Janet sat quietly on the deck outside the split-level, enduring the summer heat to avoid the house. She sipped lemonade and contemplated her life, her fiancé, her mother—and suicide.
“You can’t invite them to my wedding! What were you thinking?” Janet shook her head from side to side, as if doing so might purge her mother’s words from her thoughts.
The cottony clouds, what were they called? Cumulus? See, I’m not so dumb. Just because her mother had never thought Janet could create a soufflé worth a damn didn’t mean her mental skills were nonexistent.
Janet’s father, on the other hand, knew his daughter had talent and smarts, but he never could get a word in edgewise between the overrunning sentences of his overbearing spouse. That was probably why he died early; he couldn’t take it any more. If only he had lived, maybe Janet’s self-confidence would have been better, and she wouldn’t still be living at home, although that would soon change.
Why was it that nothing Janet created ever tasted right, looked right, was organized right or, for that matter, seemed to have any redeeming qualities at all? Mother was such a bitch!
* * *
Janet’s mother, Emily, peered out the window at her daughter. She had always wanted only the best for Janet and knew from personal experience that her approach was the best. Janet needed guidance. As the twig is bent, so shall it grow. Wasn’t that what the Bible said? Why couldn’t Janet understand that?
Take this afternoon, for example. A simple discussion about the guest list had turned into a major battle. No daughter should ever speak to her mother that way. No daughter!
* * *
The young man saw his fiancee sitting on the deck as he drove into the driveway. He loved her but had difficulty understanding Janet’s relationship with her mother. The constant bickering and incessant pushing of each other’s buttons drove him crazy.
Even when they stole away by themselves, Janet would call home daily. After each call, he would hear about it for hours on end, about how unfair her mother was and how glad she would be when they married. Once they walked down the aisle together, things would change for the better, she said.
* * *
Emily had just begun the flower arrangement on the dining room table when the doorbell rang. Must be Timothy, she thought. Nice enough boy; probably good for Janet. But he could use a little more backbone.
“Come on in, Timothy. How’s life in the world of accounting?”
“Fine, Mrs. Ruther.”
“Janet, Timothy’s here,” she spoke into the house intercom as she glided back to the table in one fluid motion. “Make yourself at home. Drinks are in the fridge.”
Janet bounded in from the deck, smiling widely at Timothy. “How are you, darling? You must be parched. I made lemonade.”
Scarcely missing a beat as she intermixed the flowers, Emily hastened to interject, “Lemonade’s too sweet a drink on such a hot day. Go and get yourself some unsweetened ice tea. There’s a whole gallon of it. That’ll quench your thirst faster.”
“That’s ridiculous,” fumed Janet. “Do you think sugar has stopped Pepsi and Coke from selling billions of cans of soda? Everyone knows that the tartness in lemonade is what quenches thirst!”
Emily turned her head from her flower arrangement ever so slightly. “If that’s true, why is it that Snapple chose tea as the basis for its product line? I think there’s a reason they didn’t pick lemonade.” She eyed the flower arrangement, complete except for water.
“Maybe you didn’t notice, Mother, but those Snapple drinks are loaded with sugar. You say things without thinking them through.” Janet dragged Timothy behind her as she proceeded toward the kitchen.
“Stop it! Stop it!” Timothy winced in frustration. “I can’t take it any more. Can’t you two be together for more than ten seconds without getting on each other’s case? I’ve had it! I’m going home.”
Emily eyed her flowers with pride but then, with sympathy in her face, turned to face her daughter. “See what you did? You drove the poor boy away. You couldn’t leave well enough alone. Whatever’s going to become of you?”
“Mother!” Janet threw her head back in frustration and glared at the ceiling, her face flushing crimson. “Are you out of your mind? All I did was offer him some lemonade. But, nooooo …”
* * *
Timothy wanted to run but held back so as not to indicate panic. He couldn’t get to his car fast enough.
Even the fifty-foot distance from the kitchen screen door couldn’t drown out the clamor in the background. Tires squealed as he backed out of the driveway. Only the stereo cranked up loud masked the voice in his head. I’ll be damned if I’m going to set foot in that house again!
He hadn’t driven more than a mile when his cell phone rang.
“Timothy, I’m sorry. Mother says she’s sorry, too. We promise—it won’t happen again. Please come back.”
Timothy stared ahead down the highway. He thought it impossible to count the times this scene had played out before.
“Timothy? Are you there? Can you hear me?”
He thought a bit, switched off his phone, and smiled. The road ahead beckoned, and he saw no reason to turn around.