Her head snapped up and she looked at me intently. “Did something happen? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
For the first time, I saw concern for me. Is it weird that I almost hated having to tell her no?
“No, not at all. It’d almost be easier to say yes—then my decision would be much more black and white, and not so gray. But, no. He never raised a hand, he never even raised his voice to me.”
“Then why, Chloe? Just tell me why you can’t marry him?”
The million-dollar question. Literally, since Charles was loaded.
“I don’t love him,” I said on an exhale. And there it was.
“That’s it?” she asked, incredulous.
“Isn’t that kind of the point?” I asked, joining her in the incredulous boat.
“Love isn’t everything. It’s not even the most important part of a marriage,” she said. But she looked younger, softer, for a split second. Wistful?
“Shouldn’t it be?” I asked.
Her eyes cut to mine, hardening again. “Oh, grow up, Chloe,” she snapped, grabbing the teapot and heading for the sink. Teatime was over.
“Don’t you see that I’m trying to do exactly that? How in the world can I grow up if I continue to do as I’m told, smiling and nodding like some pretty robot? What kind of a life is that?”
“Yes, what a terrible life, married to one of the most powerful lawyers in California, living in a beautiful house, raising beautiful children—it sounds just dreadful,” she mocked, and my blood boiled.
“It does sound dreadful to me. It’s not happening, Mother. We can go around and around about this all you want, but it’s not happening.” I walked to the window and gazed outside, looking over the manicured lawn, the pool, the good life. “I’m sorry for rushing out of here yesterday, and I’m sorry that you had to deal with the ramifications. I really am sorry to have put you through that. It wasn’t fair of me to do that to you.”
She stood at the kitchen sink, her back to me, rinsing out the teacups. As she finished she slowly straightened to her full height, regaining her composure with each vertebrae stacked. When she turned back to me, she wore a gracious expression.
“Thank you for the apology, Chloe. I appreciate that.”
We stood there in the kitchen, no words being said, but I couldn’t help but feel like something more was coming. “So . . . what needs to be done?”
“Done?” she asked.
“Yes. What phone calls still need to be made, who do I need to contact, what can I do to—”
“Heavens, Chloe, I’ve already handled everything. You don’t think I would let all those people just wait around, do you? No no, I’ve already cleaned up this mess.”
Again, silence.
“Okay, well, thank you again. I’ll just go up to my room, then, and—”
“Your room?”
“Huh?”
She set the teacups back in the cupboard, everything where they belonged. “It seems to me, dear, that if you’re so sure you want to be a grown-up, then you should start immediately. Don’t you agree? Look at how strongly you felt yesterday, and poof! You made it happen.”
“Okaaaaayyyy?” I said, no idea where this was going.
“So grown-up to grown-up, I think its time you leave the nest.”
“You want me to move out?” I asked, confused.
“Yes, living here would only get in the way of your lofty grown-up ideals. So I think it’s best that you fly this confining coop. Right now.”
And with that, she slipped on her gardening gloves, set her big floppy hat on her head, and went outside to trim her rosebushes.
Point: Mother.
And the hits just kept on coming.
The good thing about being already packed for my honeymoon and subsequent move into my new husband’s home is that I was pretty much ready to move out when my mother politely told me to do so. But when I walked out the front door twenty minutes later with my last suitcase, there was Charles, exactly where I’d told him not to be. In my driveway. Excuse me—my mother’s driveway.
“Didn’t I say I’d call you?” I said, rolling my suitcase toward my car.
“Didn’t you agree to marry me?” he asked, going for my suitcase.
“Didn’t I tell you I needed some time?” I grabbed my suitcase back, then opened the passenger side and tried to cram it into the crowded car.
“Chloe, baby, talk to me. And where are you going with all this stuff?”
“Don’t call me that.” I pushed the car door shut with my butt, the latch finally engaging. “I’m going to my dad’s. My mother told me to move out. She’s not so thrilled with me right now.”
“She just wants what’s best for you,” he said, leaning against the car next to me. I could feel the warmth of his skin next to mine, his arm close to mine.
“She’s so sure that she knows what’s best for me, and you’re so sure that you know what’s best for me, but I don’t have a clue. Except that I can’t do this, Charles,” I said, looking straight into his eyes.
“Bab—Chloe, you’ve just got cold feet. Don’t throw everything away just because you’re nervous,” he coaxed, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me into his side.
I wondered if any of the neighbors were watching this. My mother believed every last one of them was always perched on their sofa with binoculars and a bowl of popcorn, settling in for another episode of What Is Marjorie’s Daughter Chloe Doing Today and How Will It Impact Life as We Know It?