Not Ready for Mom Jeans

by Maureen Lipinski

  Sam shrugged and shuffled out of the room.

  “I’m going to go find Mark,” I said, and jogged out of the room. I found him sprawled out on the couch in the dark watching a baseball game.

  “Cubs winning?” I asked as I kicked him a little on the couch.

  “No, losing. As usual. What’s new?” he said in the darkness.

  “Nothing besides plotting new ways to kill our sister.” I sat down next to him.

  “Always good family fun,” he said. “Hey, I wanted to ask you something?”

  “Why are you such a leech who practically lives at Mom and Dad’s when you have your own apartment in the city?” I said quickly.

  “No. I already know the answer to that one and it involves the fact that my apartment doesn’t have toilet paper or food. I wanted to ask you: what’s a good restaurant in the city?” he asked.

  “For what occasion?” I asked him as I stood up and flicked on the light.

  “Ow, not cool,” he said, and squinted his eyes. “To take a, um, friend.”

  “Like a date?” I said, and stood over him.

  “No, not a date. Like a friend who is just cool,” he muttered.

  “Right, sure. Do you love her? Do you want to marry her?” I clapped my hands together.

  “Forget it, this is why I never tell you anything,” he said, and turned his eyes back to the television.

  “OK, OK. Um, take her to Nacional 27. Good music, good food, and even better drinks.” I nodded.

  “Thanks. Was that so hard?” He stared at the television, ignoring me.

  “So, who is she?” I punched him on the arm.

  “Just someone I went to college with.” Mark grabbed the remote and turned the volume up.

  “Do I know—”

  “Dinner’s ready!” my mom called from the kitchen.

  “Just don’t talk with your mouth full,” I said to him, and punched him on the arm again as he stood up off the couch.

  “She’s out,” Jake said as I walked into the kitchen. I looked down at Sara, angelically asleep in her car seat.

  We all sat down for dinner.

  “This stew is great,” Jake said as he shoveled the beef into his mouth.

  “Hmmm … mmmhhmmm,” Mark said.

  “What was that?” my mom asked.

  “What? I’m trying not to talk with my mouth full,” he said, and smiled at me.

  “Thank god, it’s only taken twenty-three years,” my dad said, and passed me the bread. “Sam, bread?”

  “What? Oh no.” She didn’t even look up from her US Weekly, totally engrossed in a story about Suri Cruise.

  “Sam, could you put down the magazine and talk to your family during dinner?” my mom said.

  Sam didn’t respond.

  “Sam?” She tried again.

  “SAM!” This time I yelled.

  “Jeez, relax. This whole family is so effing psycho. Mark and Clare do, like, whatever and I’m the one who gets ripped on.” She threw her magazine down on the floor, narrowly missing Sara, and crossed her arms.

  “Get over it,” my mom said to her. “Clare,” she said, turning to me, “I never got a chance to congratulate you on your essay. We all loved it.”

  Sam perked up. “Yeah,” she said enthusiastically.

  I almost asked if she was kidding. A warm feeling came over me like, She likes me! She likes my writing! She thinks I’m a cool big sister! She wants to hang out and be best friends!

  “I was wondering, since you’re a writer or something, if you will write my college entrance essays?” she said.

  And … back to reality.

  “What?”

  “My. Essays. College. You. Write. Do. Understand. English. You?” Sam’s eyes widened and she stared at me.

  Jake started laughing and he and Mark high-fived each other, like they always do whenever Sam says something particularly obnoxious.

  Before I had a chance to respond, my mom put her hands out.

  “Enough. We’re done.”

  “Really? It was just starting to get funny, Mom,” Mark said.

  “Ew, what’s wrong with you? Why do you have to be so—,” Sam started.

  “YOUR MOM SAID, ‘ENOUGH’!” my dad yelled.

  We all jumped a little and knew we’d gone too far if we’d pissed my dad off. He was mild-mannered; the only time I’d ever seen him truly blow up was when Mark was in high school and he and his friends chopped down our neighbors’ tree while they were on vacation to use the wood to build a bonfire.

  We all sat silently, admonished.

  “Guys, listen. We have to talk to you about something.” The catch in my mom’s voice made all of our heads snap up in unison and look at her. She looked at my dad and continued. “It’s really no big deal. I don’t want anyone to worry, or to freak out.”

  I knew right then I wasn’t prepared for whatever was going to come out of her mouth next. I just sat frozen, my heart pounding.

  “I went to the doctor a few weeks ago and they found a lump in my right breast,” she continued.

  The ears began ringing and I prayed she would stop and say, Just kidding! Let’s have dessert!

  “I had a biopsy done and it came back malignant.”

  She stopped and took a deep breath and my dad squeezed her hand.

  We all just continued staring at her.

  “Malignant is … ?” Mark asked.

  “Malignant is bad. Malignant means”—she took another breath—“cancer.”

  There are very few words in the English language that inspire instant dread, instant nausea. “Cancer” is definitely at the top of the list.

  I looked at Jake, who looked like he’d turned to stone. Sam was quietly examining her nails and Mark was turning red.

  “This is bullshit!” Mark exploded, and slammed his fist against the table, causing all of us to jump. “You’re totally healthy. How the fuck does something like this happen?” He jumped up and paced around the table.

  Sara woke up and started wailing. I mutely went over to her and picked her up, feeling as though my insides were hollowed out.

  “Mark, I’m going to be fine. We caught it early. Fine, I’m going to be fine,” my mom repeated.

  I wordlessly handed Sara to Jake. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what questions to ask. I felt like I should react, but I didn’t know how. So I just sat in my chair and stared at the patterns on the wood floor.

  I saw mascara-stained tracks across Sam’s face. I stood up and walked around the table. I tried to put my arm around her, but she jerked away.

  “I’m fine. I’m just worried,” she said, and wiped her face.

  My mom explained that even though they caught it early, the doctors still wanted her to go through radiation and chemo as a precaution. Radiation and chemo mean real-life sick stuff. They mean she really has cancer. They mean sickness, losing her hair, exhaustion …

  I don’t understand why this is happening. My mom has always been there for every one of us. She’s been a great person her whole life; she’s been a healthy person. She used to run fucking marathons in college. This feels like one big joke, like I’m expecting God to jump out from behind the bushes and say, Gotcha! Man, you should’ve seen the looks on your faces! Oh, and here is a million dollars for your troubles.

  Life is supposed to get better every year, not worse.

  And Sara.

  What would Sara do without her grandmother?

  What would I do without my mother?

  I need more time with her.

  Oh God.

  I can’t even begin to think like that.

  She’s going to be fine. She’s going to be great.

  Everything’s going to be fine.

  She’s going to get through this with flying colors and we’ll all have a big party. Maybe she and my dad can even take a trip or something to celebrate.

  So, yeah. She’s going to beat it.

  Fuck you, cancer.

  Tuesday, Ap
ril 15

  I went to work this morning, kept my head down, and slunk into my office. I couldn’t deal with anyone, least of all Mule Face. She has an uncanny ability to sense when something’s wrong, and the last thing I wanted was for her to twist the knife in my heart any deeper by asking asinine questions. Thankfully, though, as I turned on my computer I heard Christina mention to Abby, the receptionist, that Mule Face was out for a few days due to a severe allergic reaction to one of the facial creams she peddled from her mail-order catalogs. Normally, that news would make me smirk, but all I felt was relief.

  It’s hard to feel much of anything, though.

  Jake stayed up late with me last night, saying and doing all the right things, but my body still feels completely hollowed out.

  I sat at my desk for ten minutes this morning before I felt compelled to do something, so I went to my trusty friend Google, who helped me when I first discovered I was pregnant, and started looking up as much information as I could find about breast cancer. I skimmed a few articles until I caught sight of Scary Things like survival and remission rates, so I quickly closed the Internet. I sat at my desk and stared at my penholder for a while, wondering if the workers in the pen factory who made my black pen knew anyone who had cancer. Even just that word: “cancer.” They need to come up with a new way to describe it, something that sounds hopeful, like “Kinda Serious but Your Mom Will Be Fine” disease.

  As I kicked around the covers last night in bed, one sentence ran through my head like a neon marquee: I need more time with her.

  With my mom. With my daughter.

  And I was brought right back to the same question, the same dilemma. If my family is the most important thing in the world, if my world can crumble so quickly due to my mom’s illness, what am I doing here at work?

  Don’t I owe it to Sara, to myself, to at least consider the option of spending our days together?

  I was so engrossed in my mental battle, I completely forgot about my meeting with Greg this afternoon at the golf club until I caught sight of the meeting reminder on my calendar. So I jumped into my car and flew over to the club as fast as was humanly possible. I found him inside, waiting, looking bemused.

  “Sorry, I’m so sorry! Traffic!” I panted.

  “Sure there was.” He smiled knowingly at me. “You forget we dated. I think the only thing you were ever on time for was a beer pong contest.”

  Uncomfortable that he referenced my, um, less-than-professional days, I said, “Uh, yeah. Sure.” I quickly regained my composure. “Let’s go meet with the club’s golf pro, shall we?”

  “Sounds good,” Greg said, and we walked over to the pro shop.

  “Len Kasper, please,” I said to the clerk, a teenaged boy who looked incredibly bored.

  “Sure,” he mumbled, and trudged his body over to an office, clearly very put out from having to stop texting on his phone. “Some people are here,” he announced.

  Len appeared outside his office. “Clare Finnegan?” he asked.

  “That’s me,” I said, and shook his hand.

  “And Greg. How’s everything going, Mr. Thompson?”

  I smiled at his formal greeting. Len looked quizzically at me.

  “Sorry, it’s just … nothing,” I stammered.

  “I address all of our club members formally,” Len said stiffly. “Let’s go into my office.”

  “Yes! Let’s!” I said just a bit too enthusiastically.

  We sat down in Len’s office and I quickly became aware he was much more comfortable speaking to a male.

  “So, we’re going to have a shotgun start, right?” I asked Len, glancing at my notes.

  “Yes, shotgun start at eleven a.m.,” Len said to Greg.

  “And you know we’re giving prizes out to the winning foursomes for things like best score, longest drive, and closest to the pin, right?”

  “Yes, I have it all here.” Len smiled at Greg.

  “And everything is set up for the golfers’ lunch and dinner, right?”

  “The menu is complete, Mr. Thompson.”

  It started to become a game.

  “Len, if you could just review this list here of the foursomes.” I stuck the paper in front of him. “Look here at the handicaps for the golfers.” I pointed to the third column. “Does everything look copacetic?”

  “Sure does.” He lifted his head and craned his head to nod at Greg.

  I pretty much gave up at that point.

  A few minutes later, we all stood up and Len shook Greg’s hand and said, “You’ve really got everything covered, Mr. Thompson, this is going to be a great event because of you.”

  Greg didn’t say a word the entire meeting. I think he grunted once.

  “So, are you hungry?” Greg asked as we walked back toward the lobby of the club.

  “I’m good, thanks,” I said quickly. I was still exhausted from last night. I think I got about an hour of sleep in between crying hysterically, and obsessively searching on the Internet for rah-rah breast cancer survival stories. Not to mention all the questions popping up in my brain like in that Whac-a-Mole game.

  Should I really consider staying home? Would I be happier if—

  “Are you sure? The food here is great. My treat.” He smiled at me.

  “I’m not really hungry, but thanks,” I said, and pointedly fished around in my purse for the keys.

  “We should probably eat, though, we need to make sure the quality of the food is still up to snuff for the event.”

  He had me on a technicality. It was a good idea to do a tasting before the event.

  “OK, fine. But I can’t stay long.” I sighed. I prayed the dark circles under my eyes would magically disappear. Much like my memories of last night.

  “Great,” he said, and pointed toward the dining room.

  I was determined to keep the conversation strictly professional, but before I even had a chance to order a Diet Coke, he started with the personal questions.

  “So, tell me what Jake’s up to these days.”

  “Um, IT sales,” I said, and delicately sipped my water.

  “Sounds like it. And you guys are doing well?” Greg brushed an invisible piece of lint off the tablecloth and looked at me earnestly.

  “Great! Better than ever! We’re fantastic!” I felt like Pollyanna on uppers, but I hoped if I seemed really, really excited he’d lay off.

  “Good to hear. How’re Julie and Reese?”

  “They’re doing well,” I said quickly. I mentally sat on the words: Why do you care? You never seemed thrilled about my friends anyway.

  “That’s great. Tell them I said hello,” he said.

  “Sure.” I nodded and thought about Julie’s response. Which would include several four-letter words and a few obscene hand gestures. “So, how’s everything with your friends?” I avoided mentioning his friends by name, as though they were so insignificant and unimportant, I couldn’t be bothered with remembering each one personally.

  Greg nodded. “Great.” He smiled, flashing his white teeth. “Couple are married, couple are single. I was just in Ethan’s wedding.” He laced his fingers together on the tablecloth as I nodded.

  “Great, great!” I smiled, even though the ticker running across my brain said, Who the hell would marry Ethan? That guy is the biggest asshole on the planet.

  “Yeah, he’s pretty happy. Just bought a place out in the suburbs. On the North Shore. Right on Lake Michigan.”

  I kept the smile pasted on my face, willing my features to show no discernible dismay. But seriously? North Shore? Right on the lake? There had to be more zeros attached to that sale price than chips in my nail polish.

  “His wife is great. She used to work in advertising but now volunteers and things like that.” Greg shrugged.

  “Sounds fabulous!” I said brightly.

  I was suddenly and furiously aware of the great divide. The chasm between Those Who Can Buy Million-Dollar Houses at Thirty and the rest of us. And just how firmly
I belonged in the second group.

  Working mom. Long hours. Never enough time, quiet moments, sleep. No volunteering.

  But it doesn’t have to be like that, whispered the voice on my shoulder.

  “How’s work?” I said before my thoughts began to appear across my face.

  “Business is good. Sales are up. Even though the market’s not doing so well, my investments are.” He said it nonchalantly, like he wasn’t just in Crain’s Chicago Business 30 under 30 last month thanks to the success of his law firm.

  I nodded, like, Yeah. Totally. I totally have investments, too. I definitely don’t have ANY credit card debt, car payments, student loans, or anything like that. Just investments. Good ones.

  “Still living in the city?” I said instead.

  “Of course. I can’t imagine living in the suburbs, can you?” He laughed.

  “Um, yeah. Jake and I moved out of the city a couple of years ago.”

  “Oh, well, sure, it makes sense. Of course.” He shifted uncomfortably.

  “We like it.” I shrugged.

  “Do you have a minivan, too?” Greg teased, and flashed his white teeth.

  “No! But what’s so wrong with minivans? I mean, the extra space would be nice and there’s a lot of room for my groceries and—” I stopped when I saw the teasing look in his eye. “Yeah, yeah,” I said, and smiled. “So what if I’m domesticated now?”

  “There’s something I never thought you’d be.”

  “What?” I said, and stared at him.

  “Nothing. You just always talked in college about how you never wanted to have kids or live in the suburbs.” He crossed his arms across his chest and smiled at me.

  He had me there. “I know, but …” I trailed off. “Things change. People change. Plans change,” I finished. Suddenly uncomfortable again, I said, “We really should order. I have to get back to the office.”

  I opened my menu and pretended to study it. But his words rang true in my head. I never wanted this. Well, at least at one point in my life I didn’t. I planned on living in the city (“suburbs are for people who can’t make it in the city”), remaining childless (“kids are for people who don’t like to sleep in”), and having lots of disposable income (“beach house in South Carolina”).

  In ten years, it was as though my life wholly shifted from white to black, without stopping to hang out in the gray for a while.