Chapter 18
MAGGIE
My mother's car pulls up and she gets out carrying a huge casserole dish wrapped in a dish towel. My mother has never arrived anywhere empty-handed in her life. She could be fleeing a burning building and she'd stop to grab something she'd made for whoever was waiting at the other end.
"Mom." I meet her and take the heavy dish from her. "You didn't need to do this. You only got back yesterday."
"Nonsense. Saturday is casserole day. Has been since before you were born. Besides, the volunteers need a reward for their hard work." She kisses my cheek and walks past me toward the house.
"But your back must be hurting from the journey. It's been so bad lately and —"
"My back is my back. It'll hurt whether I'm lying down or making casserole, so I might as well be useful." She pushes the kitchen door open. "Let's get this in the oven and have a coffee, shall we? I've missed you."
I follow her inside and watch her move through the kitchen.
She turns on the oven while I set the casserole on the counter, then she starts the coffee maker.
She knows exactly where the filters and the grounds are.
I haven't changed a thing since she moved out.
Even though this has been my house for years now, my mother still acts like it's hers when she visits and I don't mind that.
She looks good. Tanned, rested, her hair freshly cut.
But I notice things. The way she lowers herself into the chair instead of sitting.
The way her hand goes to her back when she thinks I'm not watching.
She's more hunched than she was a year ago.
Her spinal stenosis has been getting worse, the nerve compression in her lower back making standing and walking painful.
It's gradual, the kind of thing she'll never complain about — Gloria Dawson never complains — but it's there.
"How was Portland?" I ask, pouring coffee into the mugs and adding a dash of cream to both.
"Oh, wonderful," she says as I sit across from her. "Walt showed me some of his old haunts. We walked along the river — well, Walt walked, I shuffled — and we ate at this Vietnamese place he used to go to when he was teaching. The pho, Maggie. The pho was extraordinary."
"How is Walt?"
"Walt is Walt. Steady as a rock and twice as stubborn." She smiles into her coffee. "He sends his love. He also sent you some jam he made from the blackberries in his sister's garden. I forgot to take it from the car. Remind me."
"That's sweet. I love Walt's jam."
She takes a sip and looks at me over the rim. "So, how's it been with that darn woman?"
"Sloane?" I shrug. "She's —" I pause. Just under a week ago I would have said awful, useless, entitled. Now I'm not sure what to say because the honest answer is more complicated. "She's doing her best."
Mom raises an eyebrow. This woman who raised me, ran a sanctuary, buried a husband, and rebuilt her life, all without ever losing her ability to communicate entire paragraphs with a single eyebrow.
"I was resistant at first," I say. "You know I was. I didn't want her here. But she shows up and she does what I tell her." I take a sip. "She didn't even go back to LA for the weekend."
"Why not? Surely Daddy could send a —"
"He's cut her off so she's spending her weekend at the Dusty Rose."
My mother's other eyebrow goes up. Both eyebrows means she's surprised. "The Dusty Rose? That dump?"
"Yup. There's nowhere else around here so that's where she's been staying."
"Good lord." She shakes her head. "Well, respect to her father for finally teaching her what it's like to not have everything handed to her for once. After what she did she doesn't deserve to be comfortable."
"I know. But the money's been good. We were struggling before this, Mom.
The feed costs, the vet bills, the repairs — it was all stacking up.
And then she crashed into the barn and suddenly we have twenty thousand dollars in the account.
" I look at my coffee. "It's a blessing in disguise. I'd never tell her that, obviously."
"Obviously." My mother smiles. "The Lord works in mysterious ways. And sometimes He uses a Porsche." She tops up our coffees and settles back into her chair. "I had a call while I was in Portland," she says. "From Animal Control in Tulare County. They've got two emus."
I put down my mug and stare at her. "Emus."
"Yeah. A man was keeping them on his property outside Visalia.
Neighbors complained about the noise — apparently they drum, did you know that?
Anyway, the man's gone into a care home and there's nobody to take them.
Animal Control picked them up but they don't have the facilities for large birds. They've been calling around."
"And you think we should take them?"
"They're a bonded pair," my mother says. "Sisters, about four years old. Apparently they're docile with other animals but they don't like being separated."
"We've never had emus."
"We've never had a lot of things until we had them. Remember when you were little, when the alpaca arrived?"
"The alpaca spat on me every single day."
"And he turned out to be a sweetheart eventually. You were heartbroken when he passed." She taps the table. "Anyway, no one will take these emus and they need a home, Maggie. They've got nowhere else to go. Tulare said they'll cover the transport and the first month of feed costs."
I lean back and blow out my cheeks. "Where would we put them?"
"The back general paddock. It's large enough and the fencing is already six feet along the boundary. They'll be fine with the other animals and they can stay with the goats at night." Mom pulls a face. "They're called Thelma and Louise."
"That seems fitting. Two ladies on the run with nowhere to go." I laugh. "Well, I guess we'll add two emus to the mix then."
"Great," she says. "I'll tell Tulare you'll take them and I'll handle the paperwork." She shoots me a grin. "Now. Tell me about this date you went on."
"How do you know about the date?"
"Luis told me."
"Luis needs to stop talking."
"Luis has been talking since 1952. He's not going to stop now." She leans forward. "Second date? The dentist?"
"It's not going anywhere, Mom."
"Why not?"
"Because she spent half the evening asking about Princess Pigpen."
"Ouch." Mom waves her hand. "Next, then.
Life's too short for someone who treats you like a stepping stone to something more interesting.
" She eases herself out of the chair. "Oven should be hot by now.
Put the casserole in and let the volunteers know lunch is in thirty minutes.
I'm going to do my rounds. I haven't seen my animals in two weeks and I don't want them to think I've abandoned them.
" She reaches into her bag and pulls out a paper bag.
"I brought Hank some apples. He likes the pink ones. "
"He's a donkey, Mom," I say. "He likes all apples."
"He likes the pink ones best. I can tell by the way he chews." Mom heads for the door. "Thirty minutes. Don't let it burn."