Everything I own is packed in my 1992 Mercedes. I could barely see through my tears and running mascara to drive here, but coming to the beach seemed like the right thing to do. The breeze and the sound and smell of the ocean have always soothed me, but not tonight. I can’t stop bawling.
I’m gripping Alphonse’s goat mask tightly as I walk toward the water. The full moon is golden and its reflection on the water is magical. Maybe I should just end it all? Make things easy for myself. I have nothing to live for. No one. I’ve had a great life. Drowning wouldn’t be such a bad way to pack it in. Plus, if I die at fifty-five, I’ll never have to be an old bag.
Here goes nothing. I walk deeper into the water. Oh, that’s a big wave coming. Damn it. My dress got wet, and it’s “Dry Clean Only.” Here comes another big one. I better get out, but I can’t see where I’m going. I have salt water in my eyes. Uh oh. I just bumped into someone, a big black guy with dreadlocks. He has a conga drum slung over his shoulder, and he’s heading toward a massive party on the beach.
“Sorry. I am really sorry . . . sir”
“No worries.”
He pats me on the shoulder. For some reason, when he’s nice to me, I start sobbing again.
“Why you so sad, Mrs. Lady?”
“I lost someone.”
“I and I know how that feel.”
I summon up my courage and look at his face. He has piercing blue eyes. And he’s young. Way too young, but you never know how guys feel about older women. What a delicious-looking, creamy chocolate body.
“You’re very handsome.”
I put the goat mask up to his face and touch his rockhard chest. I’m getting hot. He pulls away, but smiles. Talk about mixed messages.
“You’ll regret it.”
“You don’t know me. I don’t regret anything, sweetheart.”
“That won’t make you feel better.”
“Oh yes, it will. I’m no good at being alone. My vibrator can’t fill the void.”
He laughs heartily. I grab his hand and touch it to my face. He rubs my head like I’m a little kid, messing my hair.
“For real. The only ting that will help now is being with the people who love you.”
I feel like he smacked me across the face and jolted me into action.
“You are so right.”
He smiles warmly and kisses my hand. Maybe he’s changing his mind.
“Everyting going to be irie, Mrs. Lady. Jah will show you the way.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. It must be some kind of Jamaican voodoo or something. I don’t want him to think that I’m not into that hocus pocus, so I nod enthusiastically.
“Thank you! I feel so much better now.”
I’m taking the Rastaman’s advice. Listening to “I Like It Rough” by Lady Gaga while driving to Liz’s place is helping with my attitude adjustment, but I’m still desperate. What if she won’t let me stay? We really haven’t had much contact. We have our own lives, and that’s a good thing. I’m not the kind of mother who needs to be overly involved. I think she appreciates that. I know I would have, if I had a mother.
My mother died when I was twelve. I was devastated. She doted on me and loved to dress me up and show me off. My father was a sexist pig who pretty much ignored me and put all his energy into my brother, the boy wonder. I tried hard to get his attention but nothing worked until I got pregnant. I can’t say that his behavior caused me to be a sexpot and seek endless attention from males, but I’m sure it was a major factor.
I hope I remember how to get to her house. Nothing looks familiar. Has it been ten years? That’s a little scary. Time moves so fast, and seems to speed up as I get older. Funny, I don’t feel older, except sometimes when I’m due for my shots and I look in the mirror. It’s very depressing to study every new line and wrinkle. But I can’t stop myself. If I’m not vigilant, I could end up looking my age.
I know I look good for a fifty-five-year-old woman, but I want to look young. It is so not fair. Why can’t we pick when we want to stop aging? Most people lie and say they wouldn’t want to be twenty-one again because they know so much more now. Not me. I’m vain enough to admit that I’d like to be “Forever 21,” just like that store. I was gorgeous and basked in the limelight. Modeling was so much fun. Who wouldn’t want that? The attention is a drug. Once you’ve had it, you always crave it.
There’s the house. It looks different. They changed the front entrance. The lights are on. She must be home. I’ll leave everything in the car for now. I trot up to the front door, summon up my nerve, and knock. There’s no answer, but I hear music. I try the bell. No answer. Maybe she’s in back.
I walk around the side of the house to the backyard. Surprise! There’s Liz and some guy. Good for her. Richard just left, and she’s already got a new man. Maybe that’s why she kicked him out. Maybe she’s turning out to be more like me than I thought. Genes line up in interesting and unpredictable ways.
He’s got a nice body. I can’t see his face because he’s trying to plant one on her. My oh-so-proper daughter’s pushing him away. Typical Liz. So maybe she doesn’t take after me. This is so interesting to watch, but I better let her know I’m here or I will majorly piss her off.
“Hi, there.”
Liz is startled to see me and bolts out of her chair, leaving her rejected partner in the lurch. She looks awful. Sometimes nature needs a little help.
“You should cover your grays.”
She smoothes her hair, sticks it behind her ears, and glares at me.
“What are you doing here?”
Rude, but then she recoups and makes the proper introduction.
“Michael, this is my mother, Claudette.”
He’s a cute guy who appears to be more than a little tipsy. He’s fixated on my cleavage. I gauge his reaction closely. In my objective assessment, he can’t quite believe that I’m old enough to be her mother. Perfect. That’s the way I like it. And in a way he’s right.
There’s not a big age difference. And since she hasn’t had anything done, and I’ve indulged in everything, I might even look younger.
“So nice to meet you, Michael.”
I take his hand. He’s all smiles.
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“You look more like sisters.”
