Someone to Hold On To #2
“And in the foliage, well. Now, I sure understand needing a little time for the, uh, amorous congress.” She shimmies her shoulders and then throws in a single hip thrust, just in case I wasn’t picking up what she was putting down.
Her grandson’s eyes go wide in horror. “You probably don’t get much privacy with your mom always home, and all that you’ve had to take on…
You know what? Here.” She digs into the pockets of her dress and pulls out a heavy ring of keys.
“Why don’t I give you the keys to the pool room, so you can go there next time you and this handsome fellow need somewhere quiet to…
explore? I’m not supposed to—you know Walter would probably call the Feds if he knew I was breaking the rules. But it could be our little secret.”
“I’m not—I’d never—” I sputter as she maneuvers a key off the ring. “I don’t even know who this is!”
“Oh, honey, I’m not judging. But maybe be more discreet next time.”
Next to me, the man laughs, big and booming, but I can hardly hear it over the thundering in my ears. I jump up, knocking Frosty over in the process, and run back to Mom’s apartment.
“Are you gonna hand sell your desserts again today?” Mom asks from the couch when I unlock the front door.
I thought she was dozing in front of the Hallmark Christmas movie she’s had some version of on all day (stressed-out woman from the big city meets small-town doctor/contractor/barista and leaves her problems and pesky job behind), so I could sneak out without her noticing.
“Um, yeah. Just for a little while.” After the disaster that was last Tuesday, I didn’t want to risk a chance to embarrass myself further by attempting another stakeout on Thursday.
But when I checked the inventory that night, there it was: a single Neapolitan cookie missing again.
So I spent all weekend alternating between insisting it didn’t matter, scrolling through nanny-cam reviews on Reddit, and feeling so stupid and silly that I almost vowed to give up on the whole stand altogether.
But I found myself baking again Monday after work, when Mom’s afternoon meds make her sleepy, and in the hours since I set up the stand, I’ve been finding myself peeking out the front bay window, trying to see if I can spot a missing cookie from here.
And now here I am at the door, ignoring all my better judgment to try to catch the thief again.
“Oh, I meant to tell you, Earlene came down here on Saturday when you were at the store, talking ’bout ‘Simone was doing the hanky-panky with some hunk in the garden.’ ”
My body freezes until Mom’s raspy laugh fills the room.
“She said what now?”
“Can you believe that?” Mom slaps a pillow, melting away my remaining anxiety.
“But I shouldn’t even be laughing. There’ve been a lot of signs lately that she’s, well…
having some troubles. Did I tell you how I found her in the parking lot last week when I was on my walk?
She was looking for a car, but she hasn’t had a car for years, not since she lost her license.
I’ve been meaning to call her daughter to check in… ”
Mom is always helping others. It’s what made her so good at her job as a pediatric nurse, before she had to take the leave of absence that eventually turned into an early retirement.
She never even considered that the tables could ever be turned, and she’d need some of that help for herself.
It’s why it took her so long to finally call me when her lupus flare-ups went from bad to debilitating.
“Mom, I don’t want you to worry about that. Let me check on Earlene. You need to rest.”
“Okay, baby. Thank you.”
I’m surprised that she agrees. It’s usually a fight, gently reminding Mom of her own needs, suggesting she shouldn’t do something. But I can hear the pain in her voice, see the delicate way she’s readjusting herself on the couch, as if each small movement takes something much bigger out of her.
I was hoping that Christmas approaching, her favorite holiday, would bring some magic, or at least a little distraction. I got a tree from the lot on Ximeno December first and decorated it just like she would have, if her swollen hands didn’t make holding the ornaments so hard.
Still, she’s getting better, I remind myself.
She’s nowhere near as bad as she was in February, when something in her voice over the phone told me I needed to abandon my plans to head for Joshua Tree and go home.
I’ll never forget what it felt like, finding her in bed—the butterfly rash stark against her golden-brown skin, her hair matted in the back from many days in that same position, hands too inflamed to braid her graying curls.
And so, the same job that gave me the freedom to go to Joshua Tree, to live the limitless life I always dreamed of, also made me perfectly suited to come home for good.
Because no matter how exciting it was to explore somewhere new whenever I wanted, how could I not show up for her in the way she always had for me?
As a single mom, she’d poured all that she had into my happiness, my education, my everything, keeping only the tiniest amount for herself, barely above empty.
It’s probably the reason she got so sick, only a few years after I graduated college… I owe that back to her now.
That’s why the only thing I do for myself anymore, in the slim margins between fulfilling my work responsibilities and taking care of her, is baking.
But even that started as experimenting with gluten-free recipes for Mom, to fulfill her incorrigible sweet tooth but still adhere to the anti-inflammatory diet her rheumatologist recommended.
It quickly became a reprieve for me, though—browning butter, rolling out dough, precisely measuring each ingredient.
It quieted the wanderlust and what-ifs. It gave me a small sense of control in this life, which feels like it’s tossing me in the waves, pulling me under and washing me up somewhere I didn’t choose. Baking has become my only anchor.
Which is why, no matter how silly it is, no matter how much I embarrassed myself last Tuesday, I need to figure out who’s trying to ruin this for me.
“I’m going to head out, but I won’t be gone for long. And I’ll be right out there if you need me.”
“I know, baby. Don’t you worry about me. Have fun.”
As I quietly close the door behind me, I check to make sure no one’s around or snooping from their balconies and then dash over to a new stakeout spot behind the mailboxes.
Not because that guy told me to, but because it does offer more coverage, with even bigger camellia bushes and also some lily of the Nile and miniature palm trees.
And I wait… for a while. There are a few customers at first—Ms. Gladys and her much younger boyfriend pick up an aluminum tray of my cranberry crumble, and Mr. Clarence buys out all of my sprinkle cookies.
But then it’s slow and my eyes start drooping, even though it’s not even seven yet.
I’m about to give up, maybe even clean up the stand earlier than its official closing time of eight, when I hear… my name?
“Simone.” The whisper feels like a shout, the way it sends a jolt through my body. “Pssst, Simone? Are you there?”
Before I whisper back, No, I am not here, or run away or, like, spontaneously combust—all of which are more preferrable options—the man is clambering into the planter next to me.
He’s dressed nicer than he was last week—in a tartan button-down, jeans, and real shoes.
He has a tote bag slung over his shoulder, with Read Banned Books written in bright white letters that seem to glow in the dark.
“This is a much better stakeout spot. I only knew you were here because I suggested it.”
“How—what—why are you here?”
“I’m here to help,” he whispers, as if that’s perfectly reasonable. “And I came prepared.” He pulls the tote bag from his arm and holds it open to reveal… craft supplies?
“I went through my nana’s stash,” he explains, and then, only partially reading my what the hell expression, adds, “With permission. I’m not a thief.”
“Who even are you?”
“Oh! Henry Watson.” He puts out a hand, and when I just stare at it, he pulls it back and starts digging in his bag.
“Okay, let me preface this by saying, I was watching Home Alone. So first, ornaments.” Three jewel-toned spheres appear in his hands.
“I don’t think we should break them because that seems kind of aggressive considering the crime.
But maybe we could roll them like marbles in, I think—the third one?
Maybe the fourth. It was actually a Home Alone marathon. ”
I have a lot of questions spinning in my mind. But for some reason the one that makes it out of my mouth is: “So, making the thief break a hip isn’t aggressive in your mind?”
“Right. Never mind.” He returns the ornaments to his bag and pulls out some tubes of acrylic paint.
“You know the scene with the paint cans? I didn’t have actual cans, but we could…
toss these at their head?” Again, my expression speaks for itself, and the paint is quickly replaced by rainbow feathers.
“Or these? I was thinking we could…” He throws a couple into the air and blows, making them fly toward my face.
“Or, oh, if we squirt the paint first, they’ll stick. ”
He starts to dig into his bag again, but I cut him off with a voice that’s admittedly too loud for a stakeout. “Why are you doing this? Why do you care?”
He cocks his head to the side and his eyebrows furrow, as if he doesn’t understand the question. Finally, he shrugs. “I mean, it’s not right, someone messing with your livelihood.”
“This isn’t my livelihood. I have a job. This is what I do for—for fun.”
I can see myself as he must see me, hiding in the bushes, stalking my cookies. So much fun!
But luckily, he doesn’t call me on it. “So… um, what’s your job, then?”
“I’m a digital marketing strategist—hey, why’d you make that face?”