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My mom holds up her fork and smiles. “They always serve ribs and mac and cheese, so yes, dear Leech, I’m filling up on this vat of lettuce before I go over.”
The day they brought the scooters home was the day I began calling them slugs, but they love them. So, they still use them instead of getting a golf cart, like most of the residents here at Twisty Acres. The scooters are less about needing them and more about transportation and wanting the wind in their hair at a very low speed.
“We’re all good and leaving in about ten minutes. Do you have class tonight?”
“Late shift at the rec hall. There’s that knitting circle thing. They’re planning on yarn bombing the local Walgreens to protest that they no longer carry Vanilla Coke Zero.”
“Those women need a hobby,” my father says off-handedly.
“Har Har, Dad.”
“Will those slippery ones be there?” my dad asks, and I roll my eyes.
“You know, because you decided to live here at the ripe age of fifty-five, these are now your peers.”
“The old people?” My father scoffs.
“You. You are the old people. Even though fifty is far from old.”
“We scrimped and saved,” my mom says, and I raise an eyebrow.
She corrects herself, “Ok, you sold off our hoarded collections to secure this palace without wheels or blocks, so we could spend our golden years doing just this.”
“Sitting?”
My father reaches out for my mother’s hand. They both smile at each other. “Yes.” They really do love their life now.
“Fine. Also, your golden years aren’t for like another twenty to thirty years.”
I leave the room. My father calls after me, “Then what are these?”
“Copper. These are your copper years. I’ll get you some Moscow Mule mugs to commemorate them.”
I close the door, and my phone is buzzing with his gorgeous face; I toss off my scrub top and put on a t-shirt, wrapping my dry hair in a towel. I move to the perfect corner I’ve set up and answer.
“Hi.”
His face lights up, and his eyes sparkle at me. I must care since I’ve decided to go through this elaborate ruse.
He grins. “Hi. Nice turban. Take it off.”
“Mr. Ladd. That’s a bit forward.”
He laughs.
“How was your day?” I need to change the subject, so I don’t make up more shit. My memory isn’t big enough to sustain this charade for much longer. I remember every bone, muscle, and gland in the human body, but details of my fake history are slipping. I’m staring at my large model, where I practice naming things. There are Post-its all over it with pneumonic devices like ‘Pineal, not Penial the no-fun gland of sleepy time not sexy time.’
I’m soaking up that deep voice and that playful man as much as I can until I have to tell him, and he’ll be done with me.
“Fine. How was the divorce meeting?” I ask.
“Mediation for financial shit is tomorrow.”
My head is too full of endocrine facts for the exam this week. “Potato/Pahtaaato.” I draw out the last word until he laughs. I toss my head back, and my towel slips off my head.
“Well, that’s better. You have the shiniest hair.”
“Not my best feature.” I purse my lips at him. He makes me speak before I think. I used to be like that all the time, ask for forgiveness instead of permission. But, after Paris and my early twenties, that faded because I forced myself to be responsible. I miss that girl and Tony brings her back a bit. Perhaps this time I can use that drive for good and not evil.
