up dinner at La Scala or the Garden of Eating. The irony of my mom’s judging Sofia’s mother’s mothering was fully revealed to me.
“It is good,” agreed Beth, taking a bite herself. She was wearing her nurse’s uniform: white pants and a bright pink short-sleeved top with blue teddy bears on it. Her gray hair was cut short, almost like a swim cap. Unlike my mom, Beth had never colored her hair, and she didn’t seem to worry about how she looked or what she weighed or wore. She always commented on how nice my mom looked, and once Sofia had told me that her mom had said that my parents were glamorous. But it never seemed like Sofia’s mom was jealous of how pretty my mom was or how happy my parents were. Which was probably smart given what my mom looked like lately and the way my parents’ marriage had turned out.
Beth grinned, pleased with her cooking, and took a bite. “Sofia, the tomato salad is perfect.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Sofia made her face the picture of exaggerated puzzlement. “I wonder who taught me to make it.”
“Hmmm,” said Beth. Her smile widened, and she patted Sofia lightly on the cheek. “I wonder.”
Sofia always used to say she was jealous of my family, but even before my parents separated, I was sometimes jealous of her. There was something so casual and easy about how she and her mom were together. My mom and I used to go out for dinner just the two of us sometimes, but it was always a Dinner. My mom would read about some new restaurant in Manhattan or near our house and she’d make a reservation and we’d get all dressed up, and once we were there, she’d order some seasonal cocktail and then she’d look around and say something like, “Here we are!” and it was like what she was really excited about was the idea of our being there. If Sofia’s mom took us for dinner, it was usually to the Chinese restaurant in downtown Milltown, but somehow it was always more fun.
As if she could read my mind, Beth asked, “How’s your mom doing?”
I didn’t want to lie, but I knew my mom would be embarrassed if Beth knew about her Bad Days. “She’s been playing a lot of tennis, but her back was bothering her the other day, so she might have to slow down a little.”
Beth didn’t point out that she hadn’t asked about my mother’s tennis game. “Maybe we could have her over.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I know she’d appreciate that.” I didn’t know if she’d appreciate it, actually. My mom liked to host—she and my father were always throwing dinner parties, and when she went out with friends, she liked to pick up the check. I wondered how she’d feel about having dinner at Sofia’s, if she’d be comfortable letting Beth cook for her. She’d bring an expensive bottle of wine, and she’d ask Beth if she liked it and tell her all the things she was supposed to be tasting in it—oak and cherry and undertones of, I didn’t know, wheat or yeast or black beans or something. The whole thing sounded completely awful, but hopefully Beth wouldn’t follow up on the invitation.
I ended up staying over at Sofia’s. The movie we watched didn’t end until after ten, and the last thing I felt like doing was driving home. I texted my mom that I wanted to stay, and to my surprise, she texted right back saying that was fine and telling me to have a good night.
Apparently, I’d been wrong about it being a Bad Day.
In the morning, Sofia and I took our practice SAT, and then we went to Bookers for coffee. While we were waiting for our lattes, my dad texted to ask how the test went, and I told him I thought I’d done better on the math section than I’d been doing, and he said that was great and he’d see me Wednesday for dinner. My parents had both been really worried when I got such bad SAT scores in June, like it had never occurred to them that their splitting up might have ramifications besides my dad’s needing to inform everyone of his change of address. Suddenly my father had started calling me all the time and asking how I was feeling (which he’d never done when he was living at home and his work schedule meant we sometimes went days without seeing each other). He’d always asked about my practice SATs, though, so it wasn’t like that was new. What was new was that now when he asked if they’d gone up, he’d tell me how proud he was of me and how impressed he was that I was working so hard. I think he was scared that if he didn’t encourage me, I’d bomb the test and he’d have to tell all his friends how his son went to Yale and his daughter went to community college.
Sofia had to go to work at three. She was the assistant to the under–pastry chef at the Milltown Country Club. Jason and his family were members, and before we’d gotten too busy on weekends with extracurricular stuff, I’d gone a bunch of times as his guest, but I’d never played on the golf course, which overlooked the Long Island Sound and was what the club was famous for. Still, I’d always loved how you just signed for things you ordered. When I was younger, I’d begged my parents to join even though neither of them played golf and we belonged to a club with tennis courts and a pool that was closer to our house. Now that I was older and doing things like working with Children United (albeit ineffectively) for the right of girls in rural Pakistan to go to school, I wasn’t so sure I’d groove on the club. Plus Sofia said that when you were an employee, you found out what a fascist state the place really was.
When I pulled into the driveway, I saw that the shades were down in my mother’s bedroom. We were having another Bad Day.
“Mom!” I walked through the first floor, calling for her, but she didn’t answer. I felt myself growing irritated. What had happened to the mother who made me go to school in fourth grade when Sarah Williams and Lucy Broder had kicked me out of the popular clique and I’d tried to convince my parents I was sick so I wouldn’t have to face any of my now-ex-friends? Hiding doesn’t help anything, my mom had said, snapping up my shades and getting clothes out of my drawers. Your problems will still be there when you come out, so you might as well face them and get it over with.
All I’d wanted was one lousy mental-health day, and she’d forced me to get dressed, eat breakfast, and go to school.
Meanwhile, here she was taking a mental-health season. What did she think, that if she stayed in bed long enough my father would realize he’d made a terrible mistake and move back home?
I got to the top of the stairs and flipped on the lights. When I saw that her door was closed, I got even more annoyed. My mom had a beautiful house, plenty of money. Food on the table. Two degrees from Harvard—where she’d gone as an undergraduate and for business school. All over the world were women who would kill to be in her position. My phone buzzed with an email. Since it was almost four o’clock in New York, I knew it was from Jason. Every night, at ten o’clock his time, right after his family went to dinner, he sent me an email. I wanted to open it immediately, but I forced myself to wait.
Reading it would be my reward for getting my mother out of bed.
“Mom!” I pushed open the door. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and when they did, I saw that her bed was unmade and empty. “Mom?” I looked around the room—the door to the bathroom was closed. Could she possibly be taking a bath? My mother loved baths, which she called the greatest luxury of the civilized world. Personally, I couldn’t think of anything more boring than taking a bath. Sometimes I even got bored in the shower. But if it cheered her up, who was I to complain?
“We went to Bookers, and I got cherry tomatoes at the farmers’ market,” I called through the bathroom door. “Sofia’s mom told me how to make
