45. 45
“E
ryn, you little pill,” I say into the void because Eryn isn’t around to hear me.
I’ve made it three days in L.A. before my sister has convinced me that I need to see my mother—if only to see my grandmother.
“Hello, then goodbye. Hello, then goodbye. Thirty minutes and a gift should be enough.” I’m waiting to visit Grandma after Mom—then I can take my time, cool my jets, and make an excuse to my mother that I’ve got another appointment. However, with Grandma’s house right behind hers, she’s sure to notice my car still in front of the house. “Hello, then goodbye,” I say again just to pump myself up.
I hold a hand up to knock. “Hello, then goodbye.”
Without even touching the dark wood of my mother’s front door, it opens up. Claire Jones stands before me in a pink pantsuit, her hair curled neatly around her face, wearing cherry red lipstick on her lips—so red it makes me wonder whose blood she’s been sucking.
“Hello, Mom.”
“And goodbye, apparently. Already chanting your departure, Delaney?” Her tattooed brows lift. Her gaze roves over me from combed-and-curled hair—hiding any of the blue she hates—to my knee-length skirt—ick —and my not-so-sensible four-inch heels.
I’m dressing for her. And I hate it.
“Just lyrics.” I swallow hard with the lie. “Uh, this is for you.” I hold out the pink gift bag with white polka dots.
Mom smiles as she takes the bag with two pinched fingers, though it looks more like a painful grimace. “Thank you. It’s been a year—so I’m sure whatever sits inside this bag says, “I’m sorry for ignoring you for the last three hundred and sixty-five days, Mother.”
I’m guessing the sand wax candle and silver picture frame I bought won’t add up to the loss she’s sure she’s amounted. “I haven’t ignored you. We’ve texted. I’ve just been busy.”
“Right. Busy. Busy quitting your job, ruining a network television show, and busy getting married without your mother. You have been busy, Delaney. Very, very busy.”
The foyer of my mother’s four thousand square foot home is large, and yet it feels pretty darn cramped at this minute. Like the walls are closing in on me. Why am I in heels again? What I wear won’t change her mind about me. And I can’t make a run for it in heels.
A door down the hall opens up, and I feel an ounce of relief when my sister comes hustling out.
“I didn’t hear the bell… or a knock… or—” She looks at our mother. “You were going to tell me when she got here.”
“Well, she’s here,” Mom says, her tone sweet as honey, while her eyes stab through me like daggers.
”It”s been a while,” Eryn says, pretending she hasn’t seen me yet. She wraps me in a hug. I”d love for Eryn to get out from under the clutches of the woman I”m not allowed to call names because she’s my biological mother but I’m so thankful that in this moment she’s here and I’m not alone.
Mom’s red lips are tight, and while the edges lift in a smile, it’s anything but happy. Those lips speak without words, and they tell me what a disappointment I am.
A beautiful disappointment.
Man, I wish Miles were here.
I take it back. Why would I do this to him? I like him way too much to do this to him. And I’d like him to continue liking me.
“Well, come in. Let’s go sit.” Eryn loops her arm through mine, and we walk into the sitting room Mom only uses for guests. There’s a family room in the basement with a projector for movies and a comfy sectional—but I haven’t seen the likes of that place in years.
I invested in my own place and therapy the minute I joined The Judys.
“Nice outfit,” Eryn says through a gritted grin. She knows perfectly well I’m wearing this for Claire; this is not a Delaney skirt.
“Yes. Too bad it isn’t blue,” Mom says in that sugary tone, “to better match your hair.”
I give Eryn a side eye, asking how much longer I have to do this. She pretends she doesn’t see it.
“We’ve missed you so much, Delaney,” Eryn says, hugging the arm she’s looped hers through.
“As if I didn’t know you’ve already seen each other,” Mom mutters behind us. Claire Jones is scarily informed. There is no way that my mother has been to Cari?o’s, and yet somehow she knows that Eryn and I have already met up.
Eryn and I ignore her gripe and sit on the cream Diane Rove sofa she bought two years ago. It isn’t comfortable, but it’s pretty. Like everything in Mom’s life.
Mom sits across from us in one of the floral armchairs she made Dad buy her after the divorce.
“Open your gift,” Eryn says, smiling at our mother. How can she do that so easily? But then, Mom doesn’t nitpick everything Eryn does.
“Now?”
“Yes, now,” Eryn says. “Delaney brought it for you. I’m sure she wants to see you open it.”
I stay silent. I don’t care if she ever opens it, let alone if I see her open it. It was meant as some sort of peace offering, and that peace isn’t coming—that’s clear.
Mom’s nose wrinkles as she removes the pink tissue paper from the bag—as if I’d wrapped her gift with toilet paper. She peeks inside, then pulls out the sand wax candle—also pink, because I know it’s her favorite.
“What is it?”
“It’s a candle.” There is a label right on the front of the pretty jar of sand. It’s not rocket science.
“Hmm.” Can the woman say nothing without wrinkling that nose of hers?
She reaches in for the last item—the silver picture frame. I know how my mother likes her silver and gold. At least this she will appreciate.
She peers at the empty frame as if she’s confused.
“It’s silver,” I tell her.
“Ooo,” my sister adds for good measure. “Pretty.”
“There’s nothing inside.” Mom flips the eight-by-ten around to show me as if I didn’t know. As if I’ve left something out by accident.
“Yeah. Well, I thought you’d know what you want to fill it with.”
“You mean this isn’t for you and your new… husband? You don’t have a photo for me?”
Even if I did, where would she put it? Mom doesn’t display photos of her children. There are framed flowers, dead ancestors, and photos of a young Claire Jones on these walls. That’s it.
“I do not.”
Mom crosses her arms and her legs at the exact same time. “Why is that, Delaney Sage? Do we get to meet this so-called spouse of yours? Or is he just a figment of your imagination?” Her brows lift as if to test me. She knows I have issues backing down from a fight.
“He’s real.” I pull out my phone and open to the photo Coco took of us the day we had a family gathering at the studio. She sent it to me, and I saved it, feeding that crush of mine.
That not-so-little crush I’ve got on my husband.
Is it still called a crush if he likes me back?
Never mind.
“Here he is,” I say, holding my phone out for her to see.
“Wait—I want to see.” Eryn snatches my arm and pulls my phone from my fingers. “Delaney,” she says, her tone overly eager—at least, too eager for speaking in front of our mother. “He’s hot.”
The fold of Mom’s arms tightens, and she rolls her eyes away from us, away from my phone. “Eryn May, please do not use such horrendous terms.”
“Okay,” Eryn says, unfazed by the mini-lecture. “Your husband is a sexy stud, Dee.”
With a groan, our mother stands and pulls the phone away from my sister. She turns it around and stares down at the screen, not nearly as impressed as Eryn.
“He looks just like he did when I called. Does he never brush his hair or change his clothes?”
That’s right, she called me, and Miles answered. “You’ve already met him!” I yelp. “What do you mean, will you be allowed to meet him? You’ve met already.” So—ha!
Mom holds the phone out toward me. “That measly two-minute phone call does not count. Has your father met him?”
I sigh, my chest heavy with the reality that is my family. “No. He hasn’t.” While Dad doesn’t judge and project the way Mom does, he’s not exactly begging to be involved in my life. He’s not exactly dependable. Unless he’s just been to Vegas and owes a few debts, then I can always depend on him to call up his “favorite” daughter. Sure, it’s not ideal, but when I do see him, he gives me a hug and asks me what I’ve been doing with genuine interest. I just don’t see him that often. While it’s been a year since I’ve seen Mom, it’s been two since I’ve seen Dad.
The cards must be treating him well.
Eryn is better than me—she makes more of an effort, so she does see and talk to him more.
“Does he even know?” she says, scoffing at something I’ve surely done wrong.
And I guess I should have told him. If he hasn’t paid attention to the gossip news, then he probably doesn’t know.
“Of course he knows,” says a voice at the back of the room.
Grandma.