Jo
I can’t tell if Dad told Mom exactly how he met Jamie or if he just let her assume he saw us walking down together, and I’m sure as hell not asking. I don’t need that conversation on our walk up to breakfast, thanks, especially when I can’t figure out what to tell them about Helen. They know Jamie hasn’t dated before, and they know why I went to talk to him in the first place, so I think they’re ready to tread lightly anyway. It’s also one of those things where I can’t tell if my parents are actually cringe or if I only think they’re cringe, generally lovingly, because they’re my parents.
They knock on my apartment door at a quarter to, and I’m all ready with my shoes on and backpack over my shoulder. “Okay, so do you want to drive up and go right to the archives from there,” I ask, “or walk back down here and get the cars?” They’re not spending the whole day with me, but I can at least show them around. It’s not quite take your parents to work day but I think it’s another aspect of what Dad said: Mom just needs to see how I’m doing, and that means at work as well as with Jamie.
“We can walk,” Mom says with a shrug, not even consulting Dad. I mean, it’s not like we need to: if walking’s an option, she’s picking it. Dad and I catch eyes and grin, but she either doesn’t see or ignores us. “Lead the way!”
“And tell us more about Allan?” Dad requests.
I can’t help the laugh. “He’s a fireman who poses for their beefcake calendar every year.”
“Oh my God, he’s that friend of Brent’s?” Mom fans herself, and I can’t tell how much is pretend.
“He won’t let her hang the calendar in the kitchen,” Dad adds.
Okay this laugh is more of a snort. “Helen keeps it in her kitchen.”
“So basically everybody greets this guy with hi, hello, I’ve seen you mostly naked?” Dad guesses.
“Yeah, you should try it.” He can stick with his intention to make things as awkward as possible.
Dad looks over at Mom, but she just rolls her eyes instead of telling him not to, so I may have created a monster.
They want more information, though, but I don’t really have much: lives in Green Bay. Divorced three times. Currently single. Taking Helen to Munising on the trip he’d had planned for his latest girlfriend—although at this point I wonder if it may have been a boyfriend instead. Does he just make up names for when he’s talking to people who don’t know?
They’ve already got basically everything I know about Helen: volunteers at the library and likes to think she’s hip with today’s youth. Book club and bridge night. No coffee or red meat. Likes to think she’s well-read and some sort of elite since her husband, whom she never talks about, was a professor at NMU.
“Oh, hey, that’s them,” I add when we come up to the one parking lot that’s closest to Babycakes, in case they’ve got questions that maybe I don’t want them asking when a Whittaker can hear.
Jamie breaks into a grin and his shoulders drop when he sees me, which means I smile back, and I notice Allan noticing even if Jamie doesn’t. Rather than nudge him or try to point it out or anything, Allan just waves at us and says “Jo’s parents! Hi!” He even takes over the introductions so I can go over to Jamie and take his hand and grin too much when he kisses my cheek. It’s just my cheek, though, which is why he avoids looking at me while I laugh and squeeze his arm.
It’s probably good that we met up here, though, because once we get to Babycakes we can scope out the tables and push two of them together while Mom and Dad consider all the menu choices. Helen sits to claim the table—and make sure she gets what she considers to be the best seat—and Allan insists on paying for everyone so we get our orders in and then have to sort out the rest of us. Helen’s in one of the chairs, so Allan sits across from her on the bench. I slide in from the other side, so I’m bookended by the brothers, and Dad takes the chair across from me. He immediately turns to Helen and says “So tell me about the work you do at the library,” either accidentally or on purpose leaving out the word volunteer and setting her up to go on and on.
Allan raises his eyebrows at me to give Dad silent props. It’s a bit of a reach, since he’s talking to the other end of the table, but he looks at Mom. “So you’re Amanda’s college bestie.”
She raises her water glass. “Class of ‘97. No, I don’t still have those pictures.”
I blink. “Mom?”
Mom giggles, and I’m not sure if it’s over Allan—who is, after all, older than she is—or at the memories. “There were some parties. It’s fine. Your father was there.”
Oh, man. If she’s calling him my father, then we’re talking wet T-shirt contest pictures at best. I know she was a bit of a party girl in college, which was the main reason why nobody thought their marriage or my placement would stick, but I’ve never seen proof of it. The photos on display are pretty demure, floral-print dresses with lace collars and sensible low heels.
Allan’s grin tells me he’s got more info on those pictures than I do. “That’s a shame.”
Mom clucks her tongue and gives him an oh, you gesture before taking pity on me. “Jo says you’re doing Munising this weekend. Kent and I went there for our honeymoon.”
That gets them onto safer topics like hikes and waterfalls and Pictured Rocks, and I slip my hand into Jamie’s as we just listen. It’s kind of hard to focus with the two different conversations going on, and I don’t think either of us wants to start up a third in case someone points out that hey, we can talk to each other any time and we don’t often see the other people here. Plus it’s like I said: Jamie doesn’t make me feel like I have to say something if I don’t want to.
Our drinks get brought out, and then our food, and Helen’s tea doesn’t stand out so much as her single plain croissant next to all of our breakfast burritos. My parents know how much I’ve struggled with food, starting with the best nutrition my mother could get me but never really having enough or knowing for sure if more was coming—and yeah, I’ve brought up with a therapist how other people’s we were poor but my parents never let us know it posts can be triggering—and then struggling with balance and body issues and how no, I totally don’t have the same body type as my parents. They’re both slender despite their breakfast burritos, and I’m … not … but I can pretend that Helen’s raised eyebrow and sniff is for any number of other things.
I think Jamie’s noticed it, too. He’s never said anything about how little I eat Tuesday nights, like maybe it’s just because I’m not such a fan of chicken or fish, but he sees so much else of what goes on with me.
Like right now, how he leans over and murmurs “Eat your breakfast” in my ear under the guise of giving me a kiss. It’s not even over guilt of cleaning my plate or because Allan paid for it. It’s because bodies need energy, and that’s what calories are.
I probably fail at giving him a normal, not overly grateful, smile, but I also see how Dad’s watching as he listens to Helen and I pick up my burrito and realize I’m hungry enough to eat every bite.
Chapter Thirty-Six – coming November 5
