She smiles, and I can tell her mind is someplace else. Iâve heard the story a hundred times, but I let her go on. âYour father was so proud when he talked the merchant down from six dollars a tile to four. It took so long to find other tiles that came close to matching. Itâs not perfect, but itâs close enough.â
Itâs a nice story, but I canât help but wonder whoâs going to get the hand-painted tiles in the divorce. And then I wonder what Dadâs recent stress has to do with buying these tiles, something that happened twenty years ago.
âHey, Mom,â I say. âIs getting married all itâs cracked up to be?â
My question jars her from her waltz down memory lane. âWhat?â Her eyes leave the tiles and lock onto mine. âWhy do you ask?â
âI donât know. I was just wondering. Everyone is brought up to believe getting married is the goalâgetting married and having kids. But all the jokesâeverything you see on television, all the sitcomsâare about how being married totally sucks.â
âThatâs just television, sweetie.â
âBut they wouldnât make all those jokes if something about it wasnât true. Iâm sure you and Dad love each other and everythingââ
âOf course we love each other.â
âI shouldnât have brought it up,â I say.
Mom straightens the coffeemaker so the rubber feet are perfectly aligned with the edge of the tiles. âYour father has got a lot on his plate right now.â Her eyes look through me. âHeâs preoccupied. When he gets preoccupied, he takes it out on everyone around him. Itâs just the way he is.â
Itâs not often my mother and I have a conversation like this, but somehow it feels like a door has swung open and I can say anything right now. I push again. âDo you likebeing married?â
âOf course I do. If I wasnât married, Iâd never have had you.â
âNo, I mean aside from me. If I wasnât in the picture.â
âBut you are in the picture.â She reaches across and touches my arm. âI canât separate you from it.â
âWell, suppose Iâd be in the picture either way.â
My mother pulls her arm back as if my suggesting life without my father burned her. Her elbow knocks into her glass, and it topples over. The glass lands heavy and shatters against the countertop. The Arnold Palmer cascades over the edge to the hardwood floor. The new, unnamed dog waddles over and begins lapping at it.
I hop up. âIâll get a towel.â
My mother leaps from her stool. âNo, Iâve got it.â She scoops up the dog and hands him to me. âPut him in his crate, would you? Itâs in the laundry room. Then go on downstairs. Get to work on your podcasting. Make your mother proud.â She surveys the spill. âIâve got this.â
I feel the door of our conversationâthe one that was wide-open just a second agoâclosing. I grab the roll of paper towels sitting next to the sink. âNo, let me help you.â
My mom snatches the roll from me. âIâve got it,â she says, this time more firmly. âIâm such a butterfingers.â
âYou sure?â
âIâm sure. Go on downstairs, baby. Please.â
Slam.
Door closed.
Conversation over.
I look at the dog curled up in my hand. His fat puppy belly is smooth and warm. I move forward again to help her but realize she doesnât want me around.
Sweat trickles in a single line down the small of my back. My mother says she canât imagine her life without my father; I wonder if sheâll be saying the same thing six months from now when itâs just me, her, and this grunting, stumbling, pathetic dog.
EXCERPT FROM THE LOVE MANIFESTO
Intro Music: âArea Codesâ by Ludacris
Hey there, Iâd like to welcome you to the second episode of
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley