She also knew that each gift would be wrong: too young, too old, too late, too soon. It was just the way it was between her and her mom. They never got anything right
Not like the old days, back when “You and Me Against the World,” by Helen Reddy, had been her and Mom’s song. When they’d sung it all the time, laughing, dancing, hugging.
Now she looked at a stupid store-bought cake and she missed it, missed the nights she used to snuggle in her mom’s bed, the mornings they used to make pancakes together and sing dopey songs. Jeez, it was embarrassing how much she missed i
t….
“Happy Birthday, honey!” Her mother’s throaty voice rang through the kitchen.
Lina’s head snapped up. She saw her mother, standing in the open archway that separated the kitchen from the living room. Father Francis was beside her. They were both grinning.
Lina couldn’t believe she was crying. Crying.
She threw her shoulders back and sniffed hard, then slumped lazily against the wall. She felt herself sinking into the image she’d created, the rebel in the black leather jacket. Back to a place where no one expected anything of her except a sharp mouth and a snotty look. A place where things like loneliness and missing your mom didn’t exist. She drew on the cigarette, inhaling deeply, then smiled—just a twitch of the lips like Elvis—and mumbled, “Thanks, guys.”
Madelaine stared at the cigarette. Her bright smile faded, and disappointment darkened her hazel eyes. “I’ve asked you not to smoke in the house.”
Then make me stop. Lina stared at her, unblinking. Almost smiling, she strolled forward, her motorcycle boots clicking on the hardwood floor. When she was directly in front of her mother, she took another drag. “Really?”
For a heady second she thought her mother was going to actually do something, say something. Lina leaned forward, waiting.
Madelaine gave a helpless little shrug. “It’s your birthday…. Let’s not fight.”
“Lina, put out the cigarette or I’ll make you eat Communion wafers,” Father Francis said.
“Jeez, have a cow about it, why don’tcha?” Twirling, she strode to the kitchen sink and doused the cigarette under running water.
When she turned back around, no one had moved. Father Francis and Mom looked like a pair from Madame Tussaud’s wax museum. They were standing side by side, together, as always. Best friends.
Today Francis looked even more handsome than usual. He was tall and thin, built like a dancer, and though he always looked slightly out of place in his clerical clothing, he looked positively fine in civilian clothes. Like now, he was wearing a pair of faded blue Levi’s and an oversized Gap sweatshirt, and there were sixteen-year-old girls across the country who would faint at his killer smile.
Francis shoved a hand through his thick, unruly blond hair and grinned. “So, Lina-ballerina, how does it feel to be sixteen?”
Lina shrugged. “Fine.”
Mom gave her a rather sad smile. “I remember sixteen.”
Francis looked at her mother, and Lina saw the same sadness reflected in his blue eyes. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It was just about this time of year.”
They were doing it again, leaving her out. “Hel-lo,” Lina interjected with a snort. “It is my birthday here, not old folks’ memory day.”
Mom laughed. “You’re right. What do you say we open presents?”
Lina’s gaze darted to the pile of packages on the table. Big, bright, beautifully wrapped boxes that didn’t contain what she wanted. Couldn’t contain what she wanted.
She looked back at her mom, and suddenly she was afraid of what she’d planned to do today. Her mother had worked so hard … always worked so hard, and this would break her heart….
Mom took a step toward her, hand outstretched. “Baby, what is it?”
Lina stiffened and jerked back, away from the comforting sadness of her mother’s touch. “Don’t call me baby.” Horrifyingly, her voice broke.
“Honey—”
“What’s his name?” The question shot from her lips before she was ready, and it sounded harsh and ugly. She cringed. But it was there, hanging between them, and there was no going back.
Her mother stopped. A frown pulled her thick, winged brows together. “Whose name?”
Lina felt herself losing control. It started as a shaking in her fingers that she couldn’t stop. She wished she had a cigarette, or a glass of water. Something, anything to hold on to, to stare at. Any place to look except into her mother’s confused gray-green eyes.