The black cat gave me a lazy meow before skulking off to parts unknown. My attention was stolen from the gremlin-looking cat when the sounds of hurried heels clicked through the bottom level. My mother tackled me, and I had to brace myself against the wall to prevent us from falling.
“I’ve never wanted to hug and strangle you so much in my entire life,” Mom admitted, sobbing as she clutched me tightly.
“Are you sure about that?” I joked, trying to mask the bubbling emotions that threatened to overtake me.
“I think the time you and Grant snuck out of the house to participate in a drag race in your brand-new car you were gifted on your sixteenth birthday tops the fucking cake.”
I grinned at the memory behind my mother’s back. Dad and Mom gifted me a sweet-ass black suped-up Toyota Supra for my sixteenth birthday, and I couldn’t wait to burn rubber. I was in first place until that sore loser slammed into me from behind. I spun out of control and collided into a tree. I woke up hours later in the hospital with a broken collarbone, a severe concussion, and two concerned and enraged parents. Shockingly, Grant wasmore on the receiving end of Dad’s wrath than I was because, I quote, “Grant, you’re the eldest, and you’re old enough to know better.”
Needless to say, they never replaced my car. Dad said he only owed one car per child; whatever happened after wasn’t his business.
He may have only owed one car per child, but he never said anything about motorcycles.
She pulled out of my embrace and gave me a once-over through her glistening eyes.
“Have you been eating, Karma? You lost weight.”
I rolled my eyes. Mom began calling me Karma after I took off the summer before law school. I was virtually a ghost for a year—sending the occasional postcard to let them know I was still alive. She said I was karma biting her in the ass for how she ran away from her parents when she was younger.
“I’ve been eating,” I replied.
“You’re not doing drugs, are you?”
“All the time,” I answered flippantly.
“Kiyah,” she warned sternly.
“Nothing harder than weed and alcohol,” I confirmed. “I’ve just been active.”
“Sexually active? I hope you’re being safe,” she worried.
“I’ve been celibate for three years. It can’t get any safer than that.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
I mean…I’ve been celibate while I’m on the road, but she doesn’t need to know that.
The cat returned.
“Not to change the subject, but what’s with the cat?” I asked, pointing in its direction.
“Oh! I wanted a cat, but you know how your father is with fur on his suits,” she explained, bending over to pick it up.
“What’s its name?”
“Hisname is Rob Zombie.”
I laughed and followed her to the living room. The name was very fitting since my mother was a metal head back in the day. Back before, she sold out to become one of the Suburbia wives. Our jam sessions when I was a child used to be filled with Iron Maiden and Judas Priest, and now, soft jazz music played soothingly in the background when you entered the house. Gone were the heavy metal band crop tops and leather pants; instead, she rocked boutique dresses and heels. I knew she was a goner when she once toted a designer handbag worth more than my four-year degree at a private college with a scarf tied around the handle that was worth more than the average monthly rent for a two-bedroom apartment on the “good” side of town.
I’m being unfair.
Her change had nothing to do with “selling out” and more to do with growing up and reading the room. She was the wife of a prominent, wealthy attorney, and with that came certain expectations, especially regarding appearances. To be 100% clear, my father never placed those expectations on her—he loved her just the way she was—tattered shirt, grease-stained jeans, and biker boots. Still, they took you less seriously at the PTA and fundraising meetings when you dressed like an extra fromSons of Anarchy.Unless she stepped her game up, she’d always be seen as “just the nanny.” Despite her outward changes, she was still the same woman on the inside—energetic, fun-loving, caring, and adventurous.
“How long are you sticking around this time?” Mom asked, sitting on a chaise lounger. I chose to stand, meandering through the living room to spot any changes since my last visit.
“I’m leaving Sunday.”
“Hmph,” she hummed in disapproval.