Time to Face the Music

Because of my date, which was fabulous, I didn't get to call Charlotte until the next morning while I was scalding my esophagus with sub-par coffee at the office.

"Oh-my-God-what-do-I-do-she's-on-a-tear-and-she-wants-to-talk-to-me-about-THE-LETTER-What-should-I-tell-her!" pretty much constitute Charlotte's opening remarks.

Jarred from my "I-had-a-great-date-with-a-hottie" euphoria into full on fight or flight panic, I struggle to respond.

"Tell her whatever you think, Charlotte." I am not going to tell her what to say. But if I were so brazen I'd suggest agreeing with everything I've said. Maybe waver on something minor, just to make it seem more genuine.

So, we talk for a moment about our wuss brother disavowing it all. No one is going to get him written out of the will!

Somehow, that fires Charlotte up a little. Gets her game face set and ready to rumble. Mom is on the phone. How scary can that be? (Answer: Pretty scary, but no one is actually bleeding at the end of the call, though you'd swear your ears are.) She is going to hear what Mom's approach is and will respond truthfully. If she is seeking advice she'll offer genuine guidance. If she wants a reality check, she'll be enlightened. If she is looking for an ally, sorry Charlie.

Charlotte will call me back after she and Mom have had their little chat. So long as Charlotte's brain has not taken the form of a jigsaw puzzle fresh out of the box.

Charlotte demonstrates amazing restraint with her call back to me. Not wanting to bother me too much at work, recognizing that I might not be able to respond in a way that is socially acceptable in the office (crying or swearing like a sailor are sort of taboo...) and not wanting to completely rattle me so that I am an unproductive drooling idiot for the remainder of the traditional business day.

She calls as I am about to stuff my first bites of vegetable lasagna into my mouth. My tongue is in shreds from the morning coffee and I don't expect to be able to taste a thing.

Charlotte reports that she held her ground. Held it as long as she could. Calmly pointed out that my letter was no more wrong to have been written than the one she stuffed in the Easter card to Bill's daughter-in-law. (Mom sees no correlation, natch.) Agreed with me that Mom does seem to manipulate things to suit her very specific travel plans every year, in spite of suggestions that she stay with one of us or stay longer. (Again the burden excuse, like the arguing is so much more enjoyable.) Points out a few behaviors that fly in the face of the reasons Mom claims to be visiting for. (Why is the fact that the Lushes are serving cocktails and canapes trump that fact that cocktails and canapes are also being served where your actual family has gathered to celebrate?) Defends my position that I am doing my darndest, with all the plates I keep in the air, however many less graceful moments there are, to preserve a joyful and memorable holiday for my children and me, and if I need to make a few demands, that would just have to be understood by the rest of us.

Mom stops - but only to switch firearms. She seems to think that I have the so-called Life of Riley. Claims that I am not dealing with anything. Charlotte begins to recite a short laundry list of the more defining issues and Mom cuts her off.

"She's not dealing with anything important, " she snickers. "If she were, she'd be calling me."

"No, Mom. She's calling me," Charlotte retorts. "And Kate, and Joy and the other people in her life that she can depend on."

I am not sure whether that call ended with a slammed receiver (Mom's end) or an "I can't discuss this with you if you are going to yell," (Charlotte's end) or some other finality. But it surely was not over.

Mom just needed a little time to reload.