These Boots Weren't Made for Walking (15 page)

“You look so unreasonably good, Mom,” I say as I shove my lip gloss back into my bag. “How do you do it?”

She laughs. “Oh, I've put some work into it, Cassie, don't kid yourself.”

“What kind of work?”

She doesn't answer right away, and I wonder if she's had some plastic surgery. “Well, after losing the weight, I decided I needed a makeover. I read about this place in the city where they do a total redo, and I made an appointment.”

“You were in the city?” I say. “And you never called?”

“It was during the week, sweetie, and I knew you'd be at work.”

“But you never even called?”

She smiles. “I didn't want to bother you. And I had a pretty full day with my little makeover.”

“So what did they do to you?” I ask in a flat voice, not sure I even want to know now. Who is this stranger?

She glances over her shoulder like she's worried about eavesdroppers. “Oh, lots of things. How about if I tell you over lunch?”

I look at the mirror, seeing my mom next to me, and I try to imagine us pleasantly sitting together at lunch. She looks hot, and I look, well,
not.
Still, it's not like I should care about such things. I mean, it's not like I have a life or a job or a boyfriend or anything. Besides, despite my hurt feelings about being snubbed in the city, I am curious—has Mom actually gone under the knife?

“Sure,” I agree. “But let's not go anyplace fancy. I'm not really looking so great right now, and my hair's still wet.”

“You can dry it,” she says, holding up the hair dryer.

For whatever reason, this just irritates me. “I don't
want
to dry it,” I snap.

She nods. “Sure, whatever. How about if we go to Claire's?”

“Sounds good.” Claire's is a tiny deli on the quiet end of town, and as I recall, the lighting is rather dim in there.

After placing our orders and taking our drinks to the table, I ask Mom to tell me about her makeover. She proceeds to tell me that she got “the works,” which included a little Botox, a little collagen,
a chemical peel, and some kind of electronic treatment that's supposed to tighten sagging jowls.

“Really?” I lean forward to look at her more closely. “Any surgery?”

She shakes her head. “No, I wasn't too sure about that. I worried that I might come out looking like someone else.”

“You
do
look like someone else,” I point out. Someone who's not my mom.

“Well, that has a lot to do with losing the weight and changing my style as much as anything.” She takes a sip of her white tea. “Also, I changed my eating habits, which can greatly affect your looks, especially at my age. Of course, I had a makeover with my hair and makeup. That helps. And I almost forgot, I go in for tanning now too.”

“You do a tanning bed?” For some reason the idea of Mom cooking herself in a hot tanning bed totally astounds me.

“No, not at all. I get sprayed.”

“Sprayed?”

“Yes, you know. You stand in the booth and get sprayed with a tanning solution.”

“Seriously?” I vaguely remember seeing an ad for this once, but it sounded ridiculous.

She giggles. “I know it sounds terribly vain, but last summer I wanted to wear shorts, and my legs were ghosdy white. The spa in town had just gotten a booth for this very thing, so I thought I'd give it a try. I go in twice a month now.”

“No kidding?”

She nods. “And I always have an exfoliation treatment before the spray-on. I keep thinking I'll stop doing it when winter comes, but it just feels so good to have tan legs. Do you want to see?” She actually bends over now like she's about to pull up her pant leg.

“No, Mom,” I say quickly, “that's okay.”

Fortunately they bring our food at that moment, so I'm not forced to view Mom's tan and slender legs. Oh. My. Word.

“I felt silly about all this,” she admits as she forks a piece of salad, “then I thought, why shouldn't I have some fun? I may be fifty-five, but I'm still alive!” She laughs at her litde rhyme.

I take a bite of my turkey sandwich and think that I'm thirty-one and I'm no fun. But I don't say this. I just chew and watch my mom daintily picking at her healthy-looking salad.

“I was thinking, Cassie, that maybe you'd like to have a makeover too.”

“That's okay,” I say, still chewing. The truth is, I would
love
a makeover. I would absolutely love to go someplace far away and have talented professionals totally work me over until I emerged looking like—like Cameron Diaz. The problem is, I just don't want my mother involved. I can't handle that right now.

“My treat.”

“No thanks,” I say firmly.

“It's fun,” she says in a tone that she must think sounds tempting to me.

“Look, Mom.” I set down my sandwich. “All that foo-foo nonsense
might work for you, but I am not you, okay?” So what if part of me wishes I were her?—not that I'll ever admit it to her or anyone. It just irks me that she's so obsessed with fixing me right now—as though a makeover is going to change my life. Okay, it probably wouldn't hurt. But not like this. I don't want to be Mom's little project. No thanks!

She looks down at her salad. “Sorry, Cassie, but you just seem so unhappy. I wish I could help.”

“I'm unhappy because I lost my job. I'm unhappy because I got dumped by my boyfriend. I'm unhappy because my finances are a disaster. A makeover isn't going to change any of that.”

“But it might not hurt.”

“Mom. Stop.”

She returns to eating her salad, and I can tell I've hurt her feelings, which makes me feel horrible. Why am I so mean to her? It's not her fault that my life's a mess and that hers is starting to look up. Still, it seriously irritates me that she's dating a guy young enough to be her son, a guy I happen to like and who might even like me, or so it seemed the other night on the phone. I remember what Todd said about that whole cougar bit. Although he made it clear that he didn't think my mom was a cougar per se, I'm beginning to wonder. As if to answer my thoughts, an attractive, forty-something man pauses at our table and leans over to smile at my mom.

“Hey, Audra.” His eyes crinkle at the edges as he puts his hand on her shoulder. Other than having a little gray at the temples, he
has a youthful, boyish look that's quite appealing. In fact, I'll bet he's not even ten years older than I am.

“Hey, Phil.” My mom beams up at him in a way that I can only describe as… as flirtatious! I mean, she's literally sparkling! My mom is sparkling!

“I noticed you have the listing for that house on Park Side.”

“I do!” She beams even brighter now.

“Well, you and I should get together,” he says in a slightly seductive voice that makes me feel like gagging on my partially chewed bite of turkey sandwich.

“We should.” Then Mom seems to remember she's not alone. “Phil, have you met my daughter Cassidy?”

He turns and smiles at me now. But I don't think his smile is as big for me as it was for my sparkling mom. Or maybe I'm getting totally paranoid.

“Nice to meet you, Cassidy. Are you just visiting Black Bear?”

“Actually, I've moved back.”

He nods. “Good for you. This town is getting to be quite the hot spot.” Then he laughs as though he thinks that's very clever. He turns back to Mom. “Call me, okay?”

“You got it.” She beams him another bright smile.
Mom, show a little restraint, will you?

“Another boyfriend?” I ask after he's out of earshot.

She giggles. “Goodness, no. Phil is a happily married man with two small children.”

“Lucky him.”

“He's a Realtor too. He works for the competition. But if he's got buyers, I won't complain if he brings them my way.”

“What if he insists you go out with him first?” I try to make this sound like I'm being funny, but when I see her expression, I can tell that I'm not.

“Oh, Cassidy.” She shakes her head. “That thing about going out with Todd—at first, well, it was mostly a joke. You must know that.”

“So you're not serious about him?”

“Serious?” Her Botoxed brow almost creases but not quite. “I don't think so.”

“But you were out with him again the other night,” I point out, trying not to remember how humiliating it was to see Todd while it appeared I was on a date with Gary Frye.

“He happened to call after I got home from work. I'd been planning a quiet evening at home, but you'd already'gone out, and I thought,
Why not?”
She laughs. “I was so surprised to see you and your date—”

“Like I already said, Mom, Gary was not my date.”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

I try to shake the image of my mom wearing my Valentino boots as she and Todd paraded into the brewery. Instead, I see my mom as a cougar in Valentino boots, dragging in her poor victim as she prepares to devour him. “So you're not serious about Todd?”

“I'm not sure I'll ever be serious about a man again.” She sets down her fork and looks evenly at me. “I don't know if I have that in me anymore, Cassie.”

“Really?” I feel skeptical. “Did Dad hurt you that much?”

She sighs. “It's hard to explain… without getting all weepy. But I'm sure it must be a little like how you felt when Eric broke up with you. Especially if you didn't see it coming. Sort of like being blindsided. It can shatter a person.”

I nod. “Yeah, I suppose so. So you really didn't see it coming? Dad didn't give you any clues or anything?”

“Looking back, I'm sure there were clues. But I recognize them only because of hindsight. I never figured that after all those years, after all we'd been through—and I put up with a lot of things, things no one ever knew about, Cassie—I just never thought he'd leave me. I thought we'd been through the worst of our trials. I figured we'd grow old and gray together. And suddenly I was old and gray and by myself.” She shudders as if the memory still stings.

“You really loved Dad?”

She blinks as if she thinks I must be kidding. “Of course I loved him. He was everything to me.” And now she picks up her napkin and uses it to blot the corners of her eyes, and I realize I've hit a sore spot. I can't believe I was thinking my own mom was a cougar. I'm such a thoughdess daughter.

“I'm sorry, Mom.” I shake my head and want to slap myself. “Let's not talk about Dad anymore. What's important is, you're
doing really great now. You're making a life for yourself, and you'll have to excuse me if I look envious sometimes.”

“Oh, it's okay, sweetie. I know you're going to be fine too. But it might take time, and I've probably been rushing you too much. I'm sorry.” She wipes her nose. “And if I pressured you into going to the Halloween party and you really don't want to, well, I'll understand. You'll have to remind me not to be so pushy.”

“No no. It's okay,” I assure her. “I probably need some pushing now and then. And I think a Halloween party sounds sort of fun. If I dress up, maybe no one will know who I am.”

“That's right,” she says. “You could pretend to be anyone.”

“It could be fun.”

She reaches over and takes my hand. “Yes, it'll be lots of fun. Now let's get home and find something cute to wear.”

e're in the midst of dusty cardboard boxes and footlockers, trying to figure out some clever costumes for the party tonight, when the phone rings. Mom, still wearing Cal-lie's old black and gold cheerleading skirt, hurries down the steep attic stairs to answer it. I can hear her chattering away, then she calls up, “Cassie, I have to run to town to show Phils buyers that house. I should be back in an hour or so.”

“No problem.” I pick up the Ralph Lauren jeans that she left on the floor when she tried on the skirt. The jeans look to be about a size six (not that I'm actually looking). “You going out dressed like that?”

She laughs. “Now wouldn't that make an impression!” So I toss her pants down to her, then I continue perusing the weird clothes and hats and props. Most of the old costumes are way too small for me. I'm about to give up when I find an ancient-looking box that's tied up with a string, and to my surprise there's an old baseball uniform inside. Then I remember that Dad played semipro ball on a farm team one summer. He was only nineteen when he got scouted off his college team, but a shoulder injury cut
his catching career short, and to his parents’ relief, he returned to college in the fall. Now, my dad's always been a pretty hefty guy, and I think it's possible this baseball uniform might actually fit me. It might even be big. Here's hoping.