Odd Mom Out (8 page)

“I was just showing them.”

I stifle an irritated sigh. “Go get it. I’ll wait here.”

“You won’t come up with me?”

“No. But I’ll wait here. Just go in, grab it, and come back.”

Eva knocks timidly on the door before going in, shutting the door carefully behind her.

I stand on the porch, inspecting the glossy white veranda running the length of the house. There are a cluster of big wicker chairs and hanging baskets of ferns and colorful impatiens. One would almost think we were in the Deep South instead of Greater Seattle.

The living room windows are open, and as I wait for Eva to return, I hear voices spill out from the living room. The moms aren’t in any hurry to leave. Most are enjoying a second cocktail or a refill on their wine.

“Who is that?” I hear one of the women ask just after the front door closes behind Eva. “The little girl with the long dark hair? I see her at the pool sometimes with her mother.”

“The girl who just came through?” Taylor’s laughter tinkles. “That’s Eva Zinsser, Jemma’s little shadow. Her mother was the one who just left. Marta’s her name. Different, aren’t they?”

There’s a giggle from the living room. “Did you see what Marta was wearing? Those pants? That ratty-looking T-shirt? Certainly didn’t seem like she took any pride in her appearance.”

“A bit too bohemian for my taste,” another replied.

“I don’t think they have a lot of money.” It’s Taylor again. I recognize her voice. “Apparently they’ve moved from the East Coast, and I can imagine their sticker shock at the price of homes. Nathan says you can get a lot more for your money there.”

“So is she married? Divorced? Haven’t seen a Mr. Zinsser,” someone said.

“I don’t know if there is one,” Taylor added, her voice dropping slightly. “And that could explain why the little girl’s a bit clingy. Eva seems very sweet, but she really needs to make some friends of her own. Poor Jemma’s beginning to find Eva’s hero worship claustrophobic.”

The women all laugh, but I don’t. I stand there in the overhang of the doorstep, shielded by the soft leafy shade of an enormous Japanese maple, with a furious lump filling up my throat.

I don’t care if they talk about me, but how dare they talk about Eva like that? How dare they discuss my child? Who the hell do they think they are?

My legs shake, and I’m trembling with rage. I will show them. I will teach them. I will—

The front door opens suddenly and Eva tumbles out, her cheeks a mottled rose against white. Her expression is stricken, and her wide eyes hold mine. It’s obvious she’s overheard the same thing I did.

“Eva,” I say.

She’s shaking her head. “My watch,” she whispers. “I couldn’t find it.”

So she didn’t hear them, then. Thank God. My relief is huge, staggering, and I almost sag against the oversize Craftsman-style column supporting the front porch.

“Will you go in and look for it with me?” she asks, her voice shaking.

I’d shave my head before I’d go back in that house. “Let’s not worry about it now. Let’s go to the beach for the picnic, and I’ll give Mrs. Young a call later.”

“But the watch,” she protests.

“We’ll find it.” I steer her toward the Ford truck, a meticulously restored 1957 classic with a glossy paint job somewhere between vanilla and buttercream. It’s my prized possession, and another f—— you to those (like my father) who would have us believe a woman isn’t complete without a man.

But Eva’s still fighting tears as she opens the passenger door and climbs inside. “Grandma and Grandpa gave me the watch for Christmas last year.”

The watch does have sentimental value—especially since my parents had it engraved for her—but I just want to get the hell out of here.

Our house is only a few blocks away. We could have walked to the Youngs’, but since we’re heading straight to the beach, I’ve already packed the back of the truck with our folding chairs and cooler.

But as I back out of the Youngs’ circular drive, Eva announces she doesn’t want to go to the beach after all.

I brake at the stop sign and turn to look at her. “But the picnic is a big deal. You’ve been looking forward to this all summer.”

She just shakes her head.

“Eva.”

Eva takes a deep breath. “We’re just going to end up sitting alone again. Aren’t we?”

I grimace inwardly. Ouch. “I don’t know—”

“We are. We always do.”

The steering wheel feels clammy against my hands. “I’m trying very hard, Eva.”

“Why did we even move here?” she cries, her voice breaking.

I pull over to the shoulder and park in front of yet another huge shingled house. The beach park is just at the end of 92nd Avenue, and we’re going to have to park along the side of the street anyway.

“We came for Grandma,” I say slowly, wondering what it is she wants to hear from me, what it is that would reassure her, make her feel better. “Because she’s sick, and she’s not going to get better.”

“But it’s not as if we see her very often.”

“We go to her house once a week.”

“More like every two weeks.”

Holding my breath, I look at Eva. Right now, nothing I say or do is correct. Right now, I feel as though I’m just failing as a mom, yet I’m trying my best. “You’ve been upset with me all day,” I say carefully, trying to keep my tone neutral. “What’s wrong?”

Eva does that preadolescent shrug she’s getting so very good at. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” I echo, trying to be brave because it’s hard to open yourself for criticism, especially from the one person you love most in the world. “Are you sure there isn’t something that’s eating at you, something you’re mad at me about?”

“Well, maybe. A little.”

A little. Okay. I take a quick breath, tell myself not to be hurt. “What am I doing that’s bothering you?”

Another shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Do I embarrass you?”

And a third shrug. “Not exactly.”

I feel as if I’m wading into very deep waters here, and I take a big breath for an added shot of courage and calm. “But you’re not proud of me?”

“No, it’s not that. Oh, Mom. It’s just that . . .” Eva’s shoulders slump, and she squeezes her eyes shut. “The kids that are popular, they’re popular because . . .” She sinks even lower on the seat. “Because they have nice clothes and nice things, and everybody wants stuff like that.”

I don’t say anything. I just look at her and wait. Because there’s more. There’s always more.

“Jemma, Paige, Devanne, and Lacey do really cool things, too. They go on all these neat trips with their families—”

“We went to the Yukon this summer.”

“The Yukon! The
Klondike.
” She makes a big whoopee motion with her hands. “And guess what? Everybody thought I was a big fat geek.”

“You’re not fat.”

She ignores my feeble joke. “I want to be like the others, I want to go to neat places—”

“Maui is not that neat.”

“Maybe not to you, but it is to me. And it is to the people that go every Christmas with their families.”

“And what does one do in Maui, Eva, that’s so cool? Sit on a beach? Go swimming? Get a tan?”

“Yes. Sit on a beach, swim, play in the pool, get a tan, wear cute clothes. That sounds really fun to me.”

“I think it sounds dumb,” I mutter.

“Well, I think you’re dumb,” Eva flashes furiously.

“
That’s enough.
”

“It is enough. I’ve had enough.” Eva grabs the handle and flings open the car door. “You don’t look like a mom. Not like a real mom. Not like the moms here. And you don’t even try to act like a real mom—”

“Eva, you’re my daughter. That makes me a real mom.”

She jumps out of the truck and slams the door shut, but with the windows open I can hear her quite clearly when she yells at me. “Real moms don’t have motorcycles!”

“Real moms do,” I retort, leaning out the window, “and I don’t ride it around town anymore. I stopped riding it because you asked me to.”

Her cheeks burn red. “I asked you to sell it, not stop riding it.”

“Eva—”

“You just love to be different. You wear your hair too long, and you don’t even wear normal clothes, just jeans and boots and guys’ army jackets.” Her voice cracks. Tears fill her eyes. “I know you’re an artist, but this is Bellevue, Mom, not New York.”

I know. Oh, do I know. I barely survived growing up here, took off first chance I got, and if my mom hadn’t gotten sick, I wouldn’t have come back.

“That was unkind and unnecessary,” I say huskily, more deeply hurt than she knows. “You owe me an apology.”

She just shakes her head and knocks away tears with the back of her hand. “Do you know what I ask God every night? I ask about my father, and then I pray that God will make you more like everybody else.” And then without another word she stomps back to our house, which is less than a block away.

I would cry if I knew how to.

I haven’t cried in so many years that I think my tear ducts have forgotten how.

But Eva has hurt me in a way I didn’t know I could be hurt. I love her and fear for her. I lie awake at night worrying about her. My nearly every thought revolves around Eva and helping Eva, yet apparently it’s not enough.

I’m not enough. Not good enough. Not right.

I press two fingers against my eyes, try to block the picture of her storming out of my truck, turning on her heel, and marching away.

I try to stop her angry, hurtful words that are echoing in my head.

The problem when you’re a small family, when you’re a family of two, is that there is no one else to give space, distance, perspective. There is no one else to go to, to lean on, to reach for.

As a single mom, one becomes strangely adept at the concept of self-comforting.

I’m still sitting in my truck on the side of the road attempting to self-comfort when my cell phone rings.

I reach for the phone on my dash, and it’s Shey.

I haven’t talked to Shey in weeks, and her call couldn’t have come at a better time.

“Hey,” I greet her, my voice pitched low. “So you finally return my call.”

“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately, knowing me so well.

Shey’s one of my two best friends, and she’s still in New York. I’ve missed her more than I imagined. Even though we didn’t see each other in New York more than every week or two, I always knew she was nearby and knew I could grab her for lunch if I really needed her. Now I wait for a phone call, but even a really good long chatty call isn’t the same thing as a good long chat in person.

“Kind of having a bad day,” I say.

“Work?”

“Eva.”

“So what are you doing right now? Feel like taking a trip?” she asks.

Suddenly I have a ridiculous lump in my throat. It’s so good to hear Shey’s voice and hear her throaty laugh. I felt like such a freak in Taylor Young’s living room and then so hurt when Eva attacked me here. “I wish we could come to New York, but Eva starts school Tuesday.”

“I’m not in New York, baby. I’m on Orcas Island, just across the Puget Sound.”

“You’re
where
?”

She’s amused, and I can picture her smiling like the fat Cheshire cat. “Orcas Island. Hop on the six-forty seaplane and come see me.”

“Get out.”

Shey laughs, and she sounds exactly the way I remember her—beautiful, laid-back, very much in control. “I’m here for a shoot, and the shoot wrapped up early. I was supposed to fly home tomorrow, but John called and he’s decided to take the boys fly-fishing, and I thought maybe, just maybe, you might want to come and hang out with me.”

“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Do you need to ask Eva?” Shey says. “She might not be so eager.”

“Eva might not adore me,” I said, the husky note back in my voice, “but she loves her Aunt Shey.”

“I’ll see you soon, then.”

Chapter Five

I drive up to the house and park without pulling into the garage. As I head in, Eva comes tumbling out.

“Sorry,” she chokes, tears on her cheeks. “That was so mean, and I’m really sorry.”

I hug her. I don’t know what else to do but hug her. She’s just a person, and so am I. “I love you, Eva.”

“I know, Mom. And you can’t help being different. You were just born that way.”

I’d laugh, but I’m afraid this time I
would
cry. “Your Aunt Shey called,” I say, dropping a kiss on her forehead before letting her go. “She’s on Orcas Island for the weekend and wants us to join her. Feel like going?”

“
Yes.
”

“We’ll miss the beach picnic and bonfire.”

“I don’t care. I didn’t really feel like going to the picnic after all.”

“I could change, Eva, put on a cute dress and curl my hair—”

“No.” Eva giggles. “Going to see Aunt Shey on Orcas Island sounds much better.”