Page 94 of The Do-Over

—MIMI

I spent the rest of the week equal parts in awe of my mother’s ability to ruin lives in a single action. Even Lilah and Nate couldn’t lighten my mood. Every time I had a moment to let my mind wander, it went right back to the sign in front of Miss Marge’s, or to Phee crying in front of a food truck.

Mathias fielded my ranting texts and phone calls, even at midnight. He was a good friend, and I couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened with him and Phee if our mother hadn’t interfered.

The thought of seeing Mom made me feel sick to my stomach. But the anniversary party loomed ahead and although I prayed for an excuse—the flu, a broken leg, leprosy—to get me out of it, it didn’t happen. Instead, I spent the week double-checking the vendors, confirming tables and food.

Then there was that stupid slide show I hadn’t even started.

By the weekend, when I made it over to Mimi’s apartment to search through her old photographs, I was a mess of emotions, teetering on some imaginary ledge. It would take nothing more than a tiny breeze for me to fall, and I wasn’t sure what would happen if I did.

Mimi was making potato salad and humming along with Patsy Cline when I arrived. She took one look at me and frowned. “What’s wrong with you? You look like a vegetarian bear at a barbecue.”

That was a new one. “I’m fine.”

She hummed but didn’t push further. “All right, then. I took out all the photos I could find and made a big stack on the kitchen table.”

“Thanks.”

“Got a little teary-eyed looking at them. Your mama was cute as a bug when she was little.” Mimi danced over to the fridge in her three-inch heels and pulled out a pitcher. “Tea?”

I nodded and wandered over to the table, where several albums and a couple of shoeboxes rested. Flicking through a few photos in one box, I came across one of me holding Phee when she wasn’t more than two years old. I smiled, remembering how I’d carted her around like she was my very own living doll back then.

Mimi handed me a glass, and I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke on her clothes. “You promised you’d quit smoking.”

“I’m only smoking a little now.”

“That’s like being a little pregnant.”

“Don’t you worry about old Mimi. I’m indestructible.”

“So was the Titanic. And Rome. And Crystal Pepsi. You can’t be the Crystal Pepsi of grandmothers. I need you.”

“Honey, I’m not going anywhere.” She sat and flipped through an album before stopping on a photo of herself and my mother. Mom was about five or six in the picture, her dark hair pulled up in pigtails, a smile full of missing teeth set in a round face. “Look at those cheeks. You looked just like her at that age.”

She pointed at the photo I was holding. I laid the pictures beside each other and squinted at them. The resemblance was undeniable—dark hair, dark eyes, same rounded cheeks and wide grins. Somehow, this annoyed me. I wasn’t sure I wanted to have anything in common with my mother. I closed the album and rooted around in the box of photos.

We spent the next twenty minutes lost in memories. Sometimes, Mimi would stop and show me a photo—almost always of her and Mom—a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes.

“It was always the two of us for so long—me and my girl against the world.”

“Did you ever think about getting married again?”

My grandmother flipped another page in her album. “Oh, sure. I dated a little and when your mama was about ten, I was hot and heavy with a gentleman caller. But he and Bobbie Jo got along ’bout as well as a cat at a dog show. Lots of barking and hissing between the two of them. Never could figure out how to make them tolerate each other. After that, I dipped my toe into the dating pool now and then, but I was too tired to put a lot of effort into a long-term relationship.”

“That’s kind of sad.”

“Goodness, I worked three jobs to make sure my girl had what she needed. She was the most important thing I ever did with my entire life.” Her gaze met mine, a sadness there that made me uncomfortable. “Still is. Mamas do an awful lot for their babies, even when it’s not appreciated.”

I squirmed, not wanting to feel an ounce of sympathy and understanding for my mother. I opened another album. A grainy Polaroid of my parents stared back at me. In it, my mother—dressed in jeans, a college sweatshirt, and rocking some major feathered hair—sat on Dad’s lap, an arm slung around his shoulders.

Mimi leaned closer. “Yep, that’s about when they met at college. She was always so serious about going to school and making something of herself. Had a good head on her shoulders. Very driven. Your sister gets that from her. But then she met your daddy and plans changed.”

She pulled the album toward herself and flipped through the pages, pointing out pictures, commenting on them, and allowing me to photograph them for the slide show. My parents looked so happy, carefree. Mom wasn’t quite so thin or quite so perfect, and she looked so much more relaxed.

“And here are the wedding photos.” She tapped on the album.

I flipped through the pictures of my parents at the courthouse, in a smallish room, a judge presiding over the blessed event. Mimi was there in a truly awful garment of purple sequins, while my mother wore a simple white shift dress and an enormous smile. Dad was in jeans, his hand clutching Mom’s.