2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) (16 page)

“What do you mean?”

“Cooking lessons.”

“Honestly, Catherine Marie, it’s the thought that
counts,” her mother admonished.

Friday, December 8
^th

“What are you doing?” Catherine asked, heading into
the mudroom and catching her mother red-handed in front of the dryer, folding
one of Fynn’s old shirts.

“Just making myself useful.”

The pile of clothes on the dryer had been there since
her parents arrived, and she imagined her mother had been sleeping fitfully
just knowing about it, compounded by the fact that the hamper was now yawning
open, filled beyond its capacity. But this was how things were done around here.
Some days she did no laundry and others she did three or more loads. Sometimes
she skipped several days—
gasp!
So different from Elizabeth Hemmings’ daily
process of wash—dry—fold—iron—put away.

“That isn’t necessary, Mom.” Though she really wanted
to rip the shirt out of her hands.

“Nonsense, you know I like to make myself useful,
especially since you have to put up with me for the next couple weeks. Besides,
it is a load of laundry, hardly anything overwhelming. I will fold them and
carry them up in a jiffy.”

You can do everything in a jiffy, can’t you?
Catherine
smarted. Raise a family. Have a dinner party. Keep a house. But she squelched
her frustration the best she could. “Actually, Mom, those are donations,” she
corrected.

“Oh, well, they can be folded up nice for Goodwill. It
is
Christmas, you know.” Though of course Christmas had nothing to do with
it; this was about a folding disorder in her mother’s brain.

“Let me find a box,” Catherine sighed, realizing she
would not win.

“Catherine Marie,” her mother said, stopping her at
the threshold to the garage, “this is the blouse I gave you for your birthday
this year.” She dangled it in the air in front of her.

“Oh… yeah… that…. It doesn’t fit right anymore.”

“Well of course not, you are pregnant.” She looked over
the blouse for the real reason her daughter would be getting rid of a perfectly
nice gift.

And it
was
a nice blouse… just not quite her
color and—

“It is missing a button,” her mother pointed out.

Bull’s-eye.
A lost button. Not just fallen off
in the wash, but completely MIA. And while replacing one button was possibly
within her limited capabilities, the spare that had come with the blouse was
AWOL along with its little baggy, which meant finding, buying and replacing a
whole shirt’s worth because this “perfectly nice blouse” didn’t have the normal
any-shirt kind of buttons. So, yes, she’d decided to pass that nice, hardly
worn gift along to someone who needed it more… and could sew.

“You cannot donate a blouse that is missing a button,”
Elizabeth Hemmings asserted as if it was written somewhere in the penal code.

“Since when?”

“Since forever. Donations should be in
good
condition.”

“It
is
in good condition. And anyway, donations
can be in any condition. Holey, torn, ripped, whatever. People repurpose old
and broken and worn-out things all the time. And anything they can’t use, they
recycle. Even ratty old sneakers.”
So there.
A direct blow to the woman
who used to weed out and throw out anything that wasn’t perfect before donating.
Literally just threw the stuff away.
Bam!
Student surpasses the teacher.

“But really, Catherine, it is so wasteful to give away
something just because you do not want to work on it. And on one income—”

Her mother’s words stopped and Catherine thought at
first she must have blacked out from the rush of frustration, but she was still
there and standing on her own two feet, ready to unleash her feelings on the
matter about her financial business being
her
business and what she
chose to waste her money on being her own cross to bear. She wasn’t going to
darn socks or knit her own sweaters or use Fynn’s old T-shirts as dust rags. It
just wasn’t her. And they would be perfectly fine in spite of all that—

“Let’s go out. Just the two of us. Do some shopping
for the baby. Your father and I wanted to do something for you and rather than
us buy you things you might not need, we could go together and get exactly what
you want. We can get some lunch too. Maybe get Reubens at the diner—mine was
delicious the other day.”

Whoa, what just happened?
Catherine had never
heard her mother back away from a point before. Giving in. Moving on… And
proving in some ways, at least, they were very much alike.

“That sounds… nice.” The slightest upturned question.

“Good.” Her mother put down the blouse, conceding. “I
could also use a little help shopping for Cara. What does she really want?”

Your guess is as good as mine.
“I’m sure she’ll
love anything you pick.” Catherine hoped the same went for Santa. They could just
say he’s getting old and senile and quite possibly has Alzheimer’s and next
year he will be forced to retire and be replaced with a better Santa who will
bring everything she wants and more.

“I remember your sister…” her mother said, her voice wispy,
her body leaning against the dryer now as if the memory was so heavy that she
needed extra strength to hold herself up under it. “… when she was four years
old all she wanted was purple presents.”

“
That’s
what that was about?” Catherine
remembered the gifts under the tree; everything purple was for Josephine.

“She actually asked Santa to bring her purple
presents, and we had to go out and buy all new paper and rewrap everything. Not
a care in the world for what was inside, so long as they were purple.”

A sad smile played on her mother’s lips and Catherine
almost let the cat out of the bag about her dilemma in regards to Cara, but
then Elizabeth Hemmings stood up straight and tall again. “I am not trying to
take Santa’s gusto. Whatever Cara has her heart set on the most should come
from that place where it keeps the spirit of the season alive for her the
longest. Kids learn the truth all too quickly. I just want to know the types of
things she likes so we don’t just have a bunch of clothes under the tree for
her. It is no fun being a grandparent if not to spoil your grandkids.”

As they pulled into the parking lot in front of
Kohl’s, Catherine spotted a U-Haul and her hair bristled on the back of her
neck. There was no chance it was anyone else, and exactly what she didn’t need.

Her mother’s foot hit the floor and she whipped her
eyes forward. All clear up ahead, but at her racing speed of four miles an hour
she was still going too fast for Elizabeth Hemmings, who engaged her optional
passenger brake.

“Mom, why don’t we just go to the baby store instead?”
she offered, because
that
store was halfway to the Mall of America,
which meant in another town and well away from the frigging U-Haul a couple of
rows over.

Elizabeth shook her head. “They charge an arm and a
leg at places like that. If you can shop elsewhere you should. Frugality is a
worthy trait. You know, the smallest things can have the greatest impact.”

Two fortune cookie lines in a few seconds’ time. A new
record.

Her mother stomped the floor again as a car that was
parked a few spaces ahead switched into reverse, and Catherine was pretty sure
she also saw her invoke the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost in her
periphery.

“I don’t know why you have to park so close to the
store,” Elizabeth Hemmings nitpicked as her daughter continued down the aisle.
“It never hurt anyone to walk a few extra feet.”

“Are you saying I’m fat?”

“I said no such thing! Pregnancy is an honor to
cherish, Catherine Marie.”

“It’s a joke, Mother.”

But Elizabeth Hemmings wasn’t going to sink to her
level, instead slipping into lecture mode about the parking spot. “It’s just so
much harder to get in and out when you’re packed in close to the store like
that. And people ding your doors and scratch up the paint. Besides, a little
extra activity is good for everyone. You know, I always take the stairs even
when there is an elevator. Walking is good, healthy movement. Your father and I
aren’t getting any younger and we want to be around to spoil our grandkids.”

Successfully put in her place, Catherine finished the row
and started up the next one, parking just outside the first island of planting
areas, more than midway out, one side of the car protected by the curb. Turning
off the ignition, she asked, “Happy here?”

“Quite.” And with that Elizabeth pulled her purse up
onto her shoulder and got out.

“What are we shopping for, anyway?”

“A layette for the baby.”

“What exactly is a layette?”

Before she could get an answer, a whistle sounded,
then a Cat call, and there was Tara, heading straight for them, lugging two
large gray shopping bags.

Just perfect
.

“Wow, fancy meeting you here!” she announced.

“I should be the one saying that,” Catherine said
lowly—as in,
I’m
the one who lives here. “Mom, you remember Tara,” she
added through gritted teeth.

“Of course I do. I’m not senile, Catherine, we just
saw her a few days ago.” She turned to Tara. “What a nice surprise this is. How
are you?” Elizabeth Hemmings doing her thing, always the utmost polite.

“Good—great, actually. Just taking advantage of some
terrific sales.”

“We’re out shopping for some baby things,” Elizabeth
said, as if Tara needed to know.

Catherine cringed, hoping that her friend wouldn’t
think it was an invitation to join them, and further that she would keep her
mouth shut about her own state of conception. Catherine hadn’t told her mother
about her unwed, unattached,
very
single, now-pregnant friend. Elizabeth
Hemmings was not equipped for such conversations.
Pregnant? That young woman
I served French toast to last winter? Really, Catherine Marie, what kind of
friends do you have?

Or maybe she
should
rat her out. A part of her
wanted
to, much like a big meanie of an older sister would do to her spoiled little sister
in the name of justice (some would say vengeance). Catherine Marie was jealous
as hell. Ugly jealous. She was tired of being judged and lectured about
anything and everything while Tara went skating through life doing things
completely contrary and getting away with it, all because she didn’t have an
Elizabeth Hemmings in her life.
You can have mine. Merry Christmas, bitch.

But of course her thoughts were hardly fitting for the
season. This wasn’t Tara’s mom and Catherine had no right or reason to say a
word. Drew, on the other hand, was going to hear all about it. Every. Last.
Thing. What Tara had done. What she was doing now, or not doing, as it was.
Nothing held back, because she had already weaseled her way into Drew’s life
and if Catherine didn’t put a stop to it, Tara would infect her whole family,
taking them over one by one. Next thing she might be offering herself up to
Fynn or taking cooking lessons from her mother or buying Cara’s affections.

“Well, I have to go,” Tara practically sang, “but I
hope to see you all soon!”

“Not too soon,” Catherine said under her breath,
catching her mother’s eye as she said it, shrinking into herself that she’d
been caught.

But Tara was already trotting off to her truck that
wasn’t even really hers. She probably only paid for a local rental and thought
nothing of taking it out of state, like the rules didn’t apply to her.

“What was that all about?” Elizabeth Hemmings asked.

“The usual. Tara’s always like that.” Meaning flaky
and unconventional. The anti-Hemmings.

“I’m talking about you,” her mother pressed.

“What about me?”

“You couldn’t have been more rude.”

Her eyes bugged out in disbelief. “You don’t get it,
Mom. It’s her. She’s… difficult.” A careful word choice that could mean any
number of things.

“She’s your friend. She came a long way to see you and
as far as I can tell, you have had nothing to do with her since she got here.”

“I just saw her yesterday while you were out shopping
with Dad.” 

“Did something happen? Because you are definitely
being snippy.”

“It’s not important.” Catherine heaved a sigh.
“Sometimes friends are more trouble than they’re worth.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Actually, Mom, I do.” She looked her square in the
eye. “Between Georgia and Tara I’m going to lose my mind. Tara is completely
batshit crazy. Georgia is becoming a Sophie Watts. And I’m about to explode. Literally.”
She pointed at her stomach. “I don’t need any of it right now.”

“What’s a Sophie Watts?” Bewildered.

“You don’t want to know. Although… actually, you would
probably
love
her. She’s organized. She can cook and bake with one hand
while she dusts and vacuums with the other. A regular supermom. And she’s
pinched and judgy and bitchy to everyone who gets in her way.”

“So I’m guessing you got in her way.”

Catherine rolled her eyes. “Of course. She’s had it
out for me since the start of the school year and she finally got her way. She
took over as room mother because she didn’t think I was good enough at it.”

“You were room mother?” Elizabeth blurted.

“Yes, I was. You don’t have to be so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked.” Though her face sent the opposite
message.

“Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t on purpose; just
Catherine Marie, falling bass-ackward into something. But then I realized that
it could be good for me and Cara. I thought it might help her adjust; let her
know that I cared enough to be there for her… that she was that important to
me.” She saw a glint in her mother’s eyes, a tear even. “It isn’t that big a
deal.” She sloughed it off. “I wasn’t any good at it. I was pretty terrible,
actually. But I tried, and I thought that might be enough. At least Cara seemed
to like it in spite of everything.”

“That’s what counts.” Definitive.

“But if I can’t be a room mother right, and all I had
to do was organize some crafts and supply snacks and referee games, then how am
I supposed to do the big stuff? You know, the stuff that really counts. I’m about
to have a baby and I don’t know the first thing about mothering—”

“It comes to you. All of it. It just comes to you.” So
calm and certain. “Sure, someone can teach you how to swaddle a baby or put on
a diaper or even how to nurse, but the rest just comes to you. You bond with
your baby and you
just know
what he or she needs and what to do. It will
come to you.”

“But you’re a natural.”

The sound that came out of Elizabeth Hemmings’ mouth
startled her. A “Ha!” of
gotcha!
proportions. “I didn’t have a clue what
I was doing when you were born. I was never a baby person. I didn’t want to
hold other people’s babies or babysit or have anything to do with any of that.”

“You? Then why did you—”

“That’s what you did. You got married and you had a
family. You didn’t think about it. It was just the way it was. There was no
planning. And I was terrified.”

“You were?”

A nod.

“But you’re so good at it.”

“Does a good mother lose her child?”

Catherine’s breath caught. “That wasn’t your f—”

Her mother was shaking her head though. “I should have
told your sister. I should have thought—I should have known to say something
about the ice on the pond. It was right there behind our neighborhood and I
never said anything—”

“You didn’t know Josey was going to follow those older
kids home. Nobody knew.” Catherine couldn’t believe the level of regret and the
guilt that her mother carried with her. Sharp, poignant, biting.

“Cara reminds me so much of her,” Elizabeth said
through tears she didn’t fight. “It is all so fresh and bittersweet. Being
here. Seeing your purple tree. Her favorite color.”

“Mom, I didn’t even realize—”

“It’s okay. This is something I have to deal with
every day of my life. Every day. There is always something. I can’t hide from
it.” She paused, wiped at her eyes, sniffed. “Well, come, we have some shopping
to do,” she said, marching toward the store.

Catherine stood there dumbfounded. The moment had come
and gone without warning. In a Kohl’s parking lot. Right out in the middle of a
cold winter day, their words exchanged in puffs of warm air that hung for a
moment and then dissipated. She wondered if she should have hugged her, held
her, said more than she had. Something. They weren’t like that, though. They
were like they were.