I volunteer to do the dishes, but I usually do them, so it's not that much of a big thing. Still, Mom kisses my forehead and thanks me for being so helpful. It's nice to be thanked for something.
“I think I'm going to sit in the garden for a little while,” she says after putting on some old jeans and a ratty sweater. Dad protests, of course, but he's quickly overruled.
I carry out a chair and bring her an umbrella to protect from the sun. She gets a hat and a thick coat and a glass of water and a cell phone. You know, in case of cold or zombie apocalypse. I should have given her a shovel.
“Do you need anything? A garden boy named Carlos to cater to your every whim?”
“That would be nice,” she says, smirking. She drops it quickly, glancing back at the house. “Can I talk to you about something before your father comes out and drags me back inside?” She looks back again, making sure he's not hovering.
“Yeah.” I have the feeling that I'm not going to like this conversation. Much like the one where she told me where babies come from.
“I'm not sure how I feel about this Peter situation. It didn't go over well with your father. He's convinced Peter is going to rape you and get you pregnant and then run away. Or that he's going to sneak into the house in the middle of the night and rob us blind.”
The mental image of Peter sneaking into the house in a mask makes me want to laugh. “None of those things are going to happen.”
She leans back in her chair and closes her eyes. “I know that, and you know that. But he doesn't. I think it's going to take time for him to warm up to the idea. Is there any way we can do a formal dinner?” What did she mean by formal? Not that I wouldn't love to see Peter in a tux.
“Not really. I've never asked him if he could eat food in an emergency, but I really don't want to go there.”
She considers for a moment. “Hm. I'll think of something. We need a good way to make your father like him.” Yesterday morning, she had found out that the guy I was spending time with wasn't human. Today, she was trying to find a way to invite him over for dinner. How was that possible?
I snort. “I don't think that is ever going to happen.”
“Now, now. You're father has been through a lot. He hasn't been himself lately.” She takes a small sip from her water glass. I don't like to point out that none of us have. There is no manual for this, no way anyone can prepare you for losing your wife or your mother to cancer. Doesn't mean he has to act the way he does.
“Maybe Peter has a good idea.”
“Maybe.” She doesn't sound convinced.
“He's really not what you think. I totally thought he was going to be all bloodthirsty, but he isn't. I just want you to be okay with it, because I'm okay with it and I want you to be.” I'm rambling, the words falling out of my mouth before I can catch them.
She opens her eyes. “I'm not sure if I want to talk to you about his blood taking activities.”
“It's not what you think.” I still blush. Talking about the blood sharing is kind of like talking about sex.
She's skeptical. “It never is.”
“I don't know.” I say, just for something to say. I hope this is over. I just wanted to make sure I hadn't done too much damage yesterday. “You're okay? Really?”
“Yes and no.” She sounds like Peter.
“But –” I start, but she waves her hand to dismiss me. “You can go in now. Interrogation over.” I snap my mouth shut and walk backward to the porch. “You're not as scary as you think you are.” I'm trying to keep it light.
“That's all part of my secret identity. Mwahahaha.” I laugh at her attempt at an evil chuckle. She could never pull it off.
I leave her to her plants. Well, they're not here yet, but there are lots of things to prepare. I should probably learn more about gardening. Because there's no way those plants are going to die when she's not here. I'll hire a Carlos before that would happen.
Dad's tucked away in his office, doing loan officer things that he likes to put off until the weekend so he has an excuse to hole up in there. He's so transparent.
I have the living room to myself, so I crash on the couch. I could go out and have an impromptu date with Tex, but I'm having one of those days when I don't want to do anything. I want to eat ice cream or pie (or both) and watch stupid movies I've seen a million times. I also want to cuddle with Peter, but you can't have everything.
I call a local car place and get a quote about how much it would cost to do Jamie's truck. I nearly fall over when they quote me $300. I thank them and hang up. Yeah, I'm definitely going to have to put in some more hours at the bookstore. I send a message to Tex and she responds with about a million exclamation points. Anything to save her from being alone with skeevy Toby and his weirdness.
I could get dressed. But I don't want to. I'm missing Peter and feeling frumpy.
I grab an extra pillow and an old quilt and curl up with them, a box of crackers, a glass of ginger ale and a few peanut butter cups I'd hidden away in the pantry for chocolate emergencies. I grab the DVD remote and my lazy Sunday is off and lazing.
The clock ticks away slowly, and I'm bored. Mom had been dragged back inside by Dad mere minutes after she'd gone out. He'd forced her to take some weird vitamins he'd found and put her to bed. I'd given her a sympathetic look as she walked by.
One movie finishes and I start another. A stupid fluffy girl movie. It wasn't what I wanted.
I wanted to be in the cemetery with Peter, or baking with my mother. She'd checked off a bunch of items on the list she'd made of things she wanted me to learn before... I still had a hard time even thinking the d word.
I was going to get used to it real soon. Not that we had a definite timetable. About four months left. I wasn't looking forward to this winter without her. But I'd slay that dragon when I got there.
“Are you feeling okay?” Mom's voice would have made me jump if I wasn't already so used to being startled by Peter. It probably wasn't a good thing for my self-preservation skills. They weren't all that great to begin with. Exhibit A: Peter.
“Yeah. Just in a funk.” My master plan to lose myself in the pink cotton-candy movie was futile anyway.
“Well, we need to un-funk you. How about dinner out?” She leans her forearms against the back of the couch. She's less pale, but still a shadow of how she'd looked two years ago. The change had been so gradual, I almost hadn't noticed.
“That would mean I'd have to change out of these sweatpants.” I gesture at my attire.