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Late September-Savannah
“Mr. Pickles doesn’t like peas or brushing his teeth,” the child in front of me says, his hands on his hips and clutching the stuffed rabbit he’s dropping into my care.
It was my idea to implement a stuffed animal sleepover story time at my new job as the Evergreen Hills Library youth coordinator. Children bring a stuffed animal to the library, kiss it goodnight, and leave it here for the evening. When they pick it up in the morning, we’ll have donuts, share pictures about crazy things the stuffed friends got up to in the night, and read a story about sleepovers. The program’s done well in other towns, and I thought I’d try it here.
I smile at the child and peruse my clipboard, searching for the last male child to drop off their friend. “You must be Brody,” I say. He nods and hands me the rabbit with a dubious look. “He’ll be fine. I promise.” I look at the rabbit with its torn whiskers and one chipped plastic eye and flick one of the bent whiskers. “In fact, he looks like a leader. I bet he’ll make some great friends.”
Brody stares at me for a few seconds until his mother, a woman in leggings and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, drags him away, his eyes never leaving Mr. Pickles.
I wave until he’s through the sliding entrance doors before gently placing Mr. Pickles on the book cart and pushing it into the back room.
“I thought you dealt in books instead of stuffies, Savannah,” my mother’s voice chimes from across the checkout counter.
Sighing, I turn to face her, lamenting that my mother feels it necessary to visit me at work every day on her lunch hour. “Hello, Heather.”
My mother, a woman of only forty-five with flawless skin and a more chiseled abdominal section than I’ll ever have, insists on visiting me to check on my social life. She also insists I call her by her first name when we’re in public in the attempt to not let everyone know that she’s old enough to have an adult daughter. Fat chance of that. We live in a small town, and everyone knows every resident and their entire family.
I know what questions she’ll ask before they leave her mouth, and I paste on a fake smile before trudging to the counter to get it over with.
“Are you going out with anyone tonight, sweetheart?” she asks, pushing a hunk of dark hair that fell out of my ponytail back from my face. “If so, you should wear your hair down.”
“I’m going home after work. I have to get up early to take pictures of stuffed animals doing shenanigans, and I want to watch the next episode of The Rings of Power. I’m not worried about my hair.”
She closes her eyes, shaking her head like she can’t believe she was gifted with such a socially inept child like myself. “Savannah, you’re twenty-three. You should be out at bars, picking up men, and taking them home to have filthy sex.”
I grimace and look around for my elderly coworker, Marjorie. She’s at a desk behind me and eating a roast beef sandwich. She watches my conversation with wide eyes behind her soda bottle glasses, viewing us like we’re a riveting television show.
I chuckle at Marjorie and wave before pointing at Mom. “She’s kidding. No filthy sex here,” I laugh.
“Well, you’d have filthy sex if you ever left your house,” Mom says, tightening her messy bun at the top of her head. She must have just come from her daily yoga class. “No man is going to knock on your door for directions and then fall into your crotch. You need to get laid, honey. At your age, no sex means your skin will age faster. You don’t want wrinkles, do you?” she asks, reaching her perfectly manicured hand toward my cheek.
I bat her hand away and shake my head. “Heather, I’m at work! Can we talk about my lack of sex life later?”
“I’m glad you mentioned that dear. What are you doing the weekend after next?”
“Well, another episode of The Rings of Power will drop, I’ll probably order Chinese, and…”
Mom blows out a raspberry and rolls her eyes. “Lord, Savannah, you’ll piss away your youth. Before long, you’ll be thirty and have none of the experience of your peers.”
“I’ve never had the same experience as my peers,” I whisper, getting closer to her over the counter. “I know you think I should be some kind of social butterfly, but I’m happy. Why can’t you accept that I’m content finishing my library science master’s degree and working in a library? Is that some kind of terrible life sentence I’ve chosen for myself?”
“I’m not talking about your career. Lord knows I’ve accepted you want one,” she says, her head tilted to the side. She bats her fake eyelashes she has touched up every few weeks and folds her hands on the counter.
My mother has never worked. She married my father, a local professor, when she was in community college. It was a scandalous relationship, and they had me a year later. Unfortunately, Dad died ten years ago. At first, Mom was worried about having to actually get a job without having any functional job skills. Then, we found an insurance policy, an inheritance he got from his parents, and his retirement accounts that weren’t chicken feed. All of it combined to mean Mom is set for the rest of her life as long as she doesn’t buy vacation yachts and piss it all away. Mom has been enjoying her time at yoga classes, tennis matches at the local country club, and singles’ bars ever since.
“At least go out and make friends,” she says.
“I have friends. I play golf with Melissa and her dad once a month.”
“For fuck’s sake,” my mom mutters.
“Heather, you’re in a library,” I warn. “What did you want to ask about next weekend? I need to get back to work.”
“Ah,” she says, holding up a finger and reaching into the large purse across her shoulder. She sets lipstick tubes and empty Evian bottles on the counter before bringing a folded piece of paper out of the bag. “There’s an event I want to take you to.”
The hair on my neck stands up. “What kind of event?”
“The kind where you can meet a nice boy, and you don’t even have to worry about a relationship. I saw it and knew it would be perfect for your situation.”
