I Can’t Even

Chapter One

“J ules, you have to come home. It’s Mom.” Sophie, my older sister, spoke with the gravity of someone imparting dreadful news.

“What about her?” I frowned at the coding on the computer screen in front of me as I gave my sisters, who were on speaker phone, half of my attention.

“She’s...she’s dying,” Emily, my younger sister, said. There was a catch in her voice as if she had to force the words out.

“Again?” I asked.

“Jules!” My sisters wailed together, sounding perfectly horrified by my callousness.

“What? You know it’s true,” I said. “This is seasonal for her, like allergies but so much more dramatic.”

I deleted some bad code and retyped what I thought the program needed. The pictures I wanted to use on the webpage I had designed were too big so I typed in a smaller ratio hoping to make them fit.

“Not this time.” That was Emily, the closest to our mother, probably because she still lived at home despite being twenty-five years old.

“Puleeze, the last time I fell for Babs’s overwrought death summons, I dropped a client and raced home only to have her blind date me with a podiatrist.”

I heard one of them snort. My money was on Sophie. As the oldest of us Blumer sisters, she was delightfully snarky, although she pretended she wasn’t.

“Three hours spent talking about feet. It was the worst dinner of my life. I still can’t look at a crouton and not see a plantar wart.” All true.

“Oh, ergh, I think I just threw up a little in my mouth,” Em said.

“Jules, I know Mom can be a meddler,” Soph began.

“You think?” Fearing I would get distracted and forget, I saved my work. “Or have you forgotten that she went to the furniture store where you bought your new living room set, canceled your order, and replaced it with one she liked better?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten,” Sophie said.

“She means well,” Emily protested.

In addition to being the closest, Em was also the most loyal to our mother, Babs. I had no idea why since Em’s life was by far the most stifled by our mother’s overbearing manipulative interference.

“Em, she hasn’t let you cut your hair or buy your own clothes without her approval since...oh, wait...that would be ever in this lifetime.”

“I value Mom’s opinion,” Emily said. I huffed out a breath and she insisted, “I do. She has excellent taste.”

“Oh, my god,” I argued. “Mom dresses you like you’re a librarian and not one of the cool ones.”

“She’s got you there,” Sophie said.

“You have no cred here, Soph,” Em disagreed. “Mom has been overreaching in your parenting of the twins since you got knocked up your freshman year of college.”

“Hey!” Soph protested. “That’s a low blow.”

“And yet, also true.” I exited the software program I was using.

“Shut up!” Sophie snapped.

See? This was why we didn’t speak very often. It rarely stayed civil for more than a few minutes.

“Babs treats both of you like puppets on a string.” Yes, I was a bit smug, but that’s what happens when you’re the smarter middle child.

I stood up and stretched, putting my fist into my lower back for that little extra pop. My tiny studio in Brooklyn was not big enough to pace end to end, so I lapped the futon that folded out into a bed in the center of my apartment.

Spaghetti and Meatball were sacked out on their cat tree, ignoring me. Why Spaghetti and Meatball? Because I rescued them from an alley where they’d been dumped in a plastic bag behind Decusati’s Italian Ristorante. Spag was a long and lanky orange tabby while Meat was a round black blob, so it had made sense at the time. Actually, in the five years they’d crashed with me, their shapes had not changed an inch so still accurate.

“You’re one to talk, Jules,” Soph said. I could tell her dial was turned to maximum peeved as her words were as clipped as the bangs she’d cut too short on me when I was six. Yep, still scarred.

“How’s that?” I knew I shouldn’t open that door, but I foolishly did anyway.

“You moved three thousand miles away from home and you rarely come back,” Em said, interrupting whatever Sophie was about to say. “Who does that?”

“People who choose not to live with their mother when they’re a grown-up,” I assumed the hatha yoga asana of tree pose in an attempt to maintain my Zen.

“Don’t be so judgy,” Emily said. “I’m happy.”

“You need to upgrade your definition of happiness,” I argued. “Like, you might want to include miniskirts and some orgasms on that list.”

There was a beat of silence. Okay, maybe I’d gone too far given how na?ve Em was.

“I have a...a...miniskirt,” Em said, flustered.

I burst out laughing. I know it wasn’t nice and I should have held it in, but she sounded like an angry kitten who hadn’t quite mastered the hiss and spit yet. Seriously, she could take lessons from Spag and Meat.

“It’s not funny!” Em oozed hurt.

I knew I had to rein it in, but I could hear Sophie trying not to laugh, which didn’t help my control issues.

“You guys are such jerks!” Em growled.

“I’m sorry, Em.” I switched my yoga position to the other side. “Really, I mean it. Forgive me?”

“No.”

“Ah, come on,” I protested.

“Nine words,” she said.

“Really?” I asked. “Is this really a nine-word offense?”

I could picture Em with her straight honey-colored hair hanging halfway down her back, chin tipped up, and arms crossed over her chest in a stubborn stance as clearly as if she were standing beside me.

“You might as well say them,” Sophie said. “It’ll be good practice for when you come back here and have to say them to Mom every day.”

“I’m not coming back, but okay, fine, here’s your nine words.” I rolled my eyes. “I am sorry. I love you. Please forgive me.”

This was a Babs thing. When we were young, she’d thought that making us simply say “I’m sorry” did not get the point across sufficiently, so she’d instituted the nine words. We had to say all nine words and sound like we actually meant our apology in order to get forgiveness. It just goes to show that even the worst mother has her moments.

“You are forgiven,” Em said, her tone mollified.

“And now back to the reason that we called,” Soph said. “You really do need to come home, Jules. Something is wrong. Babs, er, Mom, is not herself.”

“Really?” I asked. “Has she quit drinking?”

“No,” Emily said.

“Quit snooping?”

“No.” Sophie sighed.

“Quit shopping?” I asked.

“Yes!” they answered together.

Okay, that gave me pause. Babs was a shopper of the first order. She had a credit card for every department store in southern California and she liked to workout with them regularly.

“In fact, I asked her if she wanted to go to the mall yesterday, and she said no,” Em said.

“No?” I couldn’t imagine my mom turning down a trip to the mall.

A small fission of alarm rippled through my belly, my early warning signal that something was amiss. My mother, Barbara “Babs” Blumer, had to date only missed one sale ever and that was when an El Nino weather system hovered over the county for several days and the store having the sale was flooded to the rafters.

“See?” Soph said. “We’re serious. Something’s not right. You have to come home.”

I frowned. It was easy for her to say, it wasn’t like she lived three thousand miles away and would have to catch a very expensive flight out of New York City to go home to Gull’s Harbor, California, to sit at the bedside of that bitter pill we called Mom. Well, I called her Babs, mostly, but not to her face.

“Jules, she’s...she’s asking for you.” Emily’s soft voice was barely above a whisper.

My heart pounded hard in my chest, and I had a hard time swallowing. I had to take a steadying breath. My mother, the one and only—thank Christ—Babs Blumer, had asked for me. Well, in ten years, that was a first.

“I’ll be on the next flight.” I ended the call.

I arranged for my friend Jessie to watch the furry kids for me and by ten that night, I was on a flight out of JFK International. I spent a brain numbingly long layover in Chicago, which not even a Chicago dog could make better, and landed in San Diego at seven the next morning where Sophie picked me up just outside baggage claim.

Her smile, wide and warm, was the first thing I saw as she parked her SUV at the curb and dashed out of her car to greet me. It hit me then how much I’d missed her. Eight years older than me, I had spent most of my life trying to catch up to Sophie until at nineteen, she’d found herself married to medical student Stan Timmons and the mother of twins, a boy and a girl. Surprise!

At eleven, I had struggled with the abrupt loss of my big sister to her own family. She had always been the buffer between me and Babs and without her, well, things got pretty dicey.

Soph’s honey-colored hair was neatly trimmed and styled, just brushing her shoulders in the perfect mom bob, and her outfit, khaki capris and an aqua knit top, was without a wrinkle or a smudge. So much more grown up than my skinny jeans, black Converse kicks, and baggy hooded sweatshirt. In my defense, I’d been in a rush to leave New York. Yeah, total lie; I dressed like this every day.

Sophie hugged me tight and I noticed she was thinner than the last time I’d seen her. It took my sleep-deprived cabeza a second to do the math. Had it really been over five years since I’d been in Cali? Guilt began to nibble at my edges, leaving me frayed.

“How was your flight, Jules?” Sophie released me, grabbed my carryon and tossed it into the back of her SUV.

“Fabulous,” I said. “I scored a seat next to a teenage boy who smelled like rancid bologna and played his music so loud I now know all the words to Post Malone’s latest album.”

“Sorry,” she said. “You would have preferred Taylor Swift?”

“Hey, step away from the Swift,” I said. “The Eras tour was epic.”

Soph wrapped me in another hug that strangled. “Oh, God, I’ve missed you. Come on, you can power nap on the ride up the I-5.”

“You mean I’m not asleep now?”

Sophie smiled as she opened the passenger door for me. I climbed onto the seat and relaxed, hoping to catch a few Zs before facing Babs.

It’s not that I don’t love my mother—I do. It’s just that loving Mom is sort of like loving a cactus; it’s best done from a distance...of miles.

Of course, having her ask for me, well, that was a game changer. I wondered if, after all these years at odds, she had finally mellowed. Maybe she had come to love me for who I was and maybe this time we would have the tender mother-daughter moment I had always longed for. I barely acknowledged the tiny flickering flame of hope that burned low and deep inside of me for fear it might smother under the weight of my expectations.

I dozed as we made the forty-five-minute drive to Gull’s Harbor, a hilly seaside community nestled on the California coast halfway between San Diego and Los Angeles. It was tucked amidst the uber wealthy towns surrounding it like a sprig of baby’s breath in a bouquet of red roses.

Gull’s Harbor was a bit too blue-collar quirky and off-the-wall artsy to be considered picturesque like its more well-known neighbors, La Jolla and Oceanside; also its beaches were guarded by rocks, temperamental surfers, and pungent barking sea lions so tourists were discouraged.

With a population of less than six thousand, Gull’s Harbor boasted a town square with the requisite gazebo, which held brass band concerts by the local veteran’s group every Friday night in the summer. It had been a long time since I’d been to one, but I vaguely remembered a lot of discordant squeaking culminating in a finish that sounded like someone stepping on a goose. Good times.

Local shops circled the petite town green. The small independent businesses survived here but would expire like road kill if they were to try and make a go of it anywhere else—including Liam’s Coffee Shop.

We were stopped at an intersection. I blinked fully awake to find the enormous coffee cup denoting Liam’s looming over me as if beckoning me to come inside. I averted my gaze, not wanting to confront my past just yet. I had managed to duck and weave for nine years; I did not want to take it on now when I’d had less than four hours of sleep and probably looked like something found growing on the crust of an old loaf of bread.

Sophie glanced at me as she drove on. “How are you doing?”

I sat up straighter. “Good. Great. Terrific.”

“Who are you trying to convince?”

I sagged back against the seat. Sophie was right. Who was I kidding? I was exhausted.

“That bad?” I asked.

My older sister handed me her purse. “Lipstick and a comb in there.”

“Okay.” I could take a hint.

I flipped down the visor and stifled a small shriek. My curly brown hair, I did not get the honey-colored tresses of my sisters, was a frizzy mess while remnants of my mascara were flaked all over my face. I had bags under my eyes big enough to replace the carryon I’d used for luggage and the beginnings of chapped lips. Lovely.

“What did Babs say when you told her I was on my way?”

Sophie bit her lip. She gave me a sideways glance and my eyes widened in surprise.

“You didn’t tell her I was coming? Why not?”

“Em and I thought about it, but...”

“You were afraid I’d flake?” I finished for her.

Sophie did not immediately confirm or deny. I tried to comb my curls down but with the Pacific morning mist at full blast so was my hair. Giving up, I found a hair band in Soph’s purse and braided my hair into one thick plait that I let dangle over one shoulder. I waited for Sophie to answer.

“Well...” She shrugged. “After your last visit...”

“Visit?” I asked. “You make it sound like it wasn’t the equivalent of falling into a hell mouth.”

“The Christmas of twenty-seventeen,” she said. “Em and I have dramatic reenactments every holiday.”

I sighed.

“Lipstick,” Sophie reminded me. “And don’t worry. I’m sure Em will tell her you’re on your way. Mom will be thrilled to see you, you’ll see.”

I dropped the comb into her bag and fished out her lipstick. Like a sacred commandment, Babs believed that no woman should ever leave the house without her hair and make-up done. Woe be to the woman who showed up at Bab’s house without her face on.

Being a tree climbing, freewheeling tomboy, this might have been the rule that about broke me during my formative years. More battles had been fought in our front room over my wild mane and lack of make-up than any other subject save one. Liam Mahony, the hot boy next door, had trumped all other arguments combined. And it was my relationship with Liam that had finally driven me away from home without a backward glance.

I swiped the coral lipstick over my lips and pressed them together. I hadn’t worn lipstick regularly in years, being more of a cherry ChapStick sort of gal. Funny how old habits don’t die, however. I grabbed a tissue out of the pack in Soph’s purse to blot my lips just as Babs had taught us. I knew I still looked exhausted, but perhaps the tamed hair and lipstick would be enough to appease the old cranky pants.

We left the center of town and wound our way up the hill into the residential section. Midcentury modern was what the hip kids were calling it now, but back in its heyday, the fifties, it was just considered modern. The houses on the street where I grew up were all about squared edges and big windows, the better to appreciate the view of the ocean, and the yards were small, tidy, and fenced. A few stucco houses with red tile roofs and some rectangular gray ultra-modern houses peppered the neighborhood but for the most part, Gull’s Harbor clung to its Brady Bunch split levels with a tenacious grip.

Soph parked in front of our childhood home and I felt a clutching sensation in my chest. The house looked exactly as I remembered it; rough cut stone on the bottom with pale yellow on the wood above, the roof peaked over the double front doors which were painted white like the trim. Rectangular planters loaded with succulents lined the short walkway to the door, and I took a deep breath realizing I was now going to have to make that walk and face the dragon within.

I climbed out of the car and glanced behind me, down the hill, over several rooftops and the center of town until I could see the blue of the ocean all the way to the horizon. I took another deep breath of the briny sea air and held it in my lungs.

Whenever life seemed to be too much, I took comfort in the constancy of the sea. It was here before me and it would be here long after I departed this earth. For some reason that awareness always helped me get my perspectacles on and focused. There were things in the world so much bigger than me and my petty problems.

“All right?” Soph grabbed my bag and joined me on the walkway.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I said.

The front door wasn’t locked so I gave it a gentle rap with my knuckles before walking in. “Hello?” I called.

No one answered as we walked through the small entryway and turned left into the great room that boasted floor-to-ceiling windows with the same spectacular view I had been taking in from the walkway outside.

“Who’s there?” Babs sounded grumpy.

“It’s me, Julia.” I stepped fully into the large living room, giving my mother a small smile. She was seated on her favorite burgundy velvet divan, which had always reminded me of a throne. It was placed on the far side of the room and gave her an optimal view of the goings on in the house and outside. She had a pretty aqua afghan draped over her legs and an untouched breakfast tray on the coffee table beside her.

Her hair, styled in a pixie cut and dyed the color of champagne, was expertly arranged and her make-up was perfection. No one would ever guess she was sixty-four years old. Her pale blue eyes raked me from head to toe and her lip curled up on the right side just the teensiest bit so it was sort of like smile, you know, if she was paralyzed down one side and giving it her best effort. She wasn’t and it wasn’t.

“Julia, what are you doing here? Dear god, did you wear that outfit in public? You look like a homeless person,” Mom snapped. Before I could open my mouth to answer, she continued, “Did you run out of money? Is that why you’re here? Oh, hell’s bells, you’re not pregnant, are you?”

My head lowered toward my chest. Had I really expected a different greeting? I was an idiot.