A Shock to the System

Watch? Check. Wallet? Check. Glasses? Check. Keys? Check. Oh wait, which ones? Mercedes. Check.

I go down the list of things I have on my person as I walk out the door and head to my bi-weekly lunch with Mom. I map out the route to Chez Oskar in my head on the way to my Honda and decide I'm going to take Fulton Street all the way down. I noticed traffic on Bainbridge, my usual route, as I left my opening shift at the coffee shop.

I arrive fifteen minutes early, making sure I park far enough away that she won't see me getting into this car when we leave. Mom only ever uses valet, so really I would be okay parking around the corner. But better safe than sorry. The hostess, Shelley, greets me and escorts me to our usual table in the corner of the patio. In the early afternoon the sunlight is just slipping behind the roof of the building, and it illuminates the string of pearls plant in the middle of the table perfectly. The empty water glasses shine like diamonds. There's a breeze today, and the crisp April air bites through my old suit like a snake. I pray Mom doesn't remember that I wore this suit in October.

She arrives at 2:30 on the dot. Punctual as always. Her amber perfume is so heavy I can almost taste it as I touch her cheek to mine and chirp my "hello" and "how was traffic today?"

"Oh my word I haven't seen such a horrible wreck at the light on Bainbridge in ages!" The genuine surprise in her tone worries me, she's very present today. It must be a slow week on her social calendar with Dad away on business. I bet it'll only take a few minutes before she notices that my suit is from last fall.

Jessica, our server, brings the champagne just as we are wrapping up the greetings. Jessica is also always precise on time. After five years of seeing us twice a month, she's pretty much got our whole lives memorized, and she’s got our greeting time down to the second. She doesn't bother asking us what we'd like for an appetizer, instead she assures us that our bread, olives, and oil are on their way.

"Something feels familiar about this today, Jeremiah," Mom says coolly. I remind her that it might, perhaps, be that we are having lunch in what could be considered our second dining room.

"Hmm... no. Your vest, I've seen it before. Oh! You wore it on that dreadfully rainy day last fall. Well, what are you doing wearing it again?" Her South Carolina accent makes her sweet voice change pitch as easily as a bird changes direction mid-flight. She didn't waste any time. I tell her "No, the color is very similar, but I assure you it is not the same vest." Her eyelids dipped ever so slightly together, trying to find the crack in my poker face. She didn't press the issue any further. Maybe she's finally learning to relax, I say as another silent prayer while my mind sighs in relief. That was not a battle I wanted to fight at the moment.

Jessica refills Mom's champagne and asks me what I'd like today. Mom is a creature of habit. She has only ever ordered the grilled salmon. I, however, like to rotate my dishes. Today I ask for the tuna nicoise. It's not in my new budget, but it's the cheapest thing I can order that won't arouse Mom's suspicion.

While Jessica tends to her other tables and Mom and I discuss the mundane parts of her life, Marco comes by to refill our drinks. Mom is drinking quickly today, and at that I say my third silent prayer of thanks. Her attention to detail usually begins to slip after her fourth drink.

It doesn't seem to be slipping today, though.

"So, honey, tell me. How are things at work? Ah! Before you stop me," she proceeds when she sees my mouth open slightly in objection, "don't think I can't see that you're beginning to get forehead lines. Now, I know you're still using the skincare subscription I got you, and Julia just called me last week, so I know y'all're fine. You know you can tell me anything, darling. Really, how's work?"

Her voice is sweet as honey, and her eyes seem to sparkle with unfeigned concern for me. I watch her eyes dart across my face, scanning me, and I'm almost tempted to cave, to drop all my worries at her feet, to betray the oath of secrecy I swore to myself and explain that, actually, I got fired at the new year instead of getting that bonus and raise we had all celebrated. Then suddenly a memory comes to me.

I am sixteen, and we are staying at our family home on Folly Island over the summer. Though Mom and Dad both come from old money families, they insisted that I learn the value of real work. No excuses tolerated. When I awoke one muggy morning sweating and complaining of stomach pain, they wouldn't hear of it. I was just a lazy little boy trying to get out of my duties. I rode my bike the five miles across town to my cousin's house where I was to help with the groundskeeping. It was mid-July which meant that, even at 9 o'clock in the morning, the temperature was already in the eighties. There was a storm coming in, too, so the clouds hung low and covered my nose like a warm, wet towel. Twenty minutes into picking weeds I doubled over in pain. My clothes were soaking wet, and I started seeing double right up until I passed out. I woke up in the hospital twelve hours later. My appendix had ruptured. If my cousin had not found me when he did, I very seriously could have perished right there in the garden with my face buried in the dirt. Dad's only response to this was that I'd need to work an extra day the following week to compensate for my lost time. 

"Jeremiah, sweetie, are you just going to ignore your poor mother's questions like that?" she asks. Her curt softness pinches me back to reality. An apology finds its way out of my forced smile.

"Oh, sorry Mom, work is quite busy actually. I was just remembering all of the deadlines I have this upcoming week. I really should be working right now, but you know I hate to cancel our dates."

She stares for a moment and pulls her fourth glass to her lips. I can see that she is calculating her next move. I hold my breath as I raise my mental shield, preparing for her alternate plan of attack. I refuse to let her win this round, but I know she doesn't bow easily. But instead of releasing another arrow in the shape of a question, she simply sips her drink and smiles.

"Okay, my sweet, so we'll skip dessert today. I don't want to keep you any longer. You should get to work if you're that busy." She waves at Jessica as she walks by; Jessica nods, silently agreeing to bring out our bill. I try to hide the shock and delight on my face at having made her cease fire so quickly.

I love my mother, and I do hate lying to her, but I simply cannot bear to be patronized if she were to find out I've been unable to get another job. The "oh, honey, why didn't you say anything? You know your father would love for you to learn the business with him." Yeah, because that's totally something that he and I both want. I stifle a chuckle at my own sarcastic remark just as Jessica arrives at the table. I reach for the leather folder, but instead of handing it to me, she sets it in front of Mom.

Mom doesn't flinch. She doesn't hesitate. She accepts the charge with a humble smile, making sure not to look at me as she uses her own pen, that I only just realized she had pulled out while Jessica made her way over, to sign the check. She stuffs a few twenties in as a tip, characteristically generous, and stands up gracefully. Always the lady. She slips into her leather trench coat, flipping her golden-silver hair back into place behind her shoulders, and laughs.

Her laugh, shrill yet somehow still inviting, snaps me out of my stupor. How did she know? When did she arrange for her card to be put on the account instead of mine? Why didn't she tell me? How long has she known?

"Oh perk up, darling!" Her voice is so happy and lacks any prejudice that I could swear I'm dreaming.

"You think I wouldn't catch on sooner or later? I haven't seen your Benz in the valet line in over a month. You thought just because you had the key I wouldn't know you got that old Honda out of storage? Every time I see you, your eyes grow darker. And you don't laugh nearly enough. When Julia called me last week she said she was getting worried, that you've seemed so distant from her, too. That's when I knew something was up."

Julia. Why did she have to tattle on me to Mom? Why didn't she come to me? 

I guess that doesn't matter now.

I try to find a rebuttal, a lie, a story to give her that makes her believe she's wrong. But my mind is blank. I am sitting here, trapped, humiliated, shocked. Why isn't she upset?

"Spare me the questions, peach. I'm your mother, and I love you. If you need help, well, I'm the only person on earth obligated by nature to give you any. Don't look so surprised."

But I am surprised. I wonder if maybe she's got her own secret, if she's sick and this sudden glance at death has made her kinder. She doesn't do anything for free.

As if she's reading my mind, she answers herself by saying, "no, there's no catch. I'm simply older and wiser, and I no longer wish to hoard this family's money. None of us can take it to the grave. You just tell me how much you need to get by, darling, and it's yours. We can even keep it a secret from your father if you'd like."

Again I just stare. The old weight of secrecy and fear seem to roll off of me like water slips off of oiled skin. Shame stays stuck, though, and it prevents me from speaking. So she sits back down, still in her coat, and slaps her checkbook on the table. She writes out a number, but I lost track of the zeros after she wrote four of them. She rips the check out of the packet and, realizing immediately that I don't have the strength to meet her hand halfway across the table, slips it into the breast pocket of my worn blazer. She taps my chest lightly while I continue the struggle to find words. She kisses me on the cheek and walks out.

My mind is both completely empty and astonishingly loud. How could I have frozen like that? I've got to run after her. I've got to give her the check back, rip it up in front of her, tell her that I'm okay. I have a job. I don't need her charity. Yet somewhere in the depths of my conscious I know I cannot do that. Not only would it wound her newfound motherly compassion, it would also be plain stupid to get rid of free money that I do, actually, need desperately.

Jessica comes back to make sure I didn't need anything else. I force myself to speak, "no, thank you," and that simple act makes me move. As I begin to stand up and grab my coat, I notice that I feel lighter. My chest is no longer tight with the pressure of choosing my electricity bill or my groceries. I notice the colors of the orchids that line the archway that leads to the patio; the pinks and the purples and the whites are bright as if they were just planted today instead of at the beginning of Spring.

In that moment I decide to swallow my pride. I had been praying for a miracle, for money to just fall out of the sky, and here it was. Handed to me basically on a silver plater. It was from the unlikeliest of places, but for some odd reason I believed Mom when she said it was a gift, no strings attached and no need to tell Dad. As I make my way back to the Honda, I think of Julia. I decide to buy her flowers on my way home and cook her a nice dinner, her favorite clam chowder. She'll be excited to know that I won't be coming home smelling like coffee beans and cleaning water.

The birds sing to me on my walk, and the wind no longer touches me. I make it back into my car and smile. As my lips turn up and touch my cheeks I taste salt. I know I'd sweat a little on my walk, I was walking quickly in my excitement, but this isn't just sweat. I'm crying.

I watch the tears fall onto my lap as the first sounds after the ordeal finally escape my mouth. I laugh and I sob. I sob some more. The whole thing is ridiculous really. Who knew it could've been so simple all along? I laugh again. This time not just at myself, but at the ease of it, the surprise, and the joy I feel.

Joy. I haven't felt that in a long time. I can't believe I almost forgot it.

I take one big breath as I allow the realness of the moment to seep into my bones. I pull out the correct key and drive to the bank.

Phone? Check. Enough gas? Check. Grocery list? Check.

I go down the new list of things as I pull out of my parking spot next to the basketball court. I decide to take the long way home today just so I can listen to all my favorite songs and sing along.