Love to Hate You

Chapter Eleven

Lisa

My mom's visit fills me with trepidation and excitement, so I spend an hour practicing deep yoga breathing before she arrives. I am nervous about Jennie creating a situation and excited to see my mom, who I haven't seen in a month and a half. I still can't believe I have agreed to this dinner, but apparently, I like to torture myself for fun.

Mom turns up a tad early and helps me finish off the duck a l'orange and citrus salad. "Looks beautiful, darling," she says. "You really are a wonderful cook. Much better than I ever was."

"Get out of here. I used your old recipe for starters. Remember, Canny would always balk at the fruit in the salad."

Mom laughs. "Yes, well, I'm afraid her tastes still haven't progressed. She still refuses to eat anything remotely healthy. Complains about the lack of flavor. She doesn't really deviate from pasta and burgers."

Sounds like someone I know.

Mom and I used to cook together when I was younger. It was always our thing and seemed to bring us together whenever we drifted apart.

Just as it is now. As I stand watching her grate the orange zest, I notice she looks older than when I saw her last. It may have something to do with her jeans from the fossil ages or the plaid shirt that I had given her ten birthdays ago, but no, it's something else. Her hair is more gray than brown, the crow's feet are a little deeper, her lips a little tighter, and I feel my heart squeeze at just how quickly life has happened.

"How's your boyfriend, Mom?" I love asking her about her love life. She always goes pink and giggly.

She is seeing a guy called Big Mac, but she refuses to call him anything but Marco. He is a sixty-five-year-old ex-mechanic, and I'm pretty sure he wears a toupee, but I could never prove it. They met when Mom broke down on the side of the road, and he fixed her carburetor in the rain. Well, the story went something like that anyway. It was all very romantic.

"Marco is not my boyfriend. He is my companion," Mom straightens her shirt.

"Who sleeps over."

Mom nods sheepishly. "Who sleeps over. On occasion."

I can't help myself. "In your bed."

"Lalisa... shush!"

I burst out a laugh. "Well, you look good. You have that glow. You know the one I'm talking about."

Mom giggles like a school-girl, and covers her mouth. "No, now I'm blushing. He is a good man, you know. Keeps me young, and I'm glad you like him."

"He is nice, and he makes you happy, which is the most important thing. You deserve to be happy." And I mean it. She has been a wonderful mom. I can feel her watching me, though, and I know where this is going when I see her face contorting.

"Have you lost weight? You look tired."

I stir the sauce on the stovetop a little more vigorously. "What? No. Mom, I'm just working a lot. The odd hours, late nights, take a while to get used to. So, don't worry, okay?"

"Okay," she says with a half-smile. It appears that moms are always stressed about their offspring, and I am no different.

Mom and I turn our attention to our browned little duck and stare into the glow of the oven. It's a minute past six, and it appears as though Jennie isn't turning up. I quietly cheer, but then she barges through the front door just as the timer for the duck sounds and our heads wheel round.

Of course, Jennie Kim is over the top when she meets Mom and practically jumps her. "Hi Mommy Manoban!"

Christ. I roll my eyes and rush to open up a bottle of Riesling and generously pour three goblets. Once all the pleasantries are exchanged, I pull the duck out of the oven and place it on a platter. Mom has already mixed the salad and taken the sauce off the stovetop, so I dress the duck with some orange zest and bring the food to the table.