I had heard the car turn in the drive, of course (sometimes I could hear a cricket from a mile away), but took my time walking to the door and listening to the increasingly frantic hammering.
Finally, after growing weary of my passive aggressiveness, I opened my front door and immediately went for the kill. "Thanks for all the support at the funeral, Mom. Really helpful. Why, with you there I didn't feel like an orphan or anything! Having a shoulder to lean on and all was such a comfort."
My mother brushed by me, BabyCrap™ (an established property of Babyjon™) in tow. She smelled like burped up milk. She was wearing a blue sweater (in summertime!) and plum-colored slacks, with black flats. Her mop of curls was even more a mess than usual.
"By the way," I said cheerfully, "you look like dried up hell."
She ignored that. "A funeral service is no place for an infant," she panted, struggling to manage all the paraphernalia. It was amazing. . . the kid wasn't even a year old, and he had more possessions than I did.
Mom thrust Babyjon at me and I bounced him in my arms, then kissed the top of his head. I might have been pissed at her, but damn, I was glad to see him .
"You missed a helluva party," I said dryly.
"No doubt." Mom puffed white curls off her forehead. "Your father was all about parties. That's why he was foolish enough to ingest a magnum of champagne and then go joy riding into the back of a garbage truck with your stepmother."
Hey, they needed a break from all the selfless charity work. I paused, gauged what I was thinking, and then shelved it. Nope. Too soon for jokes. They'd only been in their graves for half an hour. Maybe by tomorrow. . .
"How are you holding up, dear?"
"Like you care!"
She scowled at me, and I almost giggled. Hadn't I seen that scowl enough times in my own mirror? But I remained a stone. "You've had a difficult day. . ."
"And you'd know this how?"
"But my day hasn't exactly been a day at the zoo, either. So answer my question, young lady, or you'll find you're not too big to spank." This was laughable, since I could break my mom's arm by breathing on it.
"Well?"
"I forgot the question," I admitted.
"How was the funeral?"
"Besides my entire support system, present company included, abandoning me in my most dire time of need?"
"I think your death was your most dire time of need," she corrected me. "And the only ones who abandoned you then are underground now."
This was true, but I was in no mood for logic. "And you didn't even say good-bye. I know you didn't like them, but Jesus!"
And why were we screaming at each other in the foyer? Maybe I was still too mad to make nicey-nice hostess, even to Mom, whom I usually adored. How could I not adore someone who welcomed her daughter back from the dead with open arms? "Someone had to watch your son," she replied sharply. "And it's not as though you have no friends. Where is everybody, anyway?" "The question of the day," I muttered. No way was I telling her Sinclair and I were fighting-she liked him, if possible, more than she liked me. And she'd worry herself sick about Jessica. And she didn't know Marc or Laura that well, or the others at all.
Then the full impact of her words hit me like a hammer upside the head. "Someone had to watch my what?"
" Jon."
"What?"
She pointed at my half brother, as if I'd forgotten I was holding him in my arms. In fact, I had. "Your son. The reading of the will? Yesterday? Remember?"
"You know full well I wasn't there. My nails were a mess, and it's not like the Ant was going to let Dad leave me a damned thing. So I gave myself a manicure in Wine Cordial."
My mother sighed, the way she used to sigh when I told her my middle school term project was due later in the morning, and I hadn't even started yet. "In the event of their deaths, you're his legal guardian. They're dead. So guess what?"
"But-but-" Babyjon cooed and wriggled and looked far too happy with the circumstances. I couldn't decide whether to be thrilled or appalled. I settled on appalled. "But I didn't want a baby like this ."
"Like what?"
"Like-you know. Via the vehicle of death."
Mom frowned. "What was that again?"
"I mean, I wanted my own baby. Mine and Sinclair's baby."
"Well, you've got this one," she said, completely unmoved by my panic.
"But-"
"And you certainly have the means to bring him up properly."
"But-"
"Although I wonder. . . will he get his days and nights confused, living with you two as parents?"
"That's the burning question on your mind? Because I can think of a few dozen other slightly more pressing ones!"
"Dear, don't scream. My hearing is fine."
"I'm not ready!"
"You're still screaming. And no one ever is, dear." She coughed. "Take it from me."
"I can't do it!"
"We all say that in the beginning."
"But I really really can't!"
"We all say that, too. Well, the first twenty years, anyway."
I thrust him toward her, like I was offering her a platter of hors d'ouevres. "You take him!"
"My dear, I am almost sixty years old."
"Sixty years young," I offered wildly.
Mom shot me a black look. "My child-rearing days .ire over. You, on the other hand, are eternally young, have a support system, a rich best friend, a fine soon-to-be-husband, legal guardianship, and a blood tie."
"And on that basis I'm the new mom?"
"Congratulations," she said, pushing the baby back toward my face. His great, blue googley eyes widened at me, as his mouth formed a drool-tinged O. "It's a boy. And now, I have to go."
"You're leaving?" I nearly shrieked.
"I'm supposed to visit your grandfather in the hospice this afternoon. You remember your grandfather, dear? Lest you accuse others of neglect."
"I can't believe you're leaving me like this! I have three words for you, Mother-state-funded nursing home. Do you hear me? STATE-FUNDED NURSING HOME!!!" I yelled after her, just as Babyjon yarked milk all over my beautiful black designer suit.
