In the Mix (18 page)

“Don’t make him pay for what Drew did to you. Life’s too short, Ceese. You deserve to get over what happened to you—whatever that was—and have a happy life.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

“I wish it was that simple, Mom. I want to get over the past but it’s always there, haunting me.”

“I don’t care who it is, but you need to talk to someone about what happened. This is the biggest reason why you haven’t been able to move on . . . why you push men away.” Her eyes filled up and I know she was thinking the worst. I know this because she’s asked me so many times over the past fifteen years.

“The next step is forgiveness.”

“Yes!” She slapped my leg.

“I’ll never forgive him,” I bit through those stupid fucking tears that were forming. Goddamn that son of a bitch! Every time I get emotional enough, thinking about what happened, and cry, it just makes me hate him all the more.

“What did he do?” Her question paraded out of her mouth shaky and slow. She seemed to be trying to contain every emotion known to man.

I changed the subject.

“So, what is the doctor’s plan of action?” I grabbed the bowl of popcorn and began shoving it in my mouth . . . preventing me from talking.

Mom eyed me. “I know what you are doing.” Nevertheless, she gave up and looked down at her hands. “Pills, diet, exercise . . . ya know, the usual. However, he did mention a different more pro-active treatment called Tsybari. It’s an infusion that I would have to do every four weeks. There are some risks and they are not sure if it works as well on people over the age of sixty-five like it does for younger adults. He usually doesn’t offer this as an option for people my age but given my long remission and my general health, he thought we could definitely consider it. Here’s the pamphlet.” She pulls up on the coffee table that actually works as a desk and storage bin, as well.
That’s so mine when we split the goods up in this house! What?! No, I don’t want my parents to die. I’m just sayin’ . . . gotta stake your claim on this shit early! You’re still appalled? Try getting that stick out of your ass. There . . . that’s better. :)

“Mom, you can’t do this. Nope!” I averted my eyes from the pamphlet to look at her.

“Too risky?” She bit her lip.

“Uh, yeah! For Christ’s sake, you can get Vaginitis!” I almost yelled.

“But the vagina is all muscle! How do you get arthritis there? Oh, the pelvic bone maybe?” She widened her eyes at me.

I stared blankly at her.

Convulsing laughter fully equipped with snorting ensued after.

“It’s an infection in your vagina!” I finally informed her.

“Well, I can get cream for that.” She defended it.

“Um . . . eww. Also, that shit stinks! I think Daddy would rather you doing your shaky shakes under him; might give him an extra . . .” I winked and clicked my tongue twice. “Vaginitis will only have him hurl whenever he’d try to get near you. Would you rather repulse him or re-enact the 70s when you two would stay at hotels with the vibrating beds?”

“Shh . . . shh!” She held her finger to her mouth, frantically blowing—oh, the irony. “How is it you’re the only kid I know that doesn’t vomit in their mouth, thinking about their parents having sex?” She chuckled.

“You’ve had five kids, Ma, I’m pretty certain Dad likes to hit that shit—”

“—Carissa Catherine!” She gasped, cutting me off.

“What?”

“I love you. You’re crazy as hell, but, God, do I love that about you.” Yes, the tears started up again. “You need a good man who will love that about you, too.”

“I . . . Kyle . . .” I hesitated. Admitting to anyone that Kyle was just that guy seemed (still seems) like defeat.
Fuck, I hate this flip-flopping ‘oh, what am I to do? (spoken in damsel distress voice)’ attitude I’ve been having. This is
not
me! I hate that he’s affected me like this. I hate that I love how he makes me feel. Seriously . . . What. In. The. Actual. Fuck?

“Kyle what? Is that his name?” She smiled.

“Yes.” That was it. I grabbed the remote and pressed play. My mother patted my lap. I glanced at her a few minutes later only to find a small smile planted on her face. Her eyes fluttered over to me and she gave me a soft wink. I replied with a half-smile.

Mothers are amazing, aren’t they? I’m always in awe as to how my mom just knows. She knows when to press me more and she knows just when to stop. When I’m off? She’s grilling me for the answer why. I could go on and on. No one knows me as well as she does—emotionally, that is. I used to hope that I would be half as wonderful as a mom that she is. I settled for the title of Aunt a long time ago. I do my best there and it’s pretty damn good, I think. That’s the closest I will ever get to motherhood. I’m lucky to have that. I don’t deserve to be a mom. I would suck at it.

“What are you two up to?” Mom asks from behind me.

“Just contemplating why the hell I’m up so early,” I say before bringing my cup of coffee up to my lips.

“Because you’re an adult with a business to run,” she offers and kisses the top of my head.

“Shit, I never got that memo on being an adult. When the hell did that happen?”

“Come to think of it, you may have been overlooked,” she sasses.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You’re welcome. So, how’s business?” she asks taking her cup of coffee out of Dad’s hand. She sits next to me with Dad next to her.
Now’s a good time as ever, right?

“Business is not that great. I’ve decided to sell my house and use that money to try something else to salvage it.” I sip my coffee, waiting.

“What are you thinking of, Dolly?” Dad widens his eyes as if he’s anxious to hear about my newest scheme. You know what I love about my dad? This right here! My dad never flips out and throws his opinions at us. He waits to hear our entire plan before putting his two cents in. You know what I love even more about him? He never responds negatively. Nope, Happy Jack O’Brien tends to find his girls very capable and in return, he always hears us out. The only opinion he ever gives us is a thought on how to do something or another better. I asked him about that one time.
“Dad? How is it that you never get impatient with us girls? Every time we have big plans and share them with you, you never flip out or tell us our thinking is all wrong.”

“Dolly, even if I thought your plan wasn’t solid, why would I ever make you second-guess yourself? That is the biggest mistake I think a parent can make. I’d rather support you and find the best ways to help you achieve what you want to do to be a success.”

“So, if I decided to become a crack dealer, you’d help me find the best way to distribute the crack?” Because I’m a smartass.

“Crack is whack, Dolly! Better off with the weed. It’s becoming legal in a few states now.”

“The weed?” I chuckled.

“What? They call it something different these days?”

“Yeah, they dropped ‘the’; it took too long to say. It’s a fast paced business, drug dealing, they gotta keep the line movin,’ ya know?” I said straight-faced (well, I think I did).

“Smarty-pants.” He chuckled.

Yep, I love my dad. I’m very blessed in the parental unit department. They both have been (still are) wonderful parents. And that’s the top reason why Charley and I have stayed around here and do our best to help them out. That and the rest of the girls; they are our family. I can’t imagine going through my life without any of them nearby. It’s sad to say, but with the exception of Charley, these girls are more like sisters to me than my own sisters. I love Caroline, Colleen, and Caitlyn but bitches stepped out a long time ago. They are holiday and vacation sisters now. I can’t tell you the last time I picked up the phone to have a “Hey, sis, whatcha doin’” conversation with any of them. It’s sad, I know. Charley and I talk about it every once in a while; it bothers us. You know what, though? Every time we try to call and check in, they’ve done nothing but aggravate the piss out of us. The biggest problem? Well, it’s something that, I think, most older siblings go through. There’s always one (in our case, two) sibling that stays near the parents. While they are the ones taking the “rents” to dr’s appointments, checking in on them, and doing basically anything that they need, the other siblings sit half or all the way across the country, barking orders. Then they wonder why we get mad at them. Listen, I know that not everyone can handle taking care of their parents, watching them age. But either suck it the fuck up or don’t be a douchebag to the ones who are there day in and day out, handling everything. If you think you can do it better, put your swim cap on and dive in, motherfucker!

Yeah—that’s what I thought.

All talk.

“I’m going to look into getting a grooming van. I can take a couple days a week and hit up the areas concentrated with seniors. It’s hard for them to get out, and they always love their animals the hardest.” I pop a piece of toast in my mouth.

“That’s a fantastic idea,” Mom says as if she’s surprised. “For marketing, you can say ‘We’ll bring Bark Avenue to you!’ or something like that.”

“Not too shabby, there, Mom.” I nod my head in agreement.

“Do you have a place lined up to live?” Dad interjects.

“I’m working on it. I’ll be at my house for a while, yet. I need to get some things up to date, ya know, get it show ready.”

“We have plenty of room here, honey.” Dad pats my shoulder.

“Thanks, Dad. I’ll see what happens.” I wipe my mouth then push away from the table to get up. “I better head into the shower. I have Lindsay’s party today. I don’t want to be late. Do you guys need anything before I head out?” I offer, before I run up the stairs.

“We’re good, Ceese.” Dad smiles up at me. “We’re leaving in a few anyway.”

“Ok. Give the kids a hug for me.” I give them both a kiss on the head and head upstairs.

Ok, CiCi, you’ve got this. You are NOT going to let him get to you. Pull it together; he’s not the only man on the planet.

Oh fuck this pep talk . . .

I get out of my black Honda Civic, grab the gift bags, and close the door. I parked several houses down . . . a half an hour ago. I’m still about fifteen minutes early but I want to offer help. Might as well start on the good foot since I’ll probably end up on the bad one. Wait—I didn’t mean it that way! I’m not saying anything sexual about me and Kyle. Oh . . . you weren’t thinking that? Me neither . . .

Approaching the door, I smooth out my green dress. Well, not any dress. This is the dress that has been in my closet since my birthday, waiting patiently for me to have a good place to wear it. Aunt Clara bought me this for my birthday. She’s my father’s sister and I swear to God, she has more money than should be allowed. Her favorite store? Saks Fifth Avenue. I can’t even begin to tell you the store credit I have racked up at that store. I wish I could turn it into cash. Anyways, every once in a while, Aunt Clara gets something so right that it cannot be returned. She told me she bought this because it matched my eyes. She was right. Also, I am very partial to the designer, alice + olivia (Charley is, too.) This is their tevin satin brocade dress and I’m in love with it.

Before I can knock, the door is whipped open. “You’re here! I can’t believe you’re here!” Lindsay screeches, her face beaming the hugest smile I’ve ever seen. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been off lately or the talk with my mom but I’m tearing up like a crazy hormonal bitch.
I hate when this shit happens.
Seeing her face though, I know I’ve made the right decision. No matter what’s going on between Kyle and me, I cherish this chick. She’s become a wonderful friend to me.

“Of course I came! I wouldn’t miss your birthday party!” I hug her. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks—I know no one here! I mean, I know Linz and Kyle, but that’s it. Oh man, I hate this fucking shit. You know I hate it. I have no filter and no apology for it. Oh well . . .

Here goes nothing . . .

“Come on in! I can’t wait for you to meet my mom,” she says quickly and grabs my hand to drag me along. “Mom! Mom, this is my best friend, CiCi,” she announces when we make it over the threshold to the kitchen. She made it; I tripped. I look up to find warm, blue eyes, smiling my way.

We both give each other a quick “once over.” “alice + olivia!” We say in unison. She’s wearing their fila beaded cotton dress. I love that dress!

“Turn! Turn!” she barks at me. I do a slow spin. “Ahh . . . look at that racerback! Oh, I love it, CiCi. It’s gorgeous.” She beams.

“Thank you . . . uh . . . Mrs. Cooper,” I stammer.

“Call me Winnie.” She pulls me in for a hug. She’s a little thing. Perfectly put together from her well-coiffed, brown hair to her patent leather, sling back Jimmy Choo’s. I went with my Fendi, patent leather “Fuck me” pumps. It’s clear; we have fashion in common.

“Winnie Cooper?” I ask as straight-faced as I can.