“Not like you,” I answered honestly, momentarily disarmed.
She cocked an eye at me. “Oh, yeah?”
I cursed my impulsiveness, but continued. “Her beauty’s a little glam-y for me. Worked-over, I guess. I prefer yours. How it seems inherent to you, effortless.” She looked startled for a moment, and I added: “But you’re both dead-on equal in one sense: more beautiful the older you get.”
Mom’s eyes looked as if they’d been set ablaze by the Montana sun, dark coppery hair like trees on fire and even in all that radiance I could still see her blush. “I wasn’t fishing.” She smacked my chest playfully. I reached up and grabbed her hand, not breaking our gaze, intertwining our fingers.
“This is real nice, sweetheart,” Mom started as if reading my mind, and cupped my cheek. “But dying would kinda ruin that, wouldn’t it?” Then that hot hand on my cheek turned my face back to the road.
She always seemed to get the last laugh.
. . .
We switched seats after the next rest stop. I woke up from a nap to the sublime sounds of Mom singing along to the stereo. I watched the intense movements of her mouth, her trilling tongue for a few moments before speaking.
“Sounds real nice, Mama.”
She jumped a little, bringing a hand to her breast. “Oh! Hi, sweetie.” She blushed again. “Thank you so much for putting this playlist together. So sweet of you.”
“Aw, it was all just a plot to hear you singing to ’em.”
She scrunched up her face and stuck her tongue out.
“I sang along to this one at that festival in Missouri.”
“That sounds nice, too.”
“You have no idea.” Her voice softened, and she looked a little absent. “Or maybe you do, somehow…”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, when we started walking over to see Bonnie, it started raining. With still all pretty sunlight around everyone, looking so excited. Then by the time she went on, and that voice came out, it was this amazing falling mist, and all those happy people, and me, rubbing my belly under my half-shirt, standin’ there in the sunny rain with my baby boy,” she paused and took a breath, “…inside me.”
I said nothing. What could I say? That I was both profoundly moved and sporting enough wood to put out the windshield?
Now it was Mom’s turn to reach a hand out to mine. We rode mostly in silence the rest of the way, buffeted by our sing-a-longs.
. . .
The wedding was at an old but well-kept hotel a little off the main roads, set back amidst a beautiful nest of trees.
Fortunately, the rest of our extended family had something like Mom and Sandra’s close relationship to varying degrees, so family get-togethers were never a drag. This meant Sandra and Ted, her husband-to-be, felt comfortable enough to let everyone pick their own seats. (I didn’t know anything about weddings, but Mom as we chose our own Mom told me that wasn’t usually a popular option with wedding guests.)
I had just started talking with my cousin Glenn and his date, seated across from us, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see an incredibly pretty server holding a bottle of wine, neck tickled with her teased blonde curls.