Chapter 17 #4
Annie sighed, accepting her mother’s non-acknowledgment, knowing that it left her where these interactions with her mom always had—unresolved.
But for now, she was okay with that. She wasn’t sure she had it in her to keep pushing.
So she didn’t. For once, Annie swallowed her natural inclination to fight and instead surrendered to the incredibly uncomfortable feeling of trusting that her mother had indeed heard her during their argument.
“Thanks, it’s vintage Ralph Lauren. Max and I found it thrifting a few weeks ago.” She twirled, the hemline of her dress moving with her.
“I don’t know how you do it. The thought of wearing someone else’s clothes.” Her mother looked at her with disgust.
Annie shrugged. “That’s why you wash everything. I like it. It’s kind of like a treasure hunt.”
“You’ve always loved an adventure. Andrew, honey.
” Her father looked up from where he still stood next to the grill.
“I noticed the start of a wasp nest by the hammock, can you take care of that please?”Annie shuddered at the thought of the winged insect, a look of confusion crossing her mother’s refined features.
“Oh yes, I forgot, you’re still scared of them—”
“I’m not scared,” Annie jumped in. “I just don’t like them. Erratic flight patterns and stingers? No thank you.”
“They’re bugs. If you don’t like them, kill them.” Her mother’s response was flat, catching Annie off guard.
She blinked. “That’s wrong on so many levels. They’re still good for things, you know, like pollination and the environment and eco systems. I’m not going to kill them.” She shook her head.
“It’s the females you’ve got to watch out for. They get especially riled up when their nest is in danger. I’ll take care of it.” Her dad closed the lid of the grill, walking off in the direction of the garage.
Her mother handed her the flowers still clutched in her hands and motioned for Annie to follow her into the house. “Do you want to put those in a vase? Or make the salad for lunch?”
“Flowers,” Annie said, already moving for the cabinet where her mom kept an assortment of glass vases.
She selected one, setting it on the counter along with the flowers.
They worked side by side, making tiny conversational contributions here and there to try to undercut the lingering tension between them.
But this was how fighting with her mom had always gone.
Big blow-up fights, followed by silence, brought back together through a mutual acceptance of never talking about things, then pretending everything was fine until it was.
It was the pattern they had always followed; why change that now?
“Do you want a glass of wine, sweetheart? I stopped by Norwich the other day. Max helped me pick out a few. I originally went in to get us a nice rosé, but she convinced me to try a few different whites instead. I have a chenin blanc and a Viognier chilled.”
Annie grinned, making a mental note to thank Max for dissuading her mom from the rosé.
“Chenin blanc, please. That’s my favorite white,” she said, hands picking up the pruning sheers her mother had handed her as she began to trim each flower’s delicate stem.
“Here you go.” Her mother placed a glass on the counter next to her as Annie expertly arranged each blossom, trying to achieve the perfect balance of greenery to bloom.
Her mother adjusted one of the puffy blue flowers. “I’ve always loved your floral arrangements. You were my little garden helper.”
Annie smiled, remembering all the times she’d follow her mom around the garden making her bouquets out of discarded flowers—pretty bundles, as she had called them before she had learned the word bouquet.
“I hated touching the dirt, but I liked making pretty bundles.” She slid the final stem into place, turning the base of the vase to admire her work. “There,” she said, smiling at her mom. “Perfect.”
“Yes, you are.”
Their eyes met, a long moment passing between them as Annie held her breath wondering if her mom would say the three words she wanted to hear most now that she had passed whatever criteria her mom had for doling out compliments.
I love you. They were just three silly words.
But they didn’t come. The sting of their absence pulsating though her.
That was the thing about this place. Wellington Point was full of people, her mother included, who said the pretty words—the ones that were nice…
enough. And kind…enough. The ones meant to float on the surface.
But they were the same words that lacked any type of depth, any type of access point to break through to the woman beneath the surface of her mother’s exterior shell.
“Wasp nest has been taken care of and lunch is ready,” her dad called, entering the kitchen with a plate of grilled bratwurst in one hand, tongs in the other, the moment between Annie and her mom folding in on itself.
“Great,” her mom said, a cheerful smile snapping into place as she turned on her heel. “I’ll grab the plates. Annie, can you grab napkins and silverware?”
Annie’s shoulders sank in silent defeat.
“Yeah, of course, Mom,” she muttered, doing her best to keep her disappointment out of her tone.
None of this should have surprised her. She and her mother had had fights like these for as long as she could remember and if one thing had been repeatedly reinforced, it was the sting of the truth that her mother’s love came with conditions.