Free People Who Knew Me by Kim Hooper

hear.
    â€œWe’re not kids, Mom,” I said.
    Drew dished out the scampi into four bowls and brought them to the table, along with a salad.
    â€œDinner’s on,” he said.
    â€œIt’s just good he’s finishing with that school,” my mom said, unwilling to let it go. She never liked the idea of Drew going to cooking school. She thought he should get what she called a “regular job,” like the one I had. She said that was a man’s responsibility to his wife. I tried to explain that times were different, that men and women were partners now, but she just shook her head and said, “It’s just not right.” I reminded her that she didn’t need a man to take care of her. She said, “But I sure as hell wanted one.”
    â€œI think you’ll realize I’ll be successful when you try this,” Drew said, indicating the meal on the table. My mom took her seat and I walked Drew’s mom to hers, my hand on her lower back. She slouched against her chair and groaned like she was exhausted by the trek from the couch to the table. My mom poured herself another glass, finishing off the bottle.
    His mom took the first bite. “It’s delicious, honey,” she said.
    â€œThere’s no such thing as shrimp scampi tacos, though,” my mom said, still blowing cooling breaths on her first bite.
    â€œMom, please,” I said. “Drew makes amazing tacos.”
    â€œWe’re going to have a great menu,” Drew said, maintaining his smile, per usual. Nothing rattled him. “We’ll have carnitas tacos, chicken tacos, portabello mushroom tacos for the vegetarians.”
    â€œWell, I hope it all works out,” my mom said. She took a long gulp of wine, like it was juice on a hot day.
    â€œAnd then grandkids,” Drew’s mom chimed in.
    She was focused intently on her meal, concentrating on stopping her hands from shaking so she could control her fork. They wouldn’t stop, though. It took her a few minutes to take a proper bite. More often than not, the food fell off the fork before she could get it to her mouth.
    â€œGrandkids?” my mom said, like someone had just suggested we all take a spaceship to the moon. “They’re still kids themselves!”
    â€œMom,” I said, “stop.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” Drew said, ever the pacifier. “I think we have a few years before kids.”
    â€œMaybe not that long,” I said.
    He looked at me with furrowed brows, asking me with the creases in his forehead what I meant. We hadn’t discussed kids much, with the exception of far-off fantasies presented whimsically in moments of romance: “I bet our kids get your eyes,” and “I can’t wait to tell bedtime stories.”
    Drew looked down, resumed eating.
    â€œHow have you been doing, Mom?” he asked, changing the subject.
    â€œFine,” she said, eyes on her fork, just a few inches away from making it into her mouth. Her bowl was still mostly full and the rest of us were halfway done.
    â€œDid you see that new doctor?” he asked her. Drew was on her case about this frequently. He called her a few times a week, checking in, asking her about the shaking hands and what the doctors said. She always claimed they didn’t know what they were talking about. She doctor-hopped, saying she needed to find someone she trusted. I told Drew, “She doesn’t like what the doctors are telling her. She wants to find someone who will lie to her.” He said it wasn’t that. I didn’t know who was in stronger denial—Drew or his mother.
    â€œI saw him,” she said. She scrunched up her nose. “No good.”
    â€œDoes he think it’s Parkinson’s, too?”
    That’s what all the doctors were diagnosing—Parkinson’s. She didn’t want to believe it because there’s not a damn thing out there to cure it.
    â€œThat’s what