Stray
Page 61
I wanted to lie. Damn, I wanted to lie, because one of my biggest goals in life was to avoid discussing men with my mother. But eventual y she’d find out the truth. “He wanted to talk about my boyfriend.”
“Your boyfriend?”
“His name is Andrew.” I stared hard at Ethan as I answered through gritted teeth, but he only grinned and waved. He thought I deserved it.
My mother reached into her bag, pushing around bal s of colored yarn and knitting needles with both hands. “What year is this boy in?”
Keep it short and simple, I thought. That was what Michael told al his clients before they took the stand. “He’s not a boy, Mom. He’s a grad student. In the math department. He wants to teach.”
“Children?” She glanced at me with one hand over her heart, clearly aghast.
So much for simple, I thought, mental y cringing. “No, college.”
“Oh. Good.” She smiled in polite relief, digging again in her bag. “I was afraid he might like children.”
That was my mother’s secret code for “I’m glad you aren’t thinking of marrying this man, because you know you can’t give him any babies, and it would be wrong to condemn a teacher to a life without children.” Nothing was ever simple with my mother, which was strange, because she seemed never to think about anything complicated.
“You know,” she continued, pulling a small bundle of pale blue yarn from the bag. “By the time I was your age, I already had two boys and was pregnant with Owen.”
I closed my eyes so she couldn’t see how far they’d rolled back into my head.
“I know, Mom. You and I are different.”
She made an odd, cooing sound and I reopened my eyes to see her carefully spreading out the smal bundle. It took on a vague, curved shape, curling over one knee.
“We’re not as different as you think, dear.”
Yeah, right. My mother was a regular rebel without a cause. “Sure, Mom. I’m your carbon copy.”
“There’s no need for sarcasm, Faythe.”
I huffed in disdain, and the sound came out clipped and harsh. “If you real y believe that, then we’re nothing alike.”
She sighed, taking up a long, metallic blue needle in each hand. “I intend to have a serious conversation with you someday.”
“I can barely contain my excitement.” I watched as she began to knit-one and purl-two, or whatever it was that made the separate threads of yarn hold together.
The shape of that little blue bundle looked so familiar…
“You know, I wasn’t born a wife and mother.” She took both needles in one hand for a moment, glancing at me as she smoothed out the length of yarn trailing from one. “I was your age once.”
“And by your own admission, you already had a husband and two and a half kids.”
My mother frowned, lowering her knitting to her lap. With disapproval clearly visible in the frown lines around her mouth, she real y did look like me. Or like I might look after another quarter of a century, if my life didn’t drastical y improve.
“Real y, Faythe. Half a child? Is that any way to refer to your brother?”
“I just meant that you hadn’t had him yet.”
“I know what you meant,” she snapped, knitting furiously. I stared at the yarn in growing horror. I knew what she was making. A bootie. A tiny, pale blue baby bootie. My mother was the Denis Rodman of subtlety. A master craftsman in the art of creative manipulation. Without saying a word, she’d reminded me once again that my life was off track by her standards and shown me what I should have been thinking about. “Real y, you place too little value on life. Particularly on your own.”
“What are you talking about?” Determined to ignore the bootie unless she mentioned it, I met her gaze, hoping to drive her away with a little confrontational eye contact. “I value my life very highly.”
“Then why waste it?”
Ouch! I shot an irritated glance at Ethan, but he was pretending not to see me. I knew he was pretending because he couldn’t quite stop grinning, even when Michael elbowed him in the ribs. They were supposed to be comforting the grieving fiancé.
“I’m not wasting my life, Mom. I’m doing exactly what I want to do.”
“With your nose in a book al day?”
My hands curled into fists in my lap. “I like books.”
“You hide behind your books, like you used to hide behind my legs.” Her needles clicked together rapidly, a sound I’d identified early in life as the most annoying noise in the world.
“I never hid behind you, and I am not hiding behind my books.”
Her hands paused, and she smiled softly, as if remembering something sweet and long gone. “You hid behind me every time we had company until you were five years old.”
I let my head fal onto the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t remember that.”
“There are a lot of things you don’t remember,” she said, her fingers flying once again.
“Such as?”
“Such as when I sat on the council with your father.”
I lifted my head, narrowing my eyes at her in suspicion. “You sat on the council?”
She beamed, clearly pleased to have caught my attention. “Yes, I did. I was the only woman.”
“Why?” I plucked a bal of yarn from her lap, watching it spin slowly in my palm as her repetitive motions gradual y unwound it. It was soft and fuzzy, tickling my hand with an almost unbearably gentle sensation.
“Your boyfriend?”
“His name is Andrew.” I stared hard at Ethan as I answered through gritted teeth, but he only grinned and waved. He thought I deserved it.
My mother reached into her bag, pushing around bal s of colored yarn and knitting needles with both hands. “What year is this boy in?”
Keep it short and simple, I thought. That was what Michael told al his clients before they took the stand. “He’s not a boy, Mom. He’s a grad student. In the math department. He wants to teach.”
“Children?” She glanced at me with one hand over her heart, clearly aghast.
So much for simple, I thought, mental y cringing. “No, college.”
“Oh. Good.” She smiled in polite relief, digging again in her bag. “I was afraid he might like children.”
That was my mother’s secret code for “I’m glad you aren’t thinking of marrying this man, because you know you can’t give him any babies, and it would be wrong to condemn a teacher to a life without children.” Nothing was ever simple with my mother, which was strange, because she seemed never to think about anything complicated.
“You know,” she continued, pulling a small bundle of pale blue yarn from the bag. “By the time I was your age, I already had two boys and was pregnant with Owen.”
I closed my eyes so she couldn’t see how far they’d rolled back into my head.
“I know, Mom. You and I are different.”
She made an odd, cooing sound and I reopened my eyes to see her carefully spreading out the smal bundle. It took on a vague, curved shape, curling over one knee.
“We’re not as different as you think, dear.”
Yeah, right. My mother was a regular rebel without a cause. “Sure, Mom. I’m your carbon copy.”
“There’s no need for sarcasm, Faythe.”
I huffed in disdain, and the sound came out clipped and harsh. “If you real y believe that, then we’re nothing alike.”
She sighed, taking up a long, metallic blue needle in each hand. “I intend to have a serious conversation with you someday.”
“I can barely contain my excitement.” I watched as she began to knit-one and purl-two, or whatever it was that made the separate threads of yarn hold together.
The shape of that little blue bundle looked so familiar…
“You know, I wasn’t born a wife and mother.” She took both needles in one hand for a moment, glancing at me as she smoothed out the length of yarn trailing from one. “I was your age once.”
“And by your own admission, you already had a husband and two and a half kids.”
My mother frowned, lowering her knitting to her lap. With disapproval clearly visible in the frown lines around her mouth, she real y did look like me. Or like I might look after another quarter of a century, if my life didn’t drastical y improve.
“Real y, Faythe. Half a child? Is that any way to refer to your brother?”
“I just meant that you hadn’t had him yet.”
“I know what you meant,” she snapped, knitting furiously. I stared at the yarn in growing horror. I knew what she was making. A bootie. A tiny, pale blue baby bootie. My mother was the Denis Rodman of subtlety. A master craftsman in the art of creative manipulation. Without saying a word, she’d reminded me once again that my life was off track by her standards and shown me what I should have been thinking about. “Real y, you place too little value on life. Particularly on your own.”
“What are you talking about?” Determined to ignore the bootie unless she mentioned it, I met her gaze, hoping to drive her away with a little confrontational eye contact. “I value my life very highly.”
“Then why waste it?”
Ouch! I shot an irritated glance at Ethan, but he was pretending not to see me. I knew he was pretending because he couldn’t quite stop grinning, even when Michael elbowed him in the ribs. They were supposed to be comforting the grieving fiancé.
“I’m not wasting my life, Mom. I’m doing exactly what I want to do.”
“With your nose in a book al day?”
My hands curled into fists in my lap. “I like books.”
“You hide behind your books, like you used to hide behind my legs.” Her needles clicked together rapidly, a sound I’d identified early in life as the most annoying noise in the world.
“I never hid behind you, and I am not hiding behind my books.”
Her hands paused, and she smiled softly, as if remembering something sweet and long gone. “You hid behind me every time we had company until you were five years old.”
I let my head fal onto the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t remember that.”
“There are a lot of things you don’t remember,” she said, her fingers flying once again.
“Such as?”
“Such as when I sat on the council with your father.”
I lifted my head, narrowing my eyes at her in suspicion. “You sat on the council?”
She beamed, clearly pleased to have caught my attention. “Yes, I did. I was the only woman.”
“Why?” I plucked a bal of yarn from her lap, watching it spin slowly in my palm as her repetitive motions gradual y unwound it. It was soft and fuzzy, tickling my hand with an almost unbearably gentle sensation.
