Chapter 12
Twelve
Just find the guest wearing blue and we’ll catch the culprit. Sounds easy enough, right?
Only problem is: the group photos show that everyone was dressed in some shade of blue.
I find this exceptionally annoying since I had kindly suggested we all wear autumnal shades (think orange, reds, yellows, etc.) for group photos. The fact that half of my guests showed up in blue doesn’t sit well with me. It’s as if they deliberately ignored my suggestion to spite me.
I relay this to Elliot, who jots down my observation in his notebook with an amused shake of his head.
“You’re judging me hard right now, aren’t you?” I ask.
“I’m just taking down the facts,” he says, not meeting my eye.
“Is it so wrong to suggest a Thanksgiving dress code? It’s not like I set forth a commandment ‘Thou shalt wear autumnal colors’ in the invite, but…
” I wrinkle my nose and study the group photo again.
The aggressive sea of blue leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
“It would be nice if everyone took my suggestion. I’m only the host.”
Elliot pinches the spot between his brows. “If you wanted everyone to dress up in autumnal colors, why not just ask straight out?”
“Then it would seem like a command.” I chew on my thumbnail.
“I don’t want my guests to feel like they have to.
I want them to want to.” Sighing, I pluck a leaf from the shrub we were hiding behind.
“Besides, even if I explicitly stated that everyone must wear ‘autumn,’ my mom would still wear whatever she damn well pleased.”
Speaking of my mom, she’s the reason Elliot and I are hiding behind a bush.
We’re at the park at the crack of dawn, spying on my mom and her three friends as they do tai chi under the crimson torch of a maple tree.
For over an hour, we watch the four elderly women stretch in unison.
They’re actually quite graceful, like menopausal swans, pushing air, arms raised against the neon pink sunrise.
My mom was dressed in her typical workout outfit: an eggplant-colored puffer vest, a tiny red crossbody bag that she never takes off, even while exercising, and a sun visor big enough to shield her entire face.
I can’t remember my mom ever going outside without a sun visor.
It’s thanks to this massive sun visor that my mom, pushing seventy, doesn’t look a day over fifty-five.
Hiding behind a bush to spy on my own mother may seem unusual, but you have to see it from my perspective. Every Monday and Wednesday, my mom meets with her tai chi group at the crack of dawn. I’ve learned the hard way: never interrupt my mom when she’s in the zone. It just isn’t done.
I sink back deeper in our shrubby hideout, my stomach flip-flopping at the prospect of confronting my own mother. “On second thought, we should call it quits with this one. She’s my mom. Why would she poop on my floor? It’s not possible…”
I take a step backward, ready to flee, but Elliot body blocks me. “Anything’s possible. Your mom was present during the crime. She’s on the suspect list, just like everyone else. It’s a matter of procedure.”
“But it’s ridiculous! My own mother?”
“She was wearing a blue jacket,” Elliot pulls up the group photo on his phone, “just like the one she’s wearing now.”
I squint at my mom’s outfit. She’s swinging one leg in an arch, arms outstretched, gathering air. “Her puffer vest is purple,” I say. “Technically, the color’s called eggplant.”
“What are you talking about? It’s clearly blue.”
“It’s bluish purple,” I mutter sullenly. “The photo isn’t well lit. Blue could be black for all we know.”
Elliot studies the suspects, then glances back at my mom, who’s swirling her hips, warming herself up for the next round. He clears his throat. “Would you say your mom is… spry?”
“Spry?”
“She’s limber for a woman her age,” he comments.
As if on cue, the four women drop into a half-squat.
Elliot turns to me. “That’s pretty impressive. If she’s spry and she can easily squat…”
“Oh no…” I shake my head at the audacity of his insinuation. “You’re not going there.”
“…then she can just as easily squat under your tree and take a dump. How old is she?”
“Sixty-seven. Why?”
He takes a deep breath, as if I’ve confirmed his point. “I’m not saying her age has anything to do with this,” he holds up his hands, “but people tend to lose bowel control as they age.”
“You’re suggesting my mom had an old lady accident?”
Elliot shrugs. “With your sister hogging the bathroom and your private bathroom being upstairs…”
My eyes widen into saucers. “My mom hates stairs,” I mumble. “She can climb ‘em, but she prefers not to.”
“Maybe she couldn’t make it up the stairs…”
That makes so much sense. I chew over the possibility.
My mother… the defecator.
I’m warming to the idea. It’s a testament to how low I’ve sunk in life that I would prefer the easy explanation that my mom had an old lady accident versus the possibility of one of my guests defecating on purpose.
An accident I can forgive.
Defiling my carpet on purpose opens up a whole new can of worms. It would make holidays extremely difficult.
“I like this theory,” I state with a nod. “So my mom had an accident. No harm, no foul. I’ll kindly suggest she look into adult diapers and we can go about our day…”
With the sanctuary of my car in sight, I pivot on my heels.
“Not so fast,” Elliot says, dragging me back and twirling me around like we’re a pair of ballroom dancers. “The target is on the move.”
Waiving goodbye to her tai chi squad, Mom breaks off from the pack and begins her power walk around the lake. She’s huffing and puffing, jauntily zigzagging around a flock of mallard ducks, a pair of neon green 3 lb weights in each hand.
“Here she comes,” Elliot says, prepared to step out from behind the bush and cut her off.
“Wait!” I yank him back by the tail of his trench coat. “We’re supposed to be dating. I had ten missed calls from her about you already.”
“So?”
“So… we need to act like a couple.”
Elliot tilts his head, clearly not understanding. “Why?”
“Because if we’re not genuine, Mom will sniff us out and chew us up in a second. She has a sixth sense for this stuff.”
“She has a sixth sense for relationships?”
“Yes.” I grit my teeth as if the answer were obvious. “Mom and Aunt Cherry used to be matchmakers in Hong Kong.”
Elliot shrugs. “So they had a hobby.”
“It wasn’t a hobby,” I say. “It was a legitimate business. An old school matchmaking empire. Mom started palm reading since she was thirteen and moved up to matchmaking. Her matches were 99.9% accurate. Everyone says she has a sixth sense for love and prosperity. Most of her clients married their daughters off to wealthy businessmen.”
Elliot arches a skeptical brow. “That’s a sixth sense for something, alright.” He studies my face. “Why hasn’t she married you off to a wealthy man?”
“I’m the 0.1% that she couldn’t figure out,” I say. “Besides, I don’t need to marry into prosperity. I am the wealthy business man.”
Elliot laughs. “That’s for sure.”
“Mom’s the real deal, except when it comes to me. Meanwhile, Aunt Cherry…” I grimace. “She’s not much of a fortune teller, but she’s great at small talk. Keeps clients entertained while Mom’s doing her thing.”
“Hm,” Elliot says with a tinge of amusement, “so you’re saying your mom is psychic?”
I pinch my fingers together. “Just a touch. She’s very perceptive… so we need to act like we’re in love.”
“Okay.” Elliot nods. “Right.” He hops up and down like a boxer warming up for his next match. “I can do that.” He sizes me up from my fuzzy beanie to my leather knee boots. For a moment, Elliot Frost, always so sure of himself, looks scared. “What does love even look like?”
“You can start by taking my hand.”
“We hold hands?”
What is he? A robot? “Didn’t you ever hold your ex’s hand?”
“Never.”
I snort. “Maybe that’s why she’s your ex instead of your girlfriend.”
“What does handholding have to do with being in love?”
“My mom knows me. I’m an affectionate hand-holder. Every boyfriend I’ve had… we held hands.”
“Even Brian?”
“Especially Brian.”
Elliot heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Alright. Fine.”
I hold out my hand and he slips his bare fingers through mine. His grip is strong, his hand frozen through the weave of my gloves.
Elliot glowers at our joined hand. “I feel like I’m in middle school.”
“Now swing your arms.”
“For the love of—”
“Swing them! Pretend we’re skipping through a meadow.”
Despite looking like he wants to die, Elliot gives a few awkward practice swings. I’m underwhelmed by his effort and doubtful of our believability as a couple.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re not putting enough effort into our relationship.”
Elliot peeks around the shrubbery. “Your mom’s doing her second loop. Let’s just frisk her already.”
Before I can protest, he drags me out into the clearing. I would’ve liked to practice and perfect our handholding, but I suppose this will have to do. We’re on a time crunch. My spry mom moves fast.
Swinging our hands, we step onto the path like we’re teammates in a three-legged race.
My mom stops short when she sees us. Even though her face is obscured by her visor, she tilts her head to the side, her gaze zeroing in on our joined hands.
“Hi Mom,” I say sheepishly. “What a coincidence! Elliot and I were just taking a stroll around the park.”
“At 6:00 am?” Mom lifts her visor and studies Elliot as he mumbles a hello. Her lips draw into a pucker of disapproval. “So this new boyfriend?” She props her hands on her hips, sizing Elliot up from head to toe. “Hmm…”
Oh no.
She’s going to make mince meat of him.
And me.
My entire body clenches as I prepare myself for a barrage of blunt, rapid-fire questions delivered with a brusque Cantonese accent.
“Now you find time…” Mom waves her hand in the air. “Miss Big Important Boss Lady. Can’t introduce new boy to own mother… psssh.”
“I was waiting for the right time. Mama, this is Elliot. Elliot… my mom.”