Mom is dressed in her white go-go boots. The ones I wear whenever she’s not looking so I can feel grown up. The ones that mean she’s going out for the night. It doesn’t happen often, but whenever it does, Mom grows giddy with anticipation.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Dad and I are going dancing with the Bertrands.” She reaches to fasten the clasp of her necklace. After struggling for a moment, she says, “Help me.”
Mom sits on the edge of her bed so I can reach. I deftly fasten the delicate clasp of the antique necklace my great-grandma gave her.
“Will you be far away?”
“Just Milwaukee.”
But I know that’s far away. It takes almost an hour to get there when we go to the museum or zoo.
“Are we still having dinner?”
I want to eat dinner with my family tonight, but I already know it’s not likely.
I see the far-off look in Mom’s eyes, the one adult me will eventually recognize as quiet desperation from a woman who started a family at 18, sacrificing her youth to raise children and support a man whose dreams were as big as his drinking habit.
But in this story, I’m 10 years old, and I want Mom to stay home.
I want to eat a dinner she’s prepared and be responsible only for the cleanup. I want to curl up next to her on the couch to watch M*A*S*H. I want her to tuck me in and whisper, “Sleep tight.”
But I will have none of these things tonight. Mom is wearing her go-go boots.
“You get to make dinner!” Mom says with cheerful enthusiasm as if she’s awarding me a prize. It’s the same voice she uses when she tells me I’m the absolute best at doing the dishes or browning the ground beef.
The voice is a con, a sales pitch. I’ve known that for forever. Mom tells me I’m good at things so I’ll keep doing them and not complain. I don’t blame her. She needs my help. And I like it when she tells me I’m good at things because mostly I feel like I’m not.
“What am I making?” I hear the whine in my voice and instantly hate it. I should be good and agreeable, not give Mom a hard time.
“Spaghetti,” Mom answers, putting her earrings on. “There’s sauce and noodles in the cupboard. You know how long to boil the noodles, right?”
“Ten minutes,” I mutter. “Nine for al dente.”
“Al dente!” Mom crows, laughter coloring her voice. “Where did you learn that? I swear I birthed a 40-year-old in a 10-year-old’s body.”
I haven’t quite reached the preteen eye-rolling stage, so I answer earnestly: “I was born with an infant’s body.”
Mom musses my hair. “Well, a 40-year-old’s brain, then.”
