to her neck and she digs her fingers in near her carotid, checking her pulse.
If my mother can be believed, she has had more aunts, uncles, cousins, and grand-whatevers than anyone else I know, though I’ve yet to see any proof that most of them ever existed. Every last one of these relatives supposedly succumbed to some awful disease—generally something rare, highly obscure, and genetically linked. And if someone in the lengthy family roster fails to fit an awful-disease bill, my mother always knows a friend, a neighbor, or a friend-of-so-and-so’s who will fit. She claims to have seen more cases of rare and unusual diseases than most long-term medical professionals.
When I was little she regaled me with horror stories about all the bizarre maladies that befell people, first highlighting symptoms that were always vague and general, and then telling me how she’d had just such a symptom herself. I spent the better part of my childhood thinking my mother would take to her deathbed any day. As I got older, I came to realize that Mom was actually quite healthy—she just didn’t have all her oars in the water. By the time I started nursing school, her little eccentricity turned out to be a benefit. Listening as Mom described all those diseases and disorders over the years imbued me with a good bit of knowledge, giving me an unexpected edge in the classroom.
“Sit down, Mom. We need to talk.”
She does as I instruct but continues to count her pulse, her lips moving slightly as she ticks off each number. I refill the saucer and accidentally pour some milk on the kitten’s head. It keeps on drinking with nary a pause.
“Mom, there’s something I need to tell you about David.”
The hand at my mother’s neck falls to the table with a pronounced thunk and she gapes at me, her mouth hanging open. “What now? Isn’t it enough that you’re divorcing him? I still can’t believe you’re doing that. He’s a doctor. You don’t divorce a doctor.”
That is #4 in Mother’s Rules for Wives. It weighs in with only slightly less importance than Rule #3: marrying someone taller and heavier than you (easy for her to say since she’s thin and only five foot six) and Rule #2: never allowing your husband (or any man, for that matter) to witness, or even become aware of, certain bodily functions. There are seven more rules—like the Ten Commandments of Marriage—and Mother swears that if you follow them all religiously you’ll have a happy marriage. Whenever I remind her that her own track record of four divorces isn’t much of a reference, she’ll dismiss my objection by mumbling something about lessons learned.
My response to my mother’s raising of Rule #4 today is the same one I’ve been giving her for the past two months. “He screwed around on me, Mom.”
She pish-paws that with a wave of her hand. “That kind of stuff happens. You know how men are.” She narrows her eyes at me and says in her best Nostradamus voice, “You didn’t hold out on him, did you? Because I told you what happens if you don’t give them whoopee whenever they want it, didn’t I?”
She’d told me, countless times. It’s Rule #5.
“Get counseling or something,” she says. “It’s not worth throwing away a good marriage over.”
“We don’t have a good marriage, Mom. In fact, we don’t have any marriage at all at the moment, except on paper.” I suck in a breath and then drop the bomb. “And the woman David was seeing has been murdered. David is a suspect.”
Mom turns horribly pale—which for her means turning damned near invisible—and I think she might actually get her lifelong wish to become deathly ill. “You don’t seriously think he killed someone, do you?” she whispers. Despite her color drain, the look on her face suggests that she finds the idea kind of intriguing.
“No, Mom. I don’t. At least I don’t think I do. But I know that he saw the woman only hours before she was killed and that they had a horrible argument.”
“How do you know that?”
Oops. “It’s not important how I know. Just believe that I do.”
“Have you talked to David about it?”
I shake my head and open my mouth to drop my next bomb—that I, too, might be a suspect—but stop when the kitten makes its presence known by leaping onto my leg and sinking its claws into my skin like a rock climber hammering home his pitons. Hissing through my teeth, I reach down and pry the creature loose, only to have it do this amazing wriggle-flip thing that transfers the pitons to my sleeve with lightning speed. It hangs on for dear life, looking panicked and mewling pitifully. I pull it off my sleeve, wincing as I hear claws rip loose of the fabric, and settle it in my lap on its back with its legs in the air where they will do less harm. With one finger I rub its stomach. It relaxes immediately and starts to purr.
“Well, lookie here,” I say, squinting between its back legs at two furry little bumps, each one about the size of my prom night pimple. “You’re a boy.”
My mother clucks her disapproval.
“I need to think up a name for him,” I muse.
“You’re actually going to keep that creature?” my mother says, aghast.
“Sure. Why not?”
“I already told you why. Cats carry diseases. And those litter boxes are so…” Her eyes grow wide suddenly. “Do you even have a litter box?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
“Well, what…how…if…oh, my.” She sputters for a few seconds as she considers the possibilities. I can almost see the images in her head—a montage of slasher-movie scenes where everything that would normally be covered with blood is covered with cat shit instead.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I say, watching her turn apoplectic. “I’m leaving. Your house is safe.” I pluck the kitten from my lap, stand, and head for the door, my mother close on my heels.
“You really should get rid of that thing,” she says. “Are you going to see David?”
“As soon as I can.”
“Well, please give him my regards and let him know I’m not responsible for the insanity that has obviously overtaken you. That comes from your father’s side of the family.”
Next to obsessing about her health, my mother’s other favorite hobby is trashing my father and his family. My parents divorced when I was in kindergarten and my only memories of my father are vague and misty. They bear such an unreal quality that I often wonder if they’re real memories or something I conjured up during my lonelier hours.
My mother has remarried three times and divorced three times since my father—she’s not an easy woman to live with. And while I have no idea where my “real” father is and haven’t seen or heard from him in thirty years, I have a trio of delightful stepfathers, two of whom still live nearby.
“Your father’s family has Gypsy blood in the line. You know that, don’t you?”
“How could I not, Mother? You remind me of it several times a year.”
“Yep, Gypsies,” she goes on. “A bunch of expert con artists, stricken with wanderlust. The whole lot of them.” Then, as she realizes I’m leaving, she hits me with a last-minute wave of maternal concern. “Are you doing okay, Mattie? Do you need anything?”
