18. Eighteen
“How do you look like you were made for every place we’ve gone to with your outfits?” I ask Marin between bites of my scone.
Finn is spending the day kayaking with the California boys, so she and I opt for breakfast in town.
Her short blonde hair is tied back in a colorful vintage scarf, and an oversized cream-colored sweater hangs loosely from her slim shoulders while her slouchy jeans are rolled up just enough to showcase bright red rubber boots. She is somehow functional and trendy, and it’s an anomaly that we’re related.
“It’s a gift!” She smiles and puts a hand under her chin as if posing for a photo. When her eyes drop to my outfit, her face puckers.
“You know, Mom, we don’t live in traditional Italy or wherever it is where grieving wives are bound by duty to wear black for the rest of their lives after their husbands die. I watched this girl on YouTube say that black is very unflattering for women in their 40s because it showcases the unevenness of their skin.”
She delivers the words without an ounce of concern for my feelings, then licks the icing off her fingers.
“Hey!” It’s the only argument I make as I look down at my clothes and frown.
Gray sweatshirt, black leggings, black rubber ankle boots.
I’m the embodiment of depression.
“And when’s the last time you had a haircut? It’s a bit…” She picks up my faded braid between her fingers and drops it like a hot potato. “Dull.”
“What I love about you, Marin, is that you really know how to crush a woman’s ego in a deceivingly sweet voice.” My voice is flat as I bring my coffee to my lips.
“Mom, that’s what all this whole trip is about, right? You starting a life after Dad or whatever? Well, if you want to start any kind of life that has people in it who aren’t perpetually crying, you need to look the part. You have sad vibes, Mommy dearest, very very sad vibes.”
“Thanks,” I deadpan.
She wipes her hands together and crumbs drop to the table.
“All I’m saying is, I can help you. I saw a fun thrift store on our walk here and a salon I’m sure in a town this size can take you as a walk in. We could give you a makeover. You’re beautiful, Mother, but you’re letting all this sadness hide it. Then you’re really going to be sad when you wake up an old lady one day and realize you spent the best years of your sexual energy wearing black and moping.”
“What the hell, Mar! What do you know about sexual energy?!” I hiss, leaning over the table toward her.
A woman with young kids shoots me a glare from the next table, and I make a face I hope translates as an apology.
Marin rolls her eyes. “I read. A lot. I know many women have the best sex in their forties, which means you are in the thick of it, but as far as I can tell, doing nothing about it.”
She shrugs. As if she isn’t giving her mother sex advice.
What the actual hell is happening?
“Okay, so we are not talking about this.” I hold my hands up in protest. “But I’ll let you take me shopping if it will make you happy. God forbid I continue to walk around radiating my sad vibes.”
“Oh please, Penelope,” she says. “It will make you happy.”
***
Marin hates every item I pick out at Lucy’s Closet. After too many you aren’t eighty, you look like a sack of potatoes, and my personal favorite— gross— I relent and let her take charge.
“Mom, you have a great body, but you pick clothes that hide it like you are covered in weird lumps and boils.” She hands me a low-neck sweater.
“It’s called being age appropriate,” I argue, balking at the sweater.
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” She scoffs. “I’m disappointed in you.”
“I feel guilty,” I confess, without looking at her, making her go still next to me. “I feel guilty for wearing happy, cheery colors when your dad isn’t here. Like people will think I’m glad he’s gone or something.” I fidget with a dress on a hanger.
“Mom!” Her voice is uncharacteristically harsh as she grabs my shoulders firmly. “Nobody would ever think that. Dad would never think that. If every person who lost someone thought that way, this world would be a horrible place.” She shoves a turquoise skirt at me as I nod.
She softens. “And no matter what you wear, Mom, he’s gone just the same.”
She’s right. Whether I wear black or blue, I’m still alone. He’s still gone.
I clear my throat and eye the pink dress she’s holding.
“Fine. But no pink.”
Once again, she grins then shoves me into the dressing room with a pile of clothes.
Marin is in her element. Like the actual clothes, good or bad, give her some kind of supernatural energy.
By the time we step out of the store with stuffed bags, she’s beaming.
“You’re good at this, you know?” I say as we walk down the sidewalk.
“Of course, I know.”
She tilts her head as she strolls lightly. “Have you thought at all about what you want to do after high school? You have time to figure it out, of course, I jus—”
“No,” she cuts me off, almost defensively, “And I don’t think regular college is for me if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Gosh, no, Marin. I don’t care about that. If I could do it all again...” I pause, not even sure what I want to say next. I shake my head. “I just know paths to happiness look different, and it’s okay if yours doesn’t involve college.”
“You would have done something different?” she asks, surprise leaking into her voice.
I shrug. “I did what I thought everyone wanted, I guess. I just want you to know you don’t have to.”
She smiles. “Good.”
Then as if the conversation isn’t happening, she pulls me through the open doors of a salon and loudly announces, “My mother is in dire need of a makeover.”
If Marin was in her element shopping for clothes, what happens to her in this place is otherworldly. She never stops asking questions about techniques and trends. I’ve never seen her so passionate—another thing I missed in the last year—but sitting in this chair watching her come to life with joy feels like a special type of forgiveness I didn’t even know to ask for.
When the stylist, a red-lipped woman named Shay, finally spins me around to face the mirror two hours later—I laugh. Gone is the neglected dull hair that hung sadly to the middle of my back. The woman in the mirror has a textured cut that hits just below her shoulders.
With the now rich chocolate color framing my face, I barely look like the same person.
Marin squeals with a clap. “Mom!” she gasps, “Do you love it?!”
She runs her fingers through my hair, and the face I see in the mirror is one I don’t even recognize.
I’ve spent the last weeks working to be different, to figure out how to show up for my kids, but today, Marin is reminding me how to look—live—like I have an actual pulse still thumping under my skin.
I’m speechless. It’s as if I had no idea this woman in the reflection had been lying dormant. Waiting.
As soon as we’re outside, I wrap Marin in a hug. My voice cracks as I whisper into her ear, “Thank you, Marin. Really… I know I haven’t been…”
She squeezes me tightly, saying everything I need to hear. “Love you, Mom.”
Arm in arm, we make our way down the sidewalk toward the campground.
At the edge of town, the last business is Haystack Rock Distillery. Home to the most unfamous craft cocktails of the Pacific Northwest, the sign says. My heart skips a silly beat as I read and re-read it.
It’s been nearly a year and a half since I’ve let my mind dance with the idea of creating any kind of cocktail for the bar, but seeing this little wood-shingled building on the Oregon Coast makes me miss it fiercely.
“What are you waiting for?” Marin stands at the door as if she can read my mind. “Inspiration awaits, Mother.”
Despite the boulder lodged in my throat, a happy laugh bubbles out of me. I climb the stairs to meet the best Old Fashioned I’ve ever had.