Back in the Burbs by Tracy Wolff
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I wake up with a hangover for the second time in a week—which is saying something, since it’s been more than a decade since my last one before this week. I really, really want to do nothing more than pull my pillow over my head and stay exactly where I am. Except now that I’m awake, it’s impossible to ignore how uncomfortable this couch is. And how much my neck hurts in my current position.
The first thing I’m going to do when the divorce is settled is burn this damn couch and buy another one. And when I do, I’m going to make sure it’s the most comfortable one on the market. If I have to spend the next God only knows how many nights on this couch, I freaking deserve it.
In the meantime, I’m going to get myself off this one and get dressed. It’s Sunday, which means…I have a lawn to mow.
I force myself to stand up. The room goes up, down, sideways, and then does some kind of undulating diagonal-wave thing. I flop back down and bury my head in my hands. Correction, I’m going to get myself off this couch as soon as my head doesn’t feel like the slightest move will make it shatter into a million pieces.
“Mallory?” my mom calls out from the kitchen. “Is that you, dear?”
“Yes, Mom.” Just getting those two words out makes me wince with pain—in part because all the brain cells I didn’t kill off yesterday are crying in agony and partly because my voice sounds like a frog has not only taken up residence in my throat but has actually died there.
Lucky frog.
“Well, come in here, then,” Mom says. “Sarah and I are making blueberry pancakes for breakfast.”
Shit. She sounded closer that time. I pry my hands away from my eyes and force myself to turn and look back toward the kitchen.
Sure enough, my mom is standing in the doorway between the kitchen and family room, dressed in her favorite apron and brandishing a spatula like a weapon. “You’re not going to get any better sitting there. I have hot coffee and Tylenol waiting on the table for you, and the pancakes and bacon will be ready in just a minute. We’ll get that hangover fixed up in no time.”
Then she disappears back into the kitchen.
And if I ever need—more—proof that my mother is an alien, today is definitely supplying it. She had way more to drink yesterday than I did, yet she’s acting like she’s perfectly fine. That isn’t human.
Still, I spent enough of my life under Elizabeth Martin’s thumb to know that the clock has started. If I don’t get my ass to her table—I mean, my table—in the next three minutes, she will come drag me there by the ear. And since my ears are part of the head that feels like it will shatter at any moment, it seems like a bad move to let that happen.
I make a quick stop in the half bath and splash water on my face and wind my totally unruly hair up into a topknot before I drag myself to the kitchen table. I shove the Tylenol my mom has waiting for me into my mouth, then swallow it down with scalding-hot coffee.
The shot of caffeine is totally worth the pain.
I take another long sip, then turn to look at my mom and Sarah, who are working the stove in perfect harmony. It’s a far cry from “you must be the mistake,” but apparently several rounds of Banana Bombers can cure anything.
Except this hangover.
As my mom drops a stack of blueberry pancakes on my plate, I get my first good look at her. I can’t believe it. Her hair is wild around her shoulders and her face is devoid of makeup. Considering my mom doesn’t even leave her room in the morning without being fully done up, this is one of the few times in my life I can remember seeing her like this.
Figuring it’s because she is devastated about leaving Dad, I brace myself for more tears. But instead of looking sad, she looks resolute. Not happy necessarily, but like she knows what she wants to do. And, more, is at peace with it.
It’s that peace, and the fact that she’s obviously trying—with Sarah, with me, and with the universe—that has me moving over to hug her. It isn’t something I do often, so I’m not sure who’s more startled by the action, my mom or me.
Still, she hugs me back and even pats my arm. “Eat your pancakes before they get cold.”
It’s pretty much as close to an I love you as my mother gets on non-holidays, so I take it.
Breakfast is a lot more subdued than most of yesterday, but once my stomach is full and the Tylenol has kicked in, I feel a million times better. Which is a good thing because, even though I have a hangover and the mother of all cricks in my neck, I still have a job to do. A job that starts with raiding Nick’s garage for his lawn mower and ends with my grass actually getting cut.
A deal is a deal, after all, and he stuck around through way more yesterday than I would ever have asked him to. And since I start work in the morning, it’s time I keep up my end of the bargain.
After taking care of the breakfast dishes—Sarah and Mom cooked, so I cleaned—I run upstairs and change into a red tank top and my most comfortable pair of shorts. Then I grab my phone and head out the door and over to Nick’s.
Before he left last night, Nick mentioned that he’d be running errands most of the morning. I insisted he text me the code to his garage so I can get the mower, and he humored me—even though the look on his face said he didn’t expect me to be in any condition to mow the yard.
I may not be in any condition to mow, but I am going to do it anyway. After pulling up the text on my way across the street, I get into the garage without a problem. And since I’m braced for it, I’m not even surprised by the obsessive neatness of the space, complete with printed labels above each of the tools he has hanging over his large workbench.
I am, however, shocked by the size of his lawn mower. And sadly, that isn’t even a euphemism.
To begin with, the thing is a Honda, and forget a lawn mower, the engine on it looks like it could probably power a small SUV. Plus, it’s wide. Like really, really wide. And I know it says it’s self-propelled like my vacuum, but I’d be lying if I admitted I don’t have a few doubts about how I’m going to control this thing.
I glance over at my grass. Each green blade looks like it has somehow managed to grow another six inches overnight. Maybe it’s good that he has a giant metal beast like this. I’m not sure anything else would get through my mini jungle.
The only problem? I have no clue how to get this bad boy to move.
Still, Google exists for a reason.
After I roll the mower across the street to my yard, I pull out my phone and technology teaches me how to start the beast and how to keep it revving afterward. Thank God for YouTube parents who post how-to videos.
Following the steps Ed from Topeka showcases in his video, I turn the fuel valve, move the flywheel break control to the run position, and then yank the starter cord. Nothing happens. Not a thing. I try again. And again. And again. My right arm is jelly now, so I try with my left until it is marshmallow fluff. I’m mentally running through every curse word I know, but I refuse to let this beast defeat me.
My breath is coming out in hard puffs when I turn back to Ed, saving a few curse words just for him. Forty-seven seconds into the video, I spot my mistake. I turn the fuel valve, adjust the choke throttle lever, move the flywheel break control to the run position, and pull the starter cord. The sound of the beast’s motor coming to life almost makes me pass out in joy.
It’s a helluva lot better than actually pushing the mower through my unruly grass. After three feet, though, I realize pretty much nothing is cut. What the actual fuck. So I turn back to Ed, who it’s clear now has left out some pretty important steps.
After scrolling through a few videos, I discover that I can’t mow my grass like they do on the Home Depot commercials. It’s too long. Instead, I have to do some circus-act routine where I lean backward so the front of the mower lifts up and then lower it onto a small section of grass slowly. I try the maneuver. It’s awkward and hard and my sorry excuse for arm muscles are aching like a bitch, but it works. Thank fucking sweet baby Jesus, it works.
An hour later, I’ve sweat out my brain—it’s totally possible—and even more of the stinky wet stuff is rolling down my face, my back, my generous-size thighs. It’s gross and miserable and all of that has to count for something, so with my last ounce of energy, I put the finishing touches on my message to the HOA, cut off the mower’s engine, collapse onto the section of still-to-be-mowed grass, and close my eyes.
If there are snakes slithering around in here, they can have me.
I am too damn tired to fight.