Page 47 of The Frog Prince
However, the essential thing to know about Coalinga isn’t Father—I really try hard not to think about him, and he makes it easy by behaving as if we kids never existed, except for his showing up at my wedding late and then leaving early—it’s that if you can survive a life in one of Central California’s little cow towns, you can survive anything life throws at you.
I’m not trying to be cruel. I’m the girl who grew up thinking a good party was a two-kegger in an orchard. Growing up provincial had its merits.
Like Mother’s ability to be outwardly calm when disaster strikes. The sky could fall, and my mother would be the only one not running around screaming. Okay. Maybe she ought to be running, if only to look for shelter, but she wouldn’t panic. Because she wouldn’t do anything.
Mother certainly didn’t do anything when Dad left all those years ago. She didn’t take to her bed. Didn’t drink, pop pills. Didn’t vow to clean him out by going to court. No, Mom was very controlled. And civil. She wrapped her pride around her nice and tight, kept her chin up, attended all the usual social functions, and managed to convince everyone she was better off without Ted.
She was so convincing that in no time she had everyone thinking that Ted’s leaving was a godsend and that the only tragedy here was that he didn’t do it years earlier.
It wasn’t, of course, that easy. Mom suffered. I know she did. I just don’t know how, as she’s kind of a mystery lady. She’s present hut not. Kind but defensive. Positive but petrified.
I suppose I don’t know her at all.
“Everybody’s in meetings,” I say, trying to ignore two of Tessa’s girls turning the corner and walking down the hall to the break room. “It’s really crunch time right now around here.”
“I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.”
This is why I wish Mom had remarried. A new husband might have kept her off San Francisco’s streets and from blurting misery-inducing things like this. But Mom never did remarry, nor did she ever get serious again. In the beginning there were a string of casual dates, but eventually even those faceless, nameless men disappeared.
“Don’t say that, Mom.” I’m already assailed by guilt. I haven’t seen my mother in months. We never really talk, even though she tries to call once every couple of weeks; but she usually calls me at home during the day, and I’m not at home during the day—I’m at City Events—and she’ll leave messages like this:Oh, Holly(sigh)it seems I’ve missed you again. We never do seem to connect.
That’s right. Mom. Because you call me at the apartment when I’m working, and you call work when I’m at the apartment. I almost want to give her a crib sheet, a little chart, marking workdays and weekends and attaching the right phone number to the right day.
There’s no reason for her to be so confused. Childbirth couldn’t have taken that much out of her. Sometimes I even wonder how she managed to snag Ted, my so-called dad (it’s not nice, but I’m more comfortable thinking of him as a sperm donor than as my father), because she can be pretty damn clueless.
But I’m now feeling bad for having bad feelings, and the guilt grows. “I can’t get away now,” I repeat, “but maybe I could round up a few people and we all go to dinner.” I don’t even know where this thought comes from. I don’t know how I let it pop out of my mouth. It’s not as if I even have friends to round up, but I’m desperate to feel like a nicer person again, and Mom does appreciatively brighten.
“That sounds like fun.”
Not really. I don’t know where I’m going to find friends, and I don’t know where we should go to dinner, and I feel like Tom Cruise inMission Impossible VI. Why are we even making this film? “I’ll work on firming dinner plans.”
“Where will we go?”
“Let me think about it.” I’m already feeling claustrophobic. She’s a dear, dear lady, but she should have had a good, sweet daughter. Not me. “Why don’t you go to Union Square, do some shopping, maybe get tea at Neiman Marcus?”
“I’d rather have tea with you.”
“Then shop! You know I hate shopping.”
Mom’s expression falls. “I do, too.”
She sounds forlorn again, and I’m Cruel Joke for a Daughter. “Why not wander around a little, take in the sights, and then we’ll meet up for dinner?”
“But where?”
I struggle to think of a place near Union Square that Mom would like and that I could convince some of my colleagues to go to, because the people here at City Events are the only people I even know in the city. Immediately Josh comes to mind. I’ll approach him first. He’ll have a hard time telling me no if I get down on my knees and weep.
“I’ll think of something.” There are lots of little places by Union Square, lots of big, expensive hotel restaurants, lots to choose from, but right now I can’t think of one.
Suddenly Mom’s eyes light. Her mouth opens. She has an idea.
“What?”
“The Tonga Room,” she breathes reverently.
The Tonga Room at the Fairmont? There’s no way in hell I’d ever get anyone from work to go there. Not even Josh. Although… if Joshisgay, he might like it. But I don’t think he’s gay. I think he’s from a wealthy, oppressive family that lacks a sense of humor. “Mom—”
“We went there when you were little.”