Page 15 of Back for Seconds

“Look…” I scrolled a bit on her screen until I reached an all-caps paragraph of white text on an orange background. “It says right here—Find yourself and your spirit once again at sea with our all-inclusive, worry-free packages perfect for any budget just book now and get ready to experience the experience of your life. Jesus, they need a copy editor. Bring your bikini and leave your inhibitions at home! Mom, that’s a fuck boat.”

“Well—at my age, you can be inhibited for a lot of reasons. Like glaucoma o-or menopause.” She sounded nervous, the smart girl.

I stared at her for a moment, my mouth slightly agape. And I thought I was delusional. “I hope they hand out condoms. And hand sanitizer.” I shoved my fork back into my pancakes. “And maybe extra ibuprofen.”

“It is not a fuck boat!” she hissed, shoving her phone back into her purse. “And you won’t be alone—you have your brother! You and Sally get along like a wildfire. You could even go visit your dad in Flori—”

I cut her off with a loud snort of laughter, but really I wanted to press my forehead to the sticky wooden surface of the bistro table between us and let out a guttural sob. “Oh, no way. If those are my options, you better buy me a ticket for the fuck boat too.” I was doing my best to be funny about this. To make light. But my chest felt like it was caving in.

I loved Christmas.

Mom could sense it; she reached for my hands and looked at me with that extreme tenderness I’d never quite seen in anyone else’s eyes before. It wasn’t just mother’s love—AnneMarie was a gentle soul, a bleeding heart turned inside out and stitched to the cuff of her velour tracksuit.

“Listen to me.” Instantly, I was ten years old again. I let her hold my hands in hers; I let her make fierce, unbroken eye contact with her freaky blue eyes. “I’m going to find myself, June. I’m ready to love me again. And I want to learn how to do that while I’m around other women my age. I want to talk to them; I want to learn from them. I need this. I need to…to rediscover what brings me joy.” I broke my gaze away from hers, all too aware of the moisture gathering in my eyes. Her thumb traced a soft path back and forth over my knuckles. I knew what was next. I could have written those words before they left her lips.

“And you should too, June. You need to move on.”

Growing up, my brothers always called me a crybaby. A spoiled crybaby. All I had to do was cry, and Mom came rushing over to dote on Big Baby June. It was your typical inter-sibling, fairly harmless needling, but something about that phrase specifically had stung so deeply. Maybe it had been the emphasis on big, maybe it had been the way they chewed on the word baby.

It was only now, as an adult, I could see the truth.

Sure, I cried a lot. I couldn’t help it—it was like every emotion had a direct line of access to my eyeballs. I didn’t want to cry. But I’d been blessed with a mother that felt with me. Whenever the tears came, there she was. She’d take my hand in hers and sometimes, she’d cry too. Yes, I’d been spoiled—so spoiled. Not with attention or toys or compliments. I’d been spoiled by her love.

I squeezed my eyes shut. The sounds of the café fell away until all I could hear was the swoosh of blood flowing back and forth between my heart and my brain. Tears sprung, hot and uninvited, from my eyes. “How? Tell me how, and I’ll do it. I swear.”

“You have to just try, sweetie. Try anything. Do anything. Break out of this pattern. You’re stuck, bubblegum. And only you can unstick yourself.”

We sat in silence for a moment, tears dragging down my cheeks as she held my hands. Finally, I managed: “You’re telling me this one week before Christmas.”

“You’ll be ok,” she whispered. “You’re so tough, Junebug.”

How many times had I heard that in the last year?

Chapter 6 June

We made our way back the way we came, kissed and hugged goodbye, my mom climbing into her SUV and heading back toward her house on the other side of the bay. We made promises to each other: I would drive her to the airport tomorrow, and she’d research the likelihood of contracting genital herpes from a group of her peers (high—very high).

I watched my mom drive off, a leaden sadness pulling my heart into my stomach. I wasn’t ready to run home and climb into bed again, alone with this new, fresh pain, so I turned to the boardwalk.

The planks were crowded with an unseasonably large crowd, the masses undeterred by the fierce wind coming in off the ocean. I tucked my face into the front of my jacket, burrowed my hands into my armpits, hugging my snow globe close to my chest, and let myself be pulled into the swell. The crowd grew denser and denser as we reached the midpoint of the boardwalk—–and then suddenly, I was in a Christmas market.

The scenery changed all at once. One moment I was standing in front of the surrey rental shop, the next I was on a winding path in Strasbourg, tucked among stands fashioned to look like snow-capped cabins, warmly lit and displaying their wares. Handcrafted tree ornaments, hot chocolate, live wreaths, cat sweaters, kitschy mugs, and beer steins. Lest I forget where I truly was, one stand sold beautiful blown-glass bongs. I paused to admire the artistry.

“Hey—hey, sweetheart.”

I tore my eyes away from the Stewie Griffin bowl piece that had mesmerized me.

A few paces away, a man in a shabby Eagles jacket was standing by three lonesome Christmas trees, one of them barely three feet tall and missing a significant number of branches, baring his teeth to me in an expression that was neither smile nor full grimace, the wiry white hairs of his mustache falling over his teeth. “You want a tree? I’ll give ya all three for fifty dollars. Steal of the century.”

I flashed a halfhearted smile. “Ahhh, no, thank you.”

“Come on, that’s a serious deal. Three Christmas trees, baby.”

I gave his inventory a once-over. They were really, truly pathetic trees. “I’m all good, sir. But thanks again.”

He scoffed. “You fuckin’ people. You think you’re too good for these trees?”

“Well, I—”