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But Paul doesn’t answer. He’s probably already left for work. (But wait. Didn’t he give up his technical job somewhere to be a full-time unemployed novelist? So he works from home, right?) I leave him a wordy apology with the general theme being, “I goofed, I owe you, I’m sorry.”
*
Paul ends upcalling me late in the day. I’m at my desk at the office and surprised to hear his voice, wondering how he got my work number, then remember that he’s one of Josh’s crowd, so of course he knows the office phone number. It’s a tense call—Paul’s still fuming—but I grovel some more, and eventually he accepts my apology under the condition that I make it up to him soon.
I tell him my mom’s in town and try to schedule a makeup dinner for Tuesday or Wednesday. Paul doesn’t want another weekday night. He wants Saturday. I don’t want Saturday but, feeling guilty, succumb to Friday. So one week from today we’re going on what now seems to be a date.
The rest of the day has been anticlimactic. Olivia has pretty much acted as though everything’s normal, so I trust everything’s normal. Josh and Tessa never mention dinner, and I actually get a lot of work done. By the time I leave the office for the weekend, I feel as if I’ve finally accomplished something, and return to my apartment to find Mom waiting at the door with her purse and coat.
I look at my mom, dressed in her second-favorite color combination, licorice red and cobalt blue paired with white running shoes, and think,You’vegotto be kidding.There’s no way I can go out right away. I’m beat. And I can’t take my mom out to dinner somewhere in my neighborhood wearing the American flag. It’s fine to be a tourist. You just don’t have to look like one.
“Mom, did you bring anything brown, or black?”
“Black?”
“Like a black T-shirt or turtleneck?”
“I don’t wear black.” She sounds almost traumatized. “You know I never wear black. I love bright colors.”
I noticed. “Let me change into jeans,” I say, trying to hide the wilting note in my voice. I swear to God, I feel as if I’m back in high school and Mom’s raining on my parade. I try to remember Tessa’s attitude. I’m lucky to have a mother. It shouldn’t matter what she wears, what she says, or what she thinks I need.
“How does Italian sound?” Mom shouts through the half-closed bedroom door. “I thought we could go to North Beach. I found a little restaurant that has an early-bird special—”
Oh, no.
“And if we get there before six thirty we can get a free appetizer or drink with my happy-hour coupon.”
*
Sunday morning arrives,and it’s time for Mom to head home. She doesn’t like to drive after dark, and it’s a good four-and-a-half-hour drive—or longer if you go the speed limit, and Mom always does.
But before Mom does go, I take her to one of my favorite cafés, and we have a great brunch. Mom keeps smiling at everyone and everything. “I feel like I’m in Paris,” she says for the third or fourth time whenever someone wearing black enters the café. Mom thinks wearing black is something of an artistic statement, but whispers that it also reveals a certain instability of character.
“I don’t know, Mom,” I answer, compelled to defend the color black. “People like it because it’s understated—”
“It’s not understated; it’s dramatic.”
“—and sophisticated at the same time.”
“Black’s boring.”
“How can black be boring and dramatic?”
“It’s boring to look at, and dramatic because people who wear it want to appear like something they’re not.”
“No.”
Mom leans so far across the table, I think we’re going to bump heads. “What child wears black?”
My mouth opens, closes. I’m genuinely stumped.
“My point,” she concludes, straightening. “No child wears black. Children reach for color. Jamie would wear only yellow and royal blue T-shirts. His favorite sweatpants were St. Patrick’s Day green. Ashlee loved pink. Pink underwear, pink skirts, pink sweaters, pink hair barrettes, pink everything. And if pink: wasn’t an option, she’d grudgingly choose lavender.”
“And me?”
Mom hesitates. Frowning, she shakes her head. “I forget.”
“You don’t remember?”
