Chapter_11_The_Mother

Waking up the next morning while Biz is still sound asleep, I’ve made a surprising decision. I want us to spend more time here with my mom.

Even with my childhood bedroom converted into my mom’s weird office slash gym, it hits me that home is exactly where I want to be right now. Not only do I want to support Mom while Alex recovers, but it’s nice to think some of her parenting skills can rub off on us in an unexpected crash course right before the baby’s here.

I leave Biz asleep in bed, with his hairy bare right leg dangling off the air mattress, and walk to the kitchen where I’m greeted by the smells of French vanilla Coffee-Mate and Entenmann’s mini powdered donuts. Two things we never buy in Brooklyn and sure signs that I’m home.

I’m slightly worried that my mom has gone off the deep end with her liquid coffee creamers though. In her always well-stocked pantry she has a half dozen flavors lined up including hazelnut, crème br?lée, pumpkin spice, peppermint mocha and... fat-free Rice Krispies Treats? Beverly needs a creamer-vention.

As I sit in my childhood kitchen, untouched since the eighties except for a brave iPhone charger hanging out of an outlet, Matilda scurries in and starts munching on her morning kibble.

I sink my fourth mini donut into my vanilla-flavored coffee and listen to the faint sounds of my mom talking on her landline in the living room. “It was all so sudden. The accident.” She whispers the word accident every time she says it. “The poor kids now have to deal with their dad’s accident.” I’m also starting to wonder if my mom’s Boston accent has gotten thicker or if I’m just not used to hearing it every day.

“That was Jackie. She says hi,” Mom says, entering the kitchen after her call, wearing her perfect nightgown, large Crate and Barrel coffee cup in hand, referring to her childhood best friend, trusted confidant and doubles tennis partner. “You and Biz should have lunch with Chuck while you guys are here.”

I go dead inside for a second as I sigh into my coffee and take a sip.

My mom and Jackie have spent a lifetime of trying to get me and Jackie’s son Chuck to become friends. Chuck was different from most kids I knew growing up. He kept pet snakes, drove fast muscle cars that made loud noises and failed a grade. Maybe even two. Me and Chuck had nothing in common. Our mothers though, thick as thieves, still refuse to believe it.

It’s impossible for me to imagine that a loose cannon like Chuck could ever be tamed for a civilized lunch in a booth eating a chopped salad. I try my best to ignore this evergreen request my mom suggests every trip home.

“How’d you two sleep? You can sleep in Alex’s room, you know,” Mom says.

Don’t tell her about Biz and the drama teacher.

Don’t tell her you’re having issues before the baby arrives.

Tell her everything is fine.

I stand and rinse my cup in the sink. “My room is fine. Alex would kill me if we touched his old bedroom. I still don’t know why you turned my bedroom into your office and not his.”

“Your room was bigger. I needed more office space.”

“Mm-hm.” I know it’s not true but sometimes I think she still favors Alex, her baby, over me.

“I talked to Megan this morning. She’s so grateful you two were there for the girls. Bonding with the uncles.”

“Anytime. The show was a hoot,” I say. I wonder if I should break the headline news to my mom or Biz first that I want to stay a little longer. But I know how happy it would make Mom. “I think we could actually do it again because I want to stay a little longer.”

She turns around, holding her giant bottle of fat-free cinnamon roll–flavored Coffee-Mate midair, completely giddy.

“That would be fabulous!” she says, tears of joy forming in her eyes, touched. “Oh, that makes me so happy.”

“I just have to run it by Biz first.”

“Where’s Biz anyway? Still asleep?”

“You know him. He’s a late sleeper.”

We both turn to see Biz shuffling into the kitchen, right on cue, just having heard the news at the same time. A slightly confused look on his face.

“Run what by me?” Biz has an innocent quality to him in his fleece sweat shorts and faded Spring Awakening T-shirt, as the early morning light cascades through the kitchen windows onto his face. The incongruous image of a handsome, scruffy grown man standing in the kitchen where I grew up, next to a wall with pencil markings from measuring my height is not lost on me. I stand and shake the remains of my coffee around in my mug.

“You’re up early,” I say.

“It’s almost eight thirty,” he says.

“That’s early for you,” I say.

“Is it?”

I don’t know if he sincerely doesn’t understand how late he typically sleeps or if he’s just in denial. I lean in and give him a peck on the lips because he’s so damn cute.

“What if we stay here a few more days?” I ask. “We’ll always have Provincetown,” I say, somewhat jokingly. Biz tenses up.

My mom spots this exchange and quickly moves to the coffee machine, where she keeps an ear on us. A shudder runs through me. I just can’t have my mom thinking there’s a rift between us. It would upset her too much and conjure up bad memories of her relationship with my father.

“I thought we could help out Mom and my brother if he needs us.”

Biz tries to wrap his head around the idea. “For how long?”

The whir of my mom’s dated coffee machine cuts the tension.

“Sorry. Don’t mind me,” Mom says, glancing at us before placing her entire focus back on the machine as it spits out her favorite beverage.

“Just a couple days,” I say. “Also, logistically, it doesn’t make sense to go back east. We need to keep moving west toward California and our little one to-be.” This could be more of a debate, but I can tell Biz is too self-conscious to engage with my mom in the room. She’s now focused on loudly stirring her coffee creamer with a tiny spoon, pretending she’s not listening.

“That makes sense,” Biz concedes, quicker than I’d expected. He glances at my mom. “It’ll be nice to spend a couple more days with your mom,” Biz adds. He always knows the way to a mother’s heart.

Mom finally turns around with a tight smile on her face, pretending everything is normal between us. And now I can see the wheels turning in her mind about all the fun things we can do. “Are you kidding? I fully insist you stay for a good week!” Mom says with joy washing over her. She hugs my waist and cradles her head into my ribs. It strikes me that maybe she’s shrunk an inch? Or I’m just not used to seeing her out of high heels.

“A week? Let’s not push it, Mom,” I say. “I’ll have to reconfigure our itinerary and see how much time we can fit in with the new driving schedule. Probably four days. It’ll be good to spend time with you and with Alex too.”

“Alex would love to see you both again,” my mom says, overjoyed to bring her increasingly distant sons together whenever possible.

Biz shuffles toward a donut and coffee, making himself at home.

“Why don’t we do this,” Mom says. She’s already referring to the three of us as we. “We’ll all shower.”

“Ew. Mom. We’re not all showering together.” Nothing feels safer or cozier to me than reverting to being an immature kid when I’m home. Maybe I need a temporary escape from impending adult responsibilities just as much as Biz.

“Wyatt Wallace. You know that’s not what I mean,” my mom says, rolling her eyes toward Biz at my expense. “What are we gonna do with this one, huh?” she says, feigning exasperation. Back to the plan. “No, what I meant was we’ll all shower. Separately.” She glares at me. “Weirdo... Then we’ll check on Alex at the hospital. Megan is already there with the kids and said he’s cleared for a concussion so he’s going home today.”

“That’s great. We’re here for you. Whatever you need us to do,” I remind her.

“Once Alex is settled back home, then we’ll have a day. The three of us! I can map out some fun things for us to do. Wyatt, you can touch all your bases at your childhood haunts. Biz, anything fun you’d like to do?”

A small bead of sweat forms on my forehead, thinking about the busy day ahead. I always forget that my mom is big on planning. Guess that’s where I get the control gene. I’ve met my match.

“I wonder if we could build in some time to go to the gym?” Biz asks, probably seeing his future dad bod looming in the mirror. “All I’d need is a half hour.”

“I just got a Peloton!” Mom shouts, scaring us both. “It’s in the basement. I bought it as a gift to myself after I sold the Mandelbaum house. Skip the gym and you can be the first one to break it in.” She lets out a little excited laugh, almost a chirp. With her boys home, this is her moment to shine as MOM in all caps.

Our first stop of the morning is to visit Alex at the hospital. He’s in his regular clothes and more than ready to leave. Megan collects the dozens of flowers and greeting cards from well-wishers while the kids watch Angels in America on their iPads.

“You’re a machine,” I tell Alex, always impressed by the star hockey player’s strength.

“I still have to do physical therapy for the next few weeks but yeah. I kind of feel like new. This place is like a spa.”

“Your kids were amazing last night,” Biz says.

“They fuckin’ loved spending time with you guys. You’re going to crush it as dads,” Alex says.

“We’re staying another couple days with Mom,” I say. I can feel Alex tensing up. “So we can all grab a bite to eat or something.” I wish it wasn’t always awkward between the two of us. It feels like we should be closer somehow, but it never comes naturally.

The overprotective Megan chimes in. “Oh, we’ll be settling Alex in at home for at least a few weeks,” she says. “He’ll need to rest.”

“Meg, I’m fine,” Alex protests.

“I know but I’m not taking any chances. You guys are more than welcome to stop by. Maybe we can order in.”

“Why don’t we play it by ear,” my mom says, always the diplomat. “Look what I brought.” Mom gives Alex a giant bottle of Snickers-flavored coffee creamer. “Your fave!”

“You’re the best,” Alex says as he hugs Mom. She holds on to him tightly, afraid to let anything bad happen to her little one.

“Just text us. We’ll figure it out,” Alex says, both of us vaguely thinking this might not even happen.

After the hospital, our next stop is Huntington Court, a standard suburban shopping mall home to the local chain stores and restaurants of my youth. Mom insists on performing her favorite ritual with me whenever I come home: walk the entire mall. Biz steels himself for another guided tour.

To your right is the Nordstrom bathing suit section where I had my first kiss (with a girl) when I was in elementary school. We all know how that turned out.

To your left, you’ll see the former Abercrombie Fitch store, now a Sephora, where a group of teens from the wrong side of the tracks gave me a wedgie and called me names for wearing a Madonna T-shirt.

And here’s where I fell in love with directing, working as a highly knowledgeable cashier at Blockbuster Video.

For lunch, we sit in a large wooden booth at the Cloverleaf: “Home of the Famous Motherload Baked Potato?.” It’s the kind of booth that doesn’t exist in New York. If it did, it would be used as a communal table for fifteen strangers packed together. Many special occasions were held at the Cloverleaf including several of my childhood birthdays, graduation dinners and even my ten-year high school reunion.

Our booth is next to “Boston’s Longest Salad Bar.” It’s the exact spot a teenage me came out to my mom and brother. I remember a very Boston middle-aged woman dropped a spoonful of croutons when she heard me make my announcement. She apologized profusely and tried to relate by saying her great-uncle was gay. Thanks, Crouton Lady.

Finishing our potato skins, my mom wondered how she could join a group for parents with LGBTQ kids. I still feel lucky.

In the mall parking lot, walking to our car, Alex tried to bank on our mom’s generosity of spirit by asking, “If Wyatt can be gay, can I get a tattoo?” to which Mom immediately stated a nonnegotiable “That’s not how it works” as the three of us climbed into her station wagon.

Back at lunch, we eat loaded baked potatoes piled high with cheddar cheese, thick cuts of bacon bits, green scallions and a heaping spoonful of sour cream.

“Anyone want my bacon bits?” Mom asks, handing them out to us.

“Remember when Lindsay Millenbrook had her sweet sixteen here?” I ask my mom.

“She covered the ceiling in pink balloons,” Mom says to Biz without missing a beat. We’re trying to include him in yet another story about people from my childhood that he doesn’t know. Biz raises a single eyebrow in acknowledgment. “You were the only boy,” Mom adds before ordering us another round of Arnold Palmers.

After a while, Biz can only put up with so many of our memories. When I meet his gaze, it feels like we’re losing him, so I need to redirect the conversation or else risk even further damage.

“Did you ever come here with your dad?” Biz asks before I can offer a new line of conversation to include him. He knows this is a tiny grenade to throw into a fun lunch with Mom. I rarely speak about my father and he has questions. Rightfully so.

If anyone has answers, Biz probably figures, my mom is the one who holds the key to the lockbox. It’s been such a sore spot with Mom through the years that I stopped asking.

My mom and I both process Biz’s question, working mentally through our collective Rube Goldberg–like labyrinth that grows more elaborate after each passing year.

“Oh, we don’t need to bring that up, do we? Over baked potatoes?” Mom says, stabbing through her melted cheese, not wanting to go there. She shifts uncomfortably and turns visibly upset. Biz glances at me sheepishly, feeling bad he asked.

Usually, my mom papers over any father conversations with superficial memories and polite smiles. This time, though, it feels different. Maybe she’s become more honest in her later years. Her body language is screaming shut it down.

For the first time in my life, I see my mom as a flawed adult. Also for the first time, I know with absolute certainty that there’s something my mom isn’t telling me about my father. I can tell Biz feels the same too.

Maybe it’s some missing piece that would unlock my own potential as a dad. Whatever the mystery is, as long as we have some time while I’m here, I’m determined to uncover it.