One Night at the Purple Orchid

It's my mom's fiftieth next week and I don't know what to get her. I'm looking up ideas online when I get the call. It's Cecelia, my mom.

She sounds different than usual, not like her normal cheery self. Her voice is smaller, more remote. Like she's just gotten news that has left her numb or quietly devastated.

I ask her what's wrong and she says it's nothing, she's just spaced out.

“You know me, always in La La Land.”

I ask her what's up and she says she's going to be in the area where I work. I agree to meet her for lunch and ask if she'd like me to make a reservation somewhere.

She declines the offer and tells me we should meet at some buffalo wing chain that just opened up along the highway service road. That's when I know something's really off.

A woman like Cecelia would never waste time or money going to a bar and grill franchise specializing in soggy, underdeveloped chicken wings. There's gotta be a reason she wants to dine in some shopping plaza grease pit.

I get there at ten after one and she's already been seated or, more likely, seated herself. She peers around at me from a booth by the rear of the restaurant, anticipating my arrival.

Even in the dim light of the chicken joint she looks stunning—white blonde hair framing her angular face, her prominent cheekbones drawing attention to her big searching eyes, two grayish green orbs like exotic planets staring back at you.

But there is a sadness in her face that is unmistakable. She looks paler than I'm used to and her body language is all wrong. She wears a light gray-and-black knit turtleneck and a pair of black leggings, and she hugs herself vulnerably.

Cecelia feigns a smile as I take a seat on the opposite side of the booth.

“Hey,” I say, “sorry I'm late.”

“It's fine,” she says in that distant, slightly wounded voice I heard on the phone.

“Is it?” I ask. “I feel like something's wrong.”

“Nothing's wrong,” she lies. “Order something.”

She slides a menu across the table. I glance at its contents without really looking and close it as a waiter lumbers over.

“Can I get you both started with a drink?”

“Get a drink,” Cecelia tells me.

“I'll have a Jack and coke on the rocks.”

“And for you?” the waiter asks.

“Vodka double,” Cecelia says. “Neat.”

“Very good,” the waiter says. “And do you know what you'd like or should I give you a few minutes?”

Cecelia answers the waiter without looking at him.

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

“Uh, just the drinks,” I smile.

Cecelia gazes out the window at the crummy fall weather, staring vacantly as gray water runs down the outer pane.

“Did you lose weight?” I ask.

“Honey, you were at the house three days ago. How much could I have lost?”

“I don't know,” I say. “You look lost in that sweater.”

“It's your father's,” she replies begrudgingly.

Suddenly flustered, she removes the turtleneck and balls it up on the leather cushion beside her. She wears a faded Blue Öyster Cult T-shirt from their Fire of Unknown Origin tour. The shirt used to be blue, but it's started turning gray, with an orange bleach stain on one of the sleeves. The collar is stretched out, revealing her long, delicate neck.

The waiter returns with our drinks.

“Thank you,” I say.

“We'll take another round,” Cecelia blurts.

The waiter smirks and shuffles off.

“What's that about?”

“What's what about?”

“I'm all for day-drinking, but you just ordered a second drink before you'd touched the first.”

“Very perceptive, sug.”

Cecelia lifts the drink to her lips and drains the vodka double in one gulp, setting the empty glass on the edge of the tabletop.

“I'm leaving your father,” she says.

Her confession is shocking, not because my father is some great man (he isn't) and not because he was some great husband (he never was), but because anyone betting on when she would leave him would have put their money on it happening a good fifteen years ago.

“What,” I start. “What... happened?”

“It's not worth recounting,” she says.

She looks out the window, a tear streaming down her cheek. I wipe it away with my finger, but she flinches and I recoil. She sucks back her tears and bangs her empty glass on the table.

“'Another round,” she calls out.

“Cecelia, they know.”

“I don't even know,” she says. “Whatever, it's whatever. I know he's your father, but good riddance.”

I press my hand to hers.

“You never deserved to be married to him,” I say. “Anyone would tell you that.”

I roll my thumb around on the top of her hand. She smiles weakly.

“You're a good man. Least I did something right.”

“You've done plenty right.”

We down our next drink and I pay the check. Then I walk her to her car.

“You okay to drive?” I ask.

“It was two-and-a-half shots at best. Watered down.”

“I meant emotionally,” I say.

“The horrors persist, but so do I,” she jokes.

I try to laugh or smile, but I don't see the humor in it. I know that when Cecelia goes home to that house, she's going to feel all alone. I know also that my father is going to make it hell for her.

I hug her tightly, wishing to let her know that I'm here for her. She smells astounding—earthy, sweet and smokey like cognac and vanilla and something unexplainable. I suspect she's picked up a smoking habit.

“Do you want me to come home?” I ask.

“No,” she says, her voice wavering. “You've got a life, you gotta live it while you can. One day you're twenty-five and the next you're picking out life insurance policies. It's a drag, kiddo. So, grab it and take a drag before it vaporizes.”

She ran her fingers along the lapel of my cashmere peacoat. I could feel my skin break out in goosebumps.

“So handsome. You still seeing that girl with the pets?”

“I'm allergic,” I joke.

“Well, I hope you're putting yourself out there.”

“Never mind me, Ma.”

“Don't call me that,” she says. “You know I never liked it. Sounds so old.”

“What am I supposed to call you?”

“You're a man now, and I'm just gonna be some divorcee.” She pauses as she opens her driver side door and smiles. “Call me Cecilia.”

I watch as she gets in, her slingback heels showcasing the flexure lines of her lean ankles. It's a wonder how she gets home without men hitting on her at every stop light.

She pulls away and I feel a sharp and sudden loneliness wash over me. Her absence is palpable.

I know immediately what I need to do.

* * *

Cecelia li