I nodded in mock agreement. “Quite. For I have not a mother’s feelings.”
Kit stamped her foot in annoyance while Aunt Winnie and I giggled. “I hate it when you two do that!” she said. “It’s like hanging out with people who insist on speaking in some juvenile code!”
It drives Kit crazy when I quote Jane Austen at her, mainly because she never gets the references. “Jane Austen is not juvenile!” I said with a laugh. “She’s a classic!”
“Sorry, I guess that makes you the juvenile,” Kit retorted.
“Kit, if you read the books, you’d get the references.”
“Sorry, but unlike some people, I don’t have the luxury to spend time reading. I have a house to run and a child to raise.”
I bit my tongue and said nothing. Restraint was a skill I’d been forced to perfect over the last few weeks ever since my apartment had been deemed “unfit” to live in due to a rampant mold issue. Armed with my landlord’s promise that the problem would be rectified in two weeks, I moved into Kit’s guest bedroom in her house in Silver Spring. I would have preferred to have stayed with Peter, but his place was in Annapolis, too far a commute to my newspaper job in D.C. Don’t get me wrong. I was extremely grateful to Kit for taking me in, it’s just that Kit has the ability to ruin even the most generous of gestures. What began as a chance for us to “bond” (her words) had quickly morphed into a chance for me to perfect my skills as a live-in nanny, maid, and sous chef (my words). Two days ago, she asked if I wouldn’t mind incorporating some fresh dinner recipes into my new nightly routine, as she felt that my staples of spaghetti, ham-and-cheese omelets, and grilled chicken were a bit “pedestrian.” “Paul and I really want to expand little Pauly’s taste buds,” she had told me.
To be fair, if my kid wolfed down Play-Doh with the enthusiasm Pauly did, I might think about expanding his taste buds, too. Nevertheless, when my landlord called to tell me that it looked as if repairs would be at least another week, I felt a sudden weight on my neck that threatened to pull me to the ground.
The weight actually turned out to be little Pauly; he likes to launch sneak attacks on me (and just for the record, “little” Pauly is a misnomer; I’m beginning to suspect that Play-Doh is high in calories). Anyway, the realization that Kit wanted me to reprise my role of Mary Poppins this fall—with Pauly and a newborn—made me want to sit down with my head between my knees.
Happily, Aunt Winnie came to my rescue. “Oh, Kit, I would love to have you and the baby to the new place, but I couldn’t in good conscience let you come before the repairs are completed. We’re going to be gutting a large portion of the house. It’ll be a dusty mess and God only knows what kind of toxic particles we might be unearthing. I wouldn’t feel comfortable having a baby around all that dirt and grime. As soon as it’s done, though, I want you to come.”
Kit’s lips pulled down into a pout, but she did not argue. “Well, I guess I’ll stay here alone while you all go off to Nantucket.”
My self-restraint gave way and I laughed, saying, “Upon my word, I shall be pretty well off, when you are all gone away to be happy at Bath!”
Aunt Winnie smothered a smile. I think my mother did, too. Kit, however, glared at me. “Oh yeah?” she snapped. “You want to trade pithy quotes? Well, how about this? ‘C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me!’ And I guess it’ll have to be because no one seems to want to help me!”
My mother attempted to appease Kit with an indulgent pat on the back. “Now, Kit,” she said soothingly, “that’s not true. I told you that I would be happy to stay with you and help.”
“And Kit, if you think gutting a house is fun, then you really do need a vacation!” added Aunt Winnie. “You come up once everything’s ready. That way I can give you a proper vacation, pamper you, and show off my latest great-niece or great-nephew. Wait, is that right?” Aunt Winnie paused thoughtfully. “Would it be my great-great-niece or great-great-nephew? Would that make me a great-great-aunt? I don’t know, it sounds weird.”
“How about we just call you Extraordinary Aunt?” I said, laughing.
“Done,” Aunt Winnie agreed. Turning back to Kit, she asked, “Do you have any idea what the sex of the baby is?”
“No,” Kit replied. “We want to be surprised, but I keep having dreams that it’s a girl.”
Aunt Winnie smiled. “Oh, a little girl! How fun that would be!”
Mollified, Kit chatted happily about possible names for the baby if it was a girl until Aunt Winnie finally left to catch her flight. Giving me a final hug, she whispered in my ear, “Patience is a virtue.”
“So’s vodka,” I whispered back.
With a laugh and a final wave good-bye, Aunt Winnie headed for her terminal. We watched her until she was swallowed up by the bustling crowd of fellow travelers before piling back into my mom’s car.
“So, I was thinking that maybe sometime next week we all could meet for dinner somewhere,” my mom said as she pulled out into the traffic, ignoring three separate cabbies’ horns of warning. “I know that George would love to see you.”
George is my mother’s boyfriend. When our father died five years ago, our mom took it pretty hard. She left the house only for classes at the college where she taught English literature. In fact, if it weren’t for her job, I don’t think she would have left the house at all. To help, Kit and I had chipped in and signed her up for some spin classes at a local gym, thinking that the interaction might help ease her out of her loneliness. As fate would have it, George was the instructor. At first we thought it was cute when he’d asked her out, and we’d good-naturedly teased her about being a cougar. That was four years ago and it was no longer cute or funny. It isn’t that George is a bad guy, mind you. He’s nice enough. He is good-looking and in good shape. He is just dumb as an ox. The last time we all went out to eat at one of his favorite restaurants, I asked him if the turkey burger was any good. He answered that he didn’t know because, and I’m quoting here, “I’m not one of those pansy vegetarians.” He then flexed his biceps, kissed it, and added, “My guns need protein.”
Really, not even Jane Austen would have a snappy comeback to that.
At my mom’s mention of George, Kit and I exchanged glances of derision. It was funny, but after a lifetime of butting heads, we’d finally found one thing in common. We both found a night with George to be a damned tedious waste of an evening. But we love our mother, so we put up with him. The only reason we hadn’t had to deal with him today was that he was at some cycling convention in Seattle, learning how to channel Lance Armstrong or something.
“Yeah, Mom, that would be great,” said Kit. “Just let me know when it’s a good time.”
“I’m free all next week,” I added.
“Except Tuesday,” said Kit. “Don’t forget, you’re watching little Pauly for us next Tuesday night.”
“I haven’t forgotten. I’ll be there,” I mumbled. My social life had taken a hit lately, and Kit saw no reason not to take full advantage of this temporary lull. My best friend, Bridget, was newly married. She and her husband, Colin, had purchased a “fixer-upper” and now spent most of their time trolling Home Depot and poring over paint samples. As much as I love them both, I couldn’t endure another conversation about whether “hushed hue” or “inner balance” would be a better color for the living room. (Seriously, do either of those colors suggest taupe to you? Why can’t they just call colors what they are? In this case, “really light taupe” and “even lighter taupe.”)
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