A quick consultation with my mother explained it. I was able to find her by following the phone cord first into her bedroom, then into her walk-in closet, where she was huddled behind her shoe rack (empty—all her shoes were on the floor) in whispered conspiracy with my father.
“I don’t care how you do it, Phillipe,” she was hissing into the phone. “You tell that mother of yours she’s gone too far this time. My parents, Phillipe? You know how I feel about my parents. If you don’t get them out of here, Mia is going to end up paying visits to me through a slot in the door up at Bellevue.”
I could hear my father murmuring reassurances through the phone. My mom noticed me and whispered, “Are they still out there?”
I said, “Um, yes. You mean you didn’t invite them?”
“Of course not!” My mother’s eyes were as wide as Calamata olives. “Your grandmother invited them for some cockamamie wedding she thinks she’s throwing for me and Frank on Friday!”
I gulped guiltily. Oops.
Well, all I can say in my own defense is that things have been very very hectic lately. I mean, what with finding out my mother is pregnant, and then getting sick, and the whole thing with Jo-C-rox, and then the interview. . . .
Oh, all right. There’s no excuse. I am a horrible daughter.
My mom held out the phone to me. “He wants to talk to you,” she said.
I took the phone and went, “Dad? Where are you?”
“I’m in the car,” he said. “Listen, Mia, I got the concierge to arrange for rooms for your grandparents at a hotel near your place—the SoHo Grand. Okay? Just put them in the limo and send them there.”
“Okay, Dad,” I said. “What about Grandmère and this whole wedding thing? I mean, it’s sort of out of control.” Understatement of the year.
“I’ll take care of Grandmère,” my dad said, sounding very Captain Picardish. You know, from Star Trek: The Next Generation. I got the feeling Beverly Bellerieve was there in the car with him, and he was trying to sound all princely in front of her.
“Okay,” I said. “But . . .”
It’s not that I didn’t trust my dad, or anything, to take care of the situation. It’s just—well, we are talking about Grandmère. She can be very scary, when she wants to be. Even, I am sure, to her own son.
I guess he must have known what I was thinking, since he said, “Don’t worry, Mia. I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling bad for doubting him.
“And Mia?”
I’d been about to hang up. “Yeah, Dad?”
“Assure your mother I didn’t know anything about this. I swear it.”
“Okay, Dad.”
I hung up the phone. “Don’t worry,” I said to my mom. “I’ll take care of this.”
Then, my shoulders back, I returned to the living room. My grandparents were still sitting at the table. Their farmer friend, however, had gotten up. He was in the kitchen, peering into the refrigerator.
“This all you got to eat around here?” he asked, pointing to the carton of soy milk and the bowl of edamame on the first shelf.
“Um,” I said. “Well, yes. We are trying to keep our refrigerator free from any sort of contaminants that might harm a developing fetus.”
When the guy looked blank, I said, “We usually order in.”
He brightened at once, and closed the refrigerator door. “Oh, Dominos?” he said. “Great!”
“Um,” I said. “Well, you can order Dominos, if you want, from your hotel room—”
“Hotel room?”
I spun around. Mamaw had snuck up behind me.