response to a compliment.”

  “He’s complimenting you, not me.”

  “Actually, I was talking to you.” Logan looked levelly at her. “I mean what I say.”

  “Whatever.”

  He could feel tension radiating from Kathleen, who mechanically continued dinner preparations, the spoon whacking the bowl.

  So much for making conversation with Emma. He couldn’t think of a blasted thing to say. So, do you like school? He’d seem like any other idiot adult.

  “What do you think of my cabinets?” he asked, nodding at them.

  She gave them a disdainful glance. “They’re okay.”

  Now he was ticked. “Okay?” he repeated. “Have you really looked? Come here.”

  He’d caught her by surprise. She actually did follow him to the soap-making corner.

  “Feel this wood,” he ordered.

  She hesitantly reached out and ran her fingers over the satiny surface.

  “Open and close a few doors. Try the drawers.”

  Arms crossed, he loomed over her until she did. The drawers floated, the cabinet doors sprang silently shut.

  “Study these joints,” he said, running his own finger over a dovetailed corner. “These cubbies are exactly the size and shape your mother ordered.”

  Clearly she felt his pricked pride, because her sidelong glances had become wary.

  “Did you know the kitchen floor slopes slightly? Half an inch from here to here.” He pointed. “A marble would roll away. Ceiling isn’t level, either. They never are in old houses. Can you tell, looking at these cabinets?”

  Wordlessly she shook her head.

  “Have you ever tried woodworking?”

  “No-o,” Emma admitted.

  “That isn’t true,” her mother said behind her. “Jo let you make some cuts with the jigsaw when we were doing the downstairs bathroom.”

  “Oh.” Her face flushed. “Yeah. It was, um, hard.”

  “Compare these cabinets to the ready-made ones in your bathrooms.”

  “I remember we had to cover the crack around the outside with molding,” she admitted. “’Cuz it got really wide near the floor. Like the wall, um, bowed.”

  “It probably does. Have you ever used a level?”

  “Yeah, Uncle Ryan has let me.”

  “You ought to wander around with one. You’d start to think you’re in one of those carnival houses, where mirrors make everything you see deceptive. Here, you think you’re seeing straight, but you’re not.”

  She actually looked interested. “Really?”

  “It’s why working on old houses is such a challenge. Replacing a window, for example. You find out the right top corner is two inches lower than the left corner. What do you do? Put the new one in the same way? Carve up the wall, even if it means replacing siding or crumbling plaster? Or figure, Oh, well, and live with it?”

  Her brow puckered. “I’d go, Oh, well.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Except then, the blinds you install don’t work right, because they’re not hanging straight. Or you’ve chosen a wallpaper with stripes, and jeez are those going to make it obvious that something’s off.”

  “Pick flowers,” she decided.

  He grinned. “Actually, that’s what I’d do, too. Part of the charm of an old house is the inconsistencies. One bedroom door is taller than the others in the hall. Why? You pull up vinyl and carpet. Are you going to find the same kind of wood floor throughout the house? Probably not. Rooms have weird nooks that seem to serve no purpose. Door-knobs don’t match.”

  “But it means your house, and your bedroom, are special,” she said, obviously intrigued with the idea.

  “One of a kind,” he agreed. “Unless your old house was once company housing.”

  She’d never heard the term. He explained how large companies had once provided housing for their workers, rather like the military did on bases, and built row upon row of identical houses.

  “For example, have you ever gone over to the Peninsula? Port Gamble is a perfect example. Great old houses that are all exactly alike, if you look past the paint jobs, a few added porches or gingerbread.” He shrugged. “Even with those, carpenters were more seat-of-the-pants than they are now. Your materials didn’t all come from a factory. You might even be planing boards yourself.”

  “I hate to interrupt,” Kathleen said a little dryly, “but dinner is served.”

  He blinked. “Oh. Sorry. I got carried away.”

  “That’s okay,” Emma surprised him by saying. “It was interesting.”

  He gave her a rueful grin. “Thanks. Shall we go eat?”

  She wrinkled her nose and said in a low voice, “I hope it tastes better than that…smell.”

  “Me, too,” he murmured.

  They exchanged conspiratorial smiles and went to the table.

  The wrap was good. So good, he had a second one. Kathleen carefully didn’t look her daughter’s way, but Logan did, and saw that Emma was nibbling. By his standards, she didn’t eat much before she declared she was full, but then she was a tiny thing.

  Conversation ran the gamut, as usual, from teasing about Kathleen’s noxious soap experiment to grumbles about tomorrow’s Spanish test—that was Emma—to Ginny’s awe at a substitute teacher who said he skydived for fun.

  “He says floating down is the best feeling ever,” she reported. “Once, he said he met an eagle prac’ly eye to eye.” As if somebody had expressed doubt, she added firmly, “That’s what he said.”

  “I’ve skydived before,” Logan said.

  Heads all turned. “Really?” Kathleen asked.

  “Yeah, a friend talked me into it. To tell you the truth, it scared the—” he cleared his throat “—the heck out of me. Stepping out of that plane was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I don’t think I could have made myself if I hadn’t been so depressed about my wife’s death, I didn’t care all that much if something did go wrong.” Maybe he shouldn’t have admitted that, Logan thought, seeing the way the girls’ eyes widened. He hurried and said, “But once the chute opened, it was pretty incredible. It’s just you and the wind and the world spread out below. You feel like you’re moving so slowly—floating—until you wham down on the ground. I ended ingloriously by spraining my ankle.”

  They all laughed, but continued to gaze at him with gratifying respec
t.

  “I don’t think I could make myself do that,” Helen said. “I don’t even like flying in a 747.”

  Emma said, “I think it would be cool.”

  Kathleen opened her mouth, then closed it.

  “I actually think it would be, too,” Jo said, not so surprisingly. “What I’ve thought about doing is a ride in a glider. Somehow that seems a little safer.”

  Logan pictured the fragile-winged gliders he’d seen banking above the Arlington Airport up north, and wasn’t so sure about the safe part.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  Jo laughed. “Coward.”

  “That’s me,” he said amiably.

  Later, while they were cleaning up, Emma asked if he knew her uncle Ryan.

  “Yeah, he’s the one who recommended your mom call me.” What was she was getting at?

  “You, like, work with him?”

  “I’ve done jobs with him a couple of times. He’s more of a general contractor, and since I met him a year ago he’s called me a couple of times if cabinets have to be replaced or built to match existing ones.”

  She looked incredulous. “Mom knows that?”

  Baffled, he said, “What I do for a living, you mean?”

  “I guess.” Emma frowned. “I mean, I know she does, because you built those. It’s just…” She shook herself. “Never mind.”

  Logan crossed his arms. “Do you know how infuriating it is when people do that? Just when they’re getting to the interesting part, they look mysterious and say, ‘Never mind.’”

  Emma giggled, an airy sound. “It is so-o irritating, isn’t it? But…” She turned her head and lowered her voice. “Here comes Mom.”

  “Are you going to tell me later?” Logan asked, voice low, too.

  “Maybe,” she murmured, just as Kathleen stopped in front of them.

  “You two sure have your heads together. Just what are you whispering about?”

  “Nothing,” they said in tandem, then laughed together, too.

  When she looked at her daughter, Kathleen’s expression might have been funny if it hadn’t also been sad, made up as it was with delight, suspicion and yearning.

  “We’re not conspiring against you,” Logan assured her. “Just, uh, exchanging a few notes.”

  “Ah.” She planted her fists on her hips. “How about you help clear the table instead?”

  He kissed her cheek. “Will do.”

  Emma watched interestedly. When her mother raised her brows at her, she said, “Okay, okay,” and grabbed some glasses.

  Logan left shortly thereafter, since he had to drive to Bellingham to look at some wood in the morning.

  Kathleen slipped out the front door and pulled it shut behind her. When he wrapped his hands around her waist, she clasped hers behind his neck.

  “You got on with Emma like a house afire.”

  “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully, “I did, didn’t I? She seems like a nice kid.”

  Kathleen fought a visible battle with herself, a mother’s pride against a mother’s frustration. “She is. Sometimes. I just didn’t think tonight would be one of those times.”

  “You thought she’d hate me.”

  She made a face. “Emma hasn’t been enthusiastic when I talked about you. Honestly, I’m surprised.”

  He waited for her to add, And glad.

  She did. Eventually, and almost grudgingly. “Of course, I’m pleased.”

  He’d never understand women. Why wasn’t she pleased? Or, at least, why did she have mixed emotions about her daughter’s apparent capitulation where he was concerned?

  Logan knew better than to ask. Events would unfold; the truth would out. Or so experience suggested.

  “Forget Emma,” he said with sudden impatience. “Kiss me.”

  She did. Not at all grudgingly.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “YOU’RE WATCHING ME!” Emma glared at her mother.

  Mom flushed; she always did when she felt guilty. But of course she claimed, “Don’t be ridiculous! Why would I watch you?”

  Furious, Emma snapped, “Because I’m eating, and you want to count how many bites I take or something!”

  She’d made herself soup for lunch, and—gee, what a surprise!—Mom had just happened to wander into the kitchen and say, “Lunch. What a good idea. Maybe I’ll make myself a sandwich.” Emma never got to eat out here by herself. Mom was always oh, so casual, like she was fooling anyone.

  “It’s lunchtime!” Mom snapped right back. “I can’t eat until you’re done?”

  Emma stood up, carried her soup to the sink and dumped it. “There. That’s what you thought I was going to do, isn’t it? Why won’t you just trust me?”

  “I wasn’t watching you!” Mom yelled, her face really red now. “Why won’t you believe me?”

  Emma stared in frustration, then shook her head. “I can’t talk to you.” She walked out, even though Mom was saying, “Emma, you come back here right this minute!”

  Yeah, so they could have a talk. Emma hated their talks.

  She’d promised not to go for long walks, but she grabbed a school sweatshirt, tugged it on over her head and went out the front door. She could go around the block, couldn’t she? Unless she found out Mom had locked one of those electronic ankle things on, and the police would roar up the minute she got twenty yards from the house or something.

  She stomped down the sidewalk, mad that it was drizzling—again! this was the worst spring ever—and at her mother for being so suspicious.

  Mom had promised she wouldn’t try to monitor what Emma ate. But she was anyway. Emma could tell. Every meal, Mom kept eyeing her plate and watching the fork go to her mouth. If she said, “I’m full,” Mom would say, “Oh, but this is so good! You’ve hardly had any.” Or she’d ask questions when Emma was on her way out the door to school, like, “Did you have a chance to make a lunch? Or do you need money?” Emma bet Mom was dying to dig through her pack and see what she’d packed for lunch.

  She was eating. Sometimes it was really hard, but she did like feeling stronger, and not so cold. She tried not to look in mirrors, because she knew she was getting fat. She was ninety pounds now. Dr. Tisdale wanted her to get up to at least a hundred.

  “At your height, a hundred and ten to a hundred and twenty would be appropriate, but I’ll settle for a hundred pounds,” he’d told her.

  Some days she did better than others. Like, Tuesday she’d been starved all day, and she’d eaten so much she didn’t even want to think about it. But today she could hardly look at food. Every bite choked her. Sometimes she just wanted to quit eating and say to her mother, “See? All I’m doing is what you expected.”

  Mostly she didn’t want to go back to Bridges, with those Nazi guards patrolling the dining hall and sticking their heads in your room and eavesdropping on every conversation. Lots of the women and girls there had been back at least twice. They knew the whole routine.

  Most of the time these days, she thought she’d take feeling gross and fat if she could also be normal. She wanted friends, and even a boyfriend. Some of the sophomores had been asked to senior prom, and they were all preening in the bathroom and bragging and talking endlessly about their dresses and the limo they’d be going in and where they’d be having dinner and about parties afterward. No guy had even looked at Emma, never mind asked her.

  She was sixteen. Almost an adult. She just wished she could get her mother to treat her like one.

  So, okay. She used to lie about whether she was eating. But she didn’t anymore. Mom had seemed so cool about it when Emma first got out of Bridges, even letting her pick out food for herself and swearing that she’d let the whole issue of food be between Emma and her doctor and therapist.

  Look how long that had lasted.

  She was almost all the way around the block when she saw Logan’s blue pickup truck turning onto their street. On impulse she stepped off the curb and stuck out her thumb.

  He saw her, grinned and stopped. />
  She opened the passenger door and scrambled up.

  “Need to get out of the rain?” he asked.

  She scrunched up her face. “Away from Mom, more like.”

  “Uh-h,” he said mildly. “Getting on each other’s nerves, huh?”

  “You mean, she’s getting on mine.” In the right side mirror, she noticed a car turning the corner and then hesitating, blocked by his pickup. “I saw a parking spot around the corner,” she told him.

  “Thanks.” He started forward. “So, what’s she doing?”

  He was so cool! He’d been over, like, every other day since Emma got out, and he was so easy to talk to. He reminded her of Uncle Ryan, even though they didn’t look at all alike. But he never seemed to get upset, never seemed in a hurry, never faked wanting to talk to her when she could tell he didn’t, like some adults did.

  She couldn’t believe her mother was dating him. Uncle Ryan irritated Mom so-o much, even though they loved each other, too. As long as Emma could remember, Mom had claimed Uncle Ryan was lazy because he didn’t want to be a bigger contractor, with more crews doing more jobs under him, instead of still doing some of the work himself. She acted like you couldn’t always depend on him, and it just wasn’t true! She was the one who wouldn’t let him work on the house, because she said she was determined to manage herself. He was always offering. And every time they’d really needed him, like when they found out the bathroom floor was totally rotten, he’d come right away and worked hard. For free.

  But he was the opposite of Emma’s dad. And so was Logan. When Dad walked into a room, everybody noticed. He crackled with energy. He was a workaholic, too, and he didn’t need much sleep, only five or six hours a night, so everybody looked lazy compared to him. He could hardly stand it when Emma slept in until nine or even ten o’clock. Dad never just sat. He paced, even when he was talking on the phone. He hated it when people didn’t get to the point. Mom always said, “Dad doesn’t chat.”

  He was also super handsome. Even when he came back from the health club in his sweats, he looked as if he should be in GQ or something. Dad liked the best. He wouldn’t have been caught dead in faded jeans that sagged in the butt or a sweatshirt with a ripped elbow or with his hair shaggy. He wanted Mom and Emma to look good, too. Not that it was ever a problem for Mom, but Emma wished sometimes she could slouch downstairs in baggy pajamas to have breakfast, or that it didn’t matter if she just threw on something to go to school.