Page 60 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

The only part of this statement that was even remotely true was the thesaurus for my birthday. I got it along with a Book of Mormon bound in blue leather. Both books had been given to us by a pair of polite, short-sleeved missionaries who’d spent more than three hours in our tiny apartment kitchen, listening as my mother recited her life story. She’d gotten all the way up to her first stage audition before they’d managed to extricate themselves—and a good thing, too, because once my mother got on the subject of her decision to chase her Hollywood dream against the odds and her parents’ wishes, it was impossible to stop her.

To this day, I don’t think they meant to leave the thesaurus behind, but they were so grateful to get out of the apartment that they didn’t dare look back.

“I thought she told me you were amathematicalprodigy,” Lincoln mused as we watched Greg and my mother enter the house. “And that your doll was a protractor, not a thesaurus.”

“Don’t start,” I said, sighing. Once my mom started in on the lies, it was hard to keep track. “How many drinks has she had?”

“All of them. Every drop of liquor we have in the house.” Lincoln paused to pull me into his arms and hold me there much longer than necessary for a simple greeting. For once—just a little once—I relaxed and let myself enjoy it. “How was work today?”

“Interesting.” Since I could hardly relate the entire day’s events while we had guests, I launched into an apology instead. “Sorry I didn’t warn you I was bringing a guest home for dinner, but he stopped by after work to chat about his grandfather. I feel bad for the guy. Life can’t be easy with a man like Arthur McLachlan for a relative.”

Lincoln didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. The unspoken truth—that what Ireallymeant was life with a relative like Althea Sharpe wasn’t easy—rang loud and clear between us.

“It’s fine. I’m sure he’s great. I’ll just throw another swordfish steak on the grill.”

I entered the kitchen to find my mother bestowing her most dazzling smile on Greg. “I interrupted you just when you were getting to the good part. Howold were you when you first heard my album?”

I cleared my throat, prepared to jump in and save him, but he answered easily enough.

“About ten, probably. I grew up here, so my mom and I had seen some of your posters around town.”

I blinked, surprised by the authenticity of this reply.

“We didn’t come across any of your albums until a few years later, after we’d moved to Seattle, but my mom immediately recognized you. She grabbed a copy of your first CD, fell in love, and bought everything you ever put out after that.”

“Wait.” I couldn’t help myself. “You’re serious? You actuallyhaveheard of her?”

My mom sighed. “My poor Mateo. You’ve never appreciated me the way I was meant to be appreciated.”

She trailed over to the dining room table. It was located in a solarium off the kitchen, a back porch that Lincoln had converted and transformed with plants and twinkle lights. The room was almost always ten degrees warmer than the rest of the house, which was the only explanation for why my mom finally slid out of her coat and handed it to Greg.

He stood holding it awkwardly until Lincoln lifted it from his hands. If my boyfriend was smart, he’d toss it onto the barbecue the second he was done cooking dinner.

“That’s what your little book club book is for, isn’t it?” my mom continued brightly. “So all of you can better appreciate your mothers?”

“Mom, that’s not whatThe Joy Luck Clubis about. It’s about children and their mothers better appreciatingeach other.”

She waved this off with the unconcern of a woman who’d never once tried to understand anything about me. “It’s the same thing. When do you get to the part where you take me on vacation? I remember that being in the book.”

I threw up my hands in defeat. “The woman in the story flies to China to find her long-lost siblings, not to cruise the seven seas with her mother.”

My mom barely blinked. Her ability to revise history to suit the particulars of her own memory was nothing short of miraculous. “Have you ever takenyourmom on a cruise?” she asked Greg.

“No,” he said quietly. “I always wanted to, but she passed away.”

A feeling of discomfort immediately filled the air. My mom was the first to react.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She reached over and took his hand, but not before dropping the slightly lilting drawl of a songstress from her tone. “Every boy needs his mother.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

Lincoln waltzed in with our dinner before I could add my sympathies to my mom’s, which was probably for the best.If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.

It wasn’t embroidered on a pillow, but that didn’t make it any less true.

***

“What’s another word for ‘bubble’?”