Page 46 of The Frog Prince
I’d wish bad things on Ashlee, but she’s still struggling to get through college (starting her fifth—sixth?—year), so I can’t be too unkind.
But Mom’s moved on, and she turns to Josh. “So you do events, too?”
Josh nods, glances at me. “Yes.”
Mom shakes her head in wonder. “I had no idea Holly did this kind of thing. I always thought she was a secretary—”
“Mom!”
“Personal assistant?”
“No, Mom. Never.” My face is burning up. I’m so hot, so frustrated, so angry. Doesn’t Mom listen to anything I tell her? Would it be too much trouble to get her facts right about the one daughter whohasa job and continues to be financially self-sufficient? “I’ve never done clerical work. I’ve always been in marketing and public relations, even at a junior level.”
“There’s nothing wrong with clerical work.” Mom suddenly sounds injured. “I’ve been a bookkeeper for twenty years. It’s paid the bills. Put a roof over your head. Even paid for that fancy fairy-tale wedding you wanted!”
Please, please, ground, open up—San Andreas Fault, shift now, and swallow me whole. I can’t bear this. Can’t bear to be reminded of all my faults and shortcomings. “You did,” I say, wanting peace, wanting to move past this painful topic. “You have. I’m sorry.”
Josh puts out his arm, extending his hand toward Mother. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Bishop.”
Mom visibly relaxes a little and shakes his hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, too, Joshua.”
She watches him leave, and I watch Mom’s face. I can see she’s still upset with me, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do with her. I glance up at the clock on David’s wall, see that it’s nearly two, and I still have Olivia’s mandate hanging over my head.
“Have you had lunch, Mom?”
“Are you going to lunch?”
She sounds so hopeful, and I feel terrible because I’m going to disappoint her, just as I’ve disappointed her ever since that traumatic birth and latching-on nightmare. Apparently Ashlee and brother Jamie had no problem nursing, or keeping their milk down, or sleeping through the night. They were, by all accounts, dream babies. “I hadn’t planned on it. I’ve just come from a meeting, and I have this Oracle account I’m working on—”
“Don’t worry about me.”
She says it too quickly, and the problem is, I do worry, and the fact that I can feel so much worry and angst on her behalf doesn’t make this relationship any simpler.
“I’m fine,” she adds, her voice airy, casual (she’snotcasual), and everything inside me bunches up.
We’ve been in this odd partnership for, oh, twenty-five years, and I think she should know how much I love her, but I don’t think she does, and being me, I don’t know how to tell her. I don’t know how to talk to her. “If this account weren’t a problem at the moment, I’d take you to lunch now. I would—”
“Of course.” And she’s smiling at me, fiercely determined to be kind and patient, but I see something else in her eyes. I see that hidden puzzlement I’ve witnessed all my life, ever since Dad left, and it breaks my heart in a way that Jean-Marc never did.
Mother shouldn’t have been left. No woman should be left, but especially not my mom. I don’t want to, but every time I look at her face, I see her past, see the childhood, where they didn’t have a lot and there wasn’t always security, or love. And I want her to have that security, and the love, but she didn’t get it from Dad, and she isn’t getting it from me.
“Maybe I can get off early,” I say, feigning optimism because there isn’t a chance in hell I’ll be going anywhere soon. I don’t have Olivia’s numbers, because before I met with Brian Fadden, I spent the morning trying to connect with Perry Zeeb from one of the TV stations, and Melinda Martinez at theExaminer, but she never returned my calls. So although I worked all morning, it wasn’t what Olivia wanted me to accomplish, which is why the info for the Oracle proposal was never pulled together, which is why Olivia is going to be livid when she returns from the Beckett meeting.
“Don’t worry if you can’t, honey. I understand.”
“Thanks.” For a moment I’m not sure what to say, or what I should suggest. If I gave her directions to my apartment, would she find her way there? If I offered to treat her to a spa manicure and pedicure at the Vietnamese nail salon down the street, would she agree? (No. And no.)
“I was hoping I could meet some of your new friends,” she says after a moment, clutching her purse again, smiling shyly. “Just so I could get a feel for your new life.”
I glance back at my cubicle, see no one stirring. I think half the office is gone (since David is), and the rest doesn’t want to be visible. This office isn’t into family visits. Most of us moved to the city to escape our families, nearly all having issues with our past, and to be brutally honest, unless someone in your family is an extremely important person, that person probably doesn’t matter.
Just as my mother doesn’t matter.
I know this, recognize this, and hate it all the same. Everyone knows my story—at least where I’m from—and while they don’t know where Mom was born, they can guess.
Mother was raised in Coalinga, California, and has spent her life making sure she knows people, the right people, people who will get her out of Coalinga and keep her out.
Which explains Father.