19. Mother, May I?

19

MOTHER, MAY I?

QUINN

I shut myself in our bedroom and answer the call.

"Hi, Mom," I say into the phone, summoning cheeriness. "Merry Christmas."

On the other end, there's loud chatter and the clinking of slot machines as coins spew out of their mouths. When Mom and Dad divorced after a shotgun wedding and twelve miserable years of "making it work," Mom moved us south to be closer to the beach and Philadelphia, where her family is originally from. She got a job working as a cocktail waitress in one of the casinos on the Atlantic City boardwalk. I spent a lot of Saturday afternoons in that casino food court, reading books and eating floppy, undercooked pizza.

Mom always said she liked the fast-paced nature of the work at the casino, but I have to wonder how true that holds when you have to work on Christmas Day. Not that she'd be here if she wasn't working. Mom loves Patrick, don't get me wrong, but aside from our wedding day, where she put on her best show, she is vehemently anti-Hargrave. She thinks they think they're better than her, when in reality, I'm pretty sure they don't think about her at all, which I guess is its own kind of slight.

"Merry Christmas, my baby. Sorry I'm calling early."

"That's okay," I say, happy to have had an excuse to leave the dining room, which was growing stuffier by the second.

What was Patrick thinking bringing up the Santa conundrum with his family? Obviously he didn't say it by name, but we haven't even discussed the matter yet. To speak about it so openly makes me think he's preemptively making the decision for us. We're supposed to be a team.

I take a cleansing breath, not wanting the anger toward Patrick to cloud my conversation with Mom.

"My break got pushed up. It's busy as anything here today," Mom says. I imagine her in that food court from my childhood, nursing a coffee and a donut. Maybe the donut's even got red and green sprinkles on it. It's a bit of Christmas spirit to get her through the shift.

"I'm sorry to hear that." I sit down at the tiny desk in the corner of our bedroom. The chair creaks like it's protesting my weight on it, as if it weren't designed for this exact purpose. This house, these things. I swear I could go mad here.

"Oh, don't be sorry." She's talking with her mouth full, but I can still make out every word. I've had practice with this. "Better to be busy than bored out of my mind. People tip better on holidays anyway. I could use the money."

I grab my planner from the corner of the desk and double-check the date I penciled Mom's visit in on. "If you need any help with gas money to get here on Thursday, Pat and I are happy to pitch in."

"Oh, damn, was that this Thursday?" I wish I didn't hear the rehearsed performativity in her question.

I nod even though she can't see me. "Uh-huh."

"Crap. Journee's daughter just had a baby, and I promised her I'd cover her shifts for the rest of the week while she went to New York to visit. I can't go back on that."

"Of course. I understand. Another time." It's a refrain I know by heart. Disappointment pinwheels around my heart.

"Come visit me instead! Before you go back for the second half of the school year. It's been ages since we've gone out on the town together."

The first word to come to mind when I describe Mom is freewheeling. Even in her midforties, Mom is still more interested in long road trips and driving too fast with the top down in a car that has had the check engine light on for months. She still loves sipping electric-colored mixed drinks from massive plastic cups with glow-in-the-dark bendy straws while some up-and-coming DJ spins a headache-inducing set. We don't have similar visions of what R&R look like.

"I don't think Patrick could get off of work for us to make that happen." It's a flimsy excuse because Patrick is now permanently off work, but she doesn't know that.

"Patrick doesn't always need to be there." Her words are clipped. I think, in her perfect world, it would still be just me and her, a ragtag team like we used to be. I don't think she's ever made peace with the fact that college, teaching, and a long-term relationship have changed me.

In my most private moments, I worry that she doesn't like who I've become, this grown-up version of me.

When I'm too tongue-tied to think up something to say to that, she sighs. "It was just an idea. I'll come up soon, I promise."

She's not coming. I add a tally to the Move to the North Pole column in my mind.

"Have you spoken to your father yet today?" Her question provokes an eye roll.

After the divorce and the move, I saw Dad one weekend a month until he moved to Nevada. I was quiet during those visits, always sticking to the outskirts of any activity. Dad was starting a new family. It was the one he'd always envisioned, where he had a brood of boys who all played and excelled at baseball—the sport of his obsession and his golden years.

The first Christmas card they sent from Nevada with all of them wearing matching sweaters despite the heat nearly broke my heart from how perfect it was. How I would never have that.

"No, I'm sure he's busy. Maybe I'll call in a few days." It's a lie. I know I won't. Depending on how the conversation with Patrick goes later, I may be moving tonight. I doubt I'll get good cell service in the North Pole.

"Okay." I hear the crinkle of a wrapper on her end. "My break's just about done. Send my love to Pat, okay? Don't eat too many cookies."

If only she knew how many I ingested last night alone.

"I'll try not to. Love you."

"Love you, too, my baby."

After we hang up, I don't go back down to dinner right away.

I exhale and lounge back in the chair, swiping through my phone. Other people's picture-perfect Christmases hog my Instagram feed. I barely post these days given that parents are apt to search their kids' teachers before a new school year. I don't need someone outraged over me wearing a tank top in public. Heaven forbid a teacher have arms .

I open my text thread with Veronica and type: Another stellar Christmas phone call with Shelby Muller. How's Cate Blanchett?

Veronica: Still the only mother we'll ever need

Jk, my mom is great

But I'm sorry about yours

My parents divorced because my dad hated how quickly he had to grow up when my mom got pregnant with me, and my mom hated being a "wife" in any traditional sense. I was unplanned and (mostly) unwanted. I was hoping the Hargraves would want me, but it seems, since we got married, that they want me to fit the mold of perfect spouse more than they care to get to know me for the true me.

Veronica: How did the ham turn out?

Me: Great! But I didn't cook it.

Veronica: ????????????

Me: It's too hard to explain

Though, I wish I could, because I desperately need some advice right now. Veronica is the best listener I know.

Veronica: Are things any better with Patrick?

Me: Define "better"

Veronica: Did you TALK to him?

Me: Define "talk"

Veronica: Sometimes you make me want to throttle you like I'm playing a pent-up housewife hungry for the Best Supporting Actress statuette

Me: If I were in the Academy, I'd vote for you!

Veronica: Btw, where were u last night?

Veronica: Last night, my mom didn't text me when she left home like she usually does when she comes over, so I checked the little "find my friends" thing and it showed you at home, then when I was going to bed and closing out my apps, it showed you were in the middle of the Arctic???

I laugh nervously to myself, experiencing extreme heart palpitations. Veronica would never believe where I really was, so I send off the first lie I can think of.

Me: Dropped my phone in the toilet last night. Tried the rice thing, but it must still be glitching! LOL

Veronica: Figures LOL. Don't go breaking your phone. You're not tenured yet. You can't afford a new one.

Her text only serves to remind me of the reality of my thankless job. I'm barely keeping my head above water this year, and when my aide leaves in January, I have no idea what I'm going to do. If my performance slips too badly, I could end up classless next September. Though, maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

As of late, I've been losing the resolve to continue teaching. From a group of alpha fifth graders tearing the crepe paper down off my curated bulletin boards to a select group of parents complaining to the principal that I have a photo of Patrick and me on my desk (on our wedding day! Not even kissing!) to overcrowding in our classrooms, I'm growing frequently fed up.

I can't possibly be making a difference in my students' lives because the system is so set against us teachers doing our jobs. Especially queer ones.

I think about how last night was magical. Our adventure was blissful and fun and had immediate, tangible effects. I mean, Chasten and Angelica were proof of that, sitting right in my own dining room.

If we sign on for one year as Santa and Mrs. Cl— the Merriest Mister —it'll be like a mini marriage vacation.

We won't be pulled away by our jobs with opposing schedules, and while I'm sure the new positions in the North Pole (I can't believe I'm even thinking about the North Pole right now!) will be stressful at times, I can't imagine we won't have our nights and weekends free. Something we can't even count on here.

The village at the North Pole had a sense of romance and wonder to it. All those couples on the Council of Priors seemed happy. Even Colleen and Nicholas, who had to be well into their eighties, seemed still madly in love.

I want that. I want the side-by-side rocking chairs that end with side-by-side burial plots.

On that beach, on our wedding day, we said "'til death do us part," and I meant that. But before our engagement, we also said we'd only stay together for as long as we were having fun, making each other better people by tag-teaming the hell out of life.

I meant that, too.

These days it's felt so much like we're on travelators in an airport going in two different directions. It's no fun waving at one another from opposite ends of a crowded, massive terminal.

Maybe this whole Santa thing is the spark we need to get us moving as one again.

As I tell my students, anything is worth a try in the face of adversity.