and my mother never remarried. So it was just us girls all those years, snug in our little apartment above the salon—or beauty shop, as Mama’s always called it. But we were happy, Mama and I.
Stepping inside, I squint in the dim light of the vestibule, and breathe in the familiar scent of permanent solution, fried food and Tess’s perfume. It may not sound very appetizing, but it smells like my childhood.
Five paces straight ahead is the door to the beauty shop; to the left is the narrow staircase that leads up to the apartment. Exactly as always. I follow Mama upstairs safe in this bubble of sameness.
At the top of the steps, on the landing outside the door to our apartment, I stop to gaze out the single aluminum window. Its bent screen and dirty glass looks as though it hasn’t been washed since I left. Still, through the haze, the deep forest leaves of the laurel oak tree that stands next to the driveway wave at me on a gust of wind. I have no idea how old that tree is, but it’s huge, with roots running under the sidewalk and drive, pushing up the concrete as if to prove its dominance. Its arthritic branches stretch all the way to the house, scratching lovingly at the glass as dust motes dance in the muted light.
Beyond it, through the branches, I look down at the orange tree, in all its magnificence. It always yields an abundant crop in the cool months. Then it drops its oranges and a blanket of shade over the side yard. Beyond that, I see the houses on the street with their yard ornaments and hedges and flowerbeds, twilight settling on their rooftops, each house a vessel of continuity and similitude, no matter who lives inside now. Each holding a place in my history and in my heart.
We set my bags inside the door and head back down to the beauty shop. I’m tired and hot and sticky. I long to go in and take a long, hot shower and then go into my room and stretch out on the bed. Mama’s kept it exactly as I left it. But I’m not living by myself anymore and I’ll need to get reacquainted with give and take.
She’s been chomping at the bit to show me something in the beauty shop. I don’t have it in me to ask her to wait until tomorrow.
When we get downstairs, she starts fumbling around in her purse. “You go on in and turn on the lights—you remember where they are, don’t you? I think I left my glasses in the car.”
She’s halfway out the door.
“No, Mama, you set them down on the table just inside the door upstairs. Here, I’ll go up and get them—”
She sidesteps me. “I’ll get them. You go on in there.” And gives me a little push toward the salon door.
Okay. Fine.
The second I open the door, the light switches on, and as if in slow motion, what seems like the entire population of Sago Beach jumps out at me yelling, “Surprise!”
Did I mention how much I hate surprises?
CHAPTER 4
A surprise party.
For me.
As everyone breaks into a rousing chorus of “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” I cannot begin to explain the utter mortification I feel standing there with every eye in Sago Beach on me. There must be at least fifty people packed in the room—so that’s one hundred eyes focused on sticky-and-smelly-from-the-flight me. My hair’s uncombed, and I didn’t even have a chance to powder the shine off my greasy nose or put on lipstick—
Oh, for God’s sake, Mother. Twice in one day?
She sidles up and puts an arm around me as if she senses my discomfort.
After they finish singing, she says in her lyrical voice, “I’ll bet the welcoming committee at the airport really threw you off, honey. You weren’t expecting this, huh?”
Everyone laughs their festive laughs as I stand in the middle of my second surprise party for the day, feeling like I’m stuck in a scene from the movie Groundhog Day.
Okay, cool your jets. Just get through this and soon enough you’ll be yesterday’s news.
“Nope.” I plaster a smile on my face. “You really got me, Mama.”
Another wave of laughter.
“Tessie, you keep this up, Avril’s gonna start expecting a party every day!” Bucky Farley hugs me for the second time today and his hands linger a little too long on my shoulders as he pulls away.
As they crowd around me, a country tune blasts from the sound system. So I may not like surprise parties, but now that the initial sting is over, I sink into the warmth of all these familiar faces. All these kind people here to see…me.
This is what I missed in L.A. This connection to real, salt-of-the-earth folks. People who would drive two hours round-trip to welcome you home after all these years of being away. People who have looked after my mother in my absence. People who will welcome me back into the fold.
All those years in L.A., I never made friends like this, who would love you unconditionally. Sure, I had acquaintances, movie contacts and people I worked with in the various salons, but nothing stuck. Not like this. I always brushed it off to getting older. You know, with wisdom of age comes weariness of heart. You just don’t let people in as readily. Right here, right now, it feels good to just be.
I scan the room looking for Kally, but she’s not there. Part of me wishes she would’ve come. That she would’ve been the one to make the first move toward forgiveness. And how would I have reacted?
“Okay, everyone, let’s eat.” Mama motions to a table set up in the reception area piled with everything from cheeses, salads and deviled eggs to fried chicken, turkey and roast beef, all the way down to the scrumptious desserts—every kind imaginable, everything homemade. Well, except if you count the Parker House rolls from Paula’s Bakery. But considering she made them, they’re as good as homemade. “Avril is the guest of honor. Let her go first, and everyone else fall in line after her.”
My mother is a feeder. She thinks every problem in the world can be solved with food. If you’re happy, she’ll feed you. If you’re sad, she’ll feed you. If you’re uncertain about your future, eat and everything will fall into place. So there amidst the cutting stations and the bonnet driers I take my place at the front of the makeshift buffet, feeling like the prodigal daughter returned home.
Once my plate is full, Mama seats me in the place of honor—the center bonnet drier—and assembles a TV tray for my food. If I hadn’t fully regressed to preadolescence, with this I have. Completely.
“Mother, I don’t want a tray.”
She scoots it closer to me. I scoot it back, precariously balancing the paper plate in one hand.
Enough is enough.
I stare her square in the eye to get the message across.
Thank God for Gilda Mathers.
“Tess, stop it. She doesn’t want the tray. Take it away or I will.”
The two women stare each other down, Gilda with her large frame and short, teased, chestnut hair—à la Kathy Bates. Small, wiry Tess with her long, flaming curls. Never have you seen two women so opposite.
But
