The Big Girl's Guide to Buying Lingerie

7. CINDER-WHAT?

Despite a restless night and lack of sleep, I was up and on the road, dressed in sweats, no makeup and my bed-head hidden under a San Antonio Spurs ball cap by 8:00 AM.  I headed north to Austin, stopping only long enough to grab a  blueberry muffins and a toffenut latte with two extra shots of espresso and whipped cream. 

If this were Dante’s Inferno, I was on my way down to the next circle of Hell.  Then again, my birthday weekend officially couldn't get any worse.  My choices were limited.  Either mope around the house, mope in the car, or mope at the parental's house.  At least at the parental's I could work out my frustrations on my siblings. 

Not that much would faze Ms. I'm-Engaged aka Emerald.  With a name like hers, Emerald should have been scarred for life, should have been a dope smoking stripper, but instead she'd chosen something worse.  To follow in Her Honorable's expensively shod footsteps and become a lawyer.

I often wondered how someone as quiet, serious and good-natured as Daddy had hooked up with someone as annoyingly domineering as Mom.  The most obvious conclusion being he must have knocked her up—a thought that made me shudder.  Their wedding and our names were the two great mysteries of my life.  That and if I was truly their biological child.

Mom was a planner and meticulous about the things that mattered to her, like her political future, her future in-laws or her social station.  And, of course, how much her children's marriages would enhance her status.  Appearances were everything to Her Honorable.

After Allan left me, she'd had the nerve to suggest I get my master’s and teach, or better, try to find another husband.  One who would understand me.  Someone academic--like Daddy.  Her words not mine.  Never mind that I’d been in the process of applying for grad school when she’d come dragging Allan home, albeit for Emerald.  Or maybe not.  With Mom you never really knew.  Maybe that had been her way of trying to make me feel better, but I also knew she’d never let me be me on my terms.  

And even though, I still wasn’t quite sure who me truly was, three years after the fact I had better idea.

Because I knew who I wasn’t.

Drew Hartford, then Norah Jones and finally Pink! kept me company as I cruised north, determined to put all thoughts of Rowdy's Perfidy from my mind and mentally prepared myself for my mom and the long weekend ahead.  Facing her was almost worse than last nights horrendous adventures and as far as I was concerned, my promise to God about being nice to her all weekend was officially null and void.  Hear that, God?  Null and Void!

Apparently, He did.  Her Honorable’s BMW was missing when I pulled into the curved driveway.  Home was a two-story Italianate house painted a discreet shade of taupe.  The open garage doors meant she was probably in court trying some incredibly important case.  But Daddy, a Geology professor with full tenure, was home, his old Mercedes parked out front.  He stood in the side yard dressed in a Ward Cleaver sweater, khakis that had seen much better days, and a pair of pruning shears in his hand, surrounded by beautiful variegated roses in color from deep reddish orange edges to the palest of  peach. 

I climbed out of the car and ran to hug him, very glad to be there and to have him all to myself for a while.  There truly was no safer place to be than with my dad.  He was the only one who ever seemed to understand me, who had never blamed me for the Great Wedding Fiasco and who had understood my need to run away three years ago. 

He reached over, snipped three roses off and handed them to me with a tiny bow.  The gallant gesture reminded me of Robbie and the rose he’d brought me last night, and my throat slammed shut with all the force of a steel wolf-trap.  I swallowed and sniffled and burst into tears.