Treading Lightly. Elise Lanier

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СКАЧАТЬ Mom! What the hell happened in here? It looks like a testing sight for curling devices.”

      “Don’t say ‘Jesus,’ Craig.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because we’re religious,” she said distractedly, while plucking at an errant wisp of hair, making it stand up straight.

      “No we’re not.”

      “Oh. Right. Well, it’s blasphemous.”

      “No it’s not.”

      “Well, don’t say it anyhow. And before you ask your next question, it’s because I said so!”

      “So, what the hell’s going on?” he persisted.

      “Now that I cut my hair, I don’t know if I need the three-eighth-inch curling iron, the half-inch curling iron, or the five-eighth-inch curling iron to fit my curls. My old hot rollers won’t stay in. It’s too short. Oh, and don’t say ‘hell’ either.”

      “How come? You say it all the time!”

      “It’s not attractive coming from the mouth of a twelve-year-old.”

      “I’m almost thirteen,” he claimed, throwing her a sideways glance that would have weakened a lesser opponent. “And it’s enchanting coming from your mouth?”

      “Hell, yeah!”

      Her attempt at irony didn’t escape him. “Okay, Mom, I get it. Let’s not overdramatize things.”

      She burned her finger on the hot curling iron, grimaced and cursed. “Why stop now?”

      “Yeah,” he said, snorting a laugh and stubbing his huge, adult-sized, boot-covered foot into the bathroom rug. “Good point. So what’s for dinner?”

      She could handle his mood swings—they mirrored her own. Perimenopause and the teenage years were a lot alike. Well, except for the drooping, the sagging and the bloating. On the bright side, her pimples weren’t as bad as his. On the not-so-bright side, he applied his makeup far more artistically than she applied hers. But both only wore it for large-scale social occasions; another thing mother and son had in common. “Spaghetti.”

      “Again?” he whined.

      “Well, did you remember to take something out of the freezer?”

      “I didn’t know it was my job.”

      “It’s both our jobs,” she said, trying the five-eighth-incher out for size.

      “Why don’t you just take it all out of the freezer so we’ve got it on hand?”

      “Tried that once. It all went bad.”

      “Oh,” he said, eyeing her newly made curls. “Those are too big. They look loopy. Yours are tighter. Like those springs you find in a pen.”

      Janine grabbed the half-inch curling iron to try out the smaller size.

      “Mom, the small one! Try the small one,” he said with abundant annoyance. “You’re just wasting your time with the other two.”

      She put down the half-inch and grabbed the three-eighth-inch iron, watching him from the corner of her eye. “Since when are you so concerned with how I spend my time?”

      “Since I’m starving to death!”

      “Ah,” she said, a slow smile spreading across her face. “I should have guessed. You’re so good to me, my son.”

      “It’s all about you, Mom.” He grinned.

      “Yeah, right.” She tried the three-eighth-inch barrel and had to admit he was right. It worked the best. “Hey, do me a favor and go put a big pot of water on the stove, would ya?”

      “Yeah, okay. Whatever. Anything to get some food around here,” he muttered on his way out.

      “And throw some salt into it,” she continued. She knew he was rolling his eyes. “And don’t forget to put a lid on it, or it will take forever to come to a boil.” That was one of the few culinary tips she knew.

      Twenty-five minutes later they were headed for their usual positions at the kitchen table.

      “So why the big interest all of a sudden, Mom?” Craig said as he simultaneously pulled out and hopped onto his chair from behind. It was a slick move she’d often wondered how he came up with. It also prompted frequent prayers to the gods of the family jewel keepers that he wouldn’t hurt himself. One false move and she’d never have grandchildren. Time and again she’d told him not to do that, but he always ignored her, laughing at her concern and insisting it was his signature move.

      Each time he did it, she’d cringe, but with a teenage son, one had to choose one’s fights cautiously. After all, motherhood was a long haul. A very long haul. It wasn’t just that wonderful and all-too-swift period of cute, gurgling baby noises and patty-cake. Sure, it was that too. In the very beginning. But that only lasted a short while. Then you’re given a few years to prepare yourself, ready yourself—at least as best you can—for…this: your child’s unswerving, non-stop, express train ticket headed straight to puberty. Some called it adolescence. To others it was known as the “front lines.” A chosen few simply referred to it as “hell.”

      She’d learned a long time ago, that if you fought every battle that came up, a mother—particularly an overprotective one—would be dead in no time. That clearly in mind, she decided not to comment on the hopping-over-the-back-of-the-testicle-crushing-chair move. She figured if he ever did miss, he’d be humbled, humiliated and racked with pain—which was far more of a deterrent by example than any “I told you so” ever was.

      “What do you mean? Why, all of a sudden, my big interest in what?” She sat down with a heavy sigh. “Please pass the Parmesan.”

      He handed her the tall, green bottle. “All the hair-curling stuff. You’ve always had the equipment and never used it before.”

      Out of the mouths of babes. Her mind couldn’t help pondering the depressing thought that she had lots of equipment that hadn’t seen any use for a while. “I don’t know, it just feels funny.” Her hand flew to her head, and patted.

      “You did a good thing, Mom,” he said, while slurping up a stray strand of spaghetti.

      She watched her son lick sauce off his mouth with a quick flick of his tongue. “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

      “I wonder who’ll get it,” he said, before shoveling in another huge mouthful.

      She had the urge to tell him to take human bites, but didn’t. “I don’t know. They handle it like an adoption.”

      He nodded. “Have any regrets?”

      She swallowed and then added more Parmesan cheese to her mound of spaghetti before answering. “Yeah, marrying your father.”

      He rolled his eyes. “I meant about cutting off your long hair.”

      Maybe СКАЧАТЬ