The layout was kinda like mine except more square. Living room to the front; kitchen to the back (not the side). Bedrooms down the hall, but there was a small study and the master bedroom was bigger and had its own three-quarter bath.
It had been a bit run-down, but we’d pulled it together with the help of Colt, Morrie, Jack, Colt’s partner, Sully, Cal, Mike, and even on occasion, Merry. Precisely, I remembered Merry and Mike put in her new countertops in the kitchen and bath, and Merry re-skimmed the walls in the living room.
When we got to that living room Merry had re-skimmed, I saw Mom flat on her back on the couch.
“You best be up for movie day, honey-sicle, ’cause Gramma’s pooped right out,” she told the TV, then twisted her head back to look at us over the arm of the couch. “Or, you best be up for movie day if your homework is done.”
I looked down at my mom.
She’d never graduated from waitress work. She’d done that before Dad left. She did it after. She did it now. She worked at The Station and she was good at what she did. She was liked so much, regulars asked to be put in her section.
She also made decent money. Like me, not rolling in it but not eating cat food either.
And she was fifty-six. She didn’t look it. She took care of herself. She was on her feet a lot, so she got exercise, and she’d always taken care of her skin. She ate a helluva lot better than me. She gave a shit about how she looked, took care of her hair, dressed good. To that end, she dated. Even had a couple of men who hung around for a while, both of them treating her right, but she couldn’t settle.
I got that.
Once bitten, two hundred times shy.
Her lying on the couch was bullshit. She was talking movies because she knew Ethan would be into that. Normally, she’d be working in her yard, deep cleaning the grout in the bathroom, or with her bitches, playing poker. Even though she looked great, was fit, and had lots of energy, she had ten years left of being on her feet, schlepping food to people. Then she’d use the meager retirement she’d saved to take the sting out of living below poverty level on social security.
I hated that for her. Just like I wanted more for my boy and went all out to get it for him, I wanted more for my mom.
And there was another part of why life sucked, knowing she’d never get it and I’d never be in a place to give it to her.
I’d put her through the wringer. My little girl years were not filled with Barbies and dreams of marrying whatever British royal was moderately hot at the time but instead listening to my father beat on my mother. Then I’d gone wild, pissed at the world that we didn’t have a lot, that my dad was a dick who didn’t give a shit about me or my mom and showed us just that. Onward to shacking up with a junkie, letting him get me pregnant, and ending up as a stripper with a boyfriend who had about fifteen screws loose and wasn’t afraid of using a hatchet.
Mom had loved me through it all, though. She’d been there for me, for Ethan, every step of the way.
And she still was.
Which meant she’d shown me the way. I might not have learned early, but the least I could give her was eventually getting there.
“Got homework,” Ethan said, walking in and dumping his backpack on his gramma’s coffee table. “But it’ll take, like, ten seconds to do.”
“We’ll see about that,” Mom murmured. “You do it, I check it.”
“Jeez, Gram, I know the drill,” Ethan returned.
“Just makin’ sure you don’t forget it,” she replied.
Ethan did his favorite thing—rolled his eyes—then declared, “I’m gettin’ a pop. You need more iced tea?”
The last was for his gramma.
“I’m good, sugar,” Mom replied.
Ethan took off to the kitchen.
Mom looked to me.
“You good, Cher?” she asked.
“Good, Mom,” I answered, moving in and bending low to kiss her cheek.
She had the softest skin imaginable. It was like she had a collagen facial first thing in the morning and the last thing at night every day of her life. Not many wrinkles, which boded well for me, but to top that, her skin had a softness that was surreal.
I loved it.
Always did.
Even when I was young, stupid, and being an asshole.
“Have a good day at work,” Mom told me as I straightened away.
“Always do,” I replied, and she knew I did. Being a bartender might not be like being a jet-set supermodel, but it was a fuckuva lot better than being a stripper.
“Kid! Your mom is hittin’ the road!” I shouted.
Ethan came in with a can of Sprite in his hand, looking at me.
“Later,” he said, mouth curved up.
No hug. No kiss.
I wasted several seconds of my life wishing I could turn back time, just a year, maybe two, when Ethan wouldn’t let me leave without both.
When I didn’t get my wish, I said, “Later.”
I grinned at him. I grinned at Mom.
Then I took off.
I hit the bar and saw that Morrie was the one in to start opening. This was good. Colt might have told Feb what had happened with Merry and me, and she’d hesitate half a nanosecond in getting up in my shit about it.
“Yo,” I called to Morrie as I hit the bar.
“Yo, babe,” Morrie returned, at the cash register, putting in our float.
I went to the office to stow my purse and cardie, grabbing my cell to shove it in my back pocket, came out, and hit the back of the bar.