The Do-Over

by Sharon M. Peterson

“He started whinin’ about how lonely he was because I worked so much. I went a little crazy, I guess you could say.” Her head tipped toward the pan our breakfast sizzled in. “I picked up that pan and swung.” A corner of her mouth tipped in a smirk. “Guess his head got in the way.”

On my list of Places I Hated, the dentist’s office was firmly at number two. Slightly worse than shopping with my mother, but not as bad as a visit to my gynecologist, who was also a family friend. My parents had him over for barbecues and I couldn’t quite look Dr. Sullivan in the eye without remembering where his eyes had been. I was, of course, a fully-grown woman who could easily change doctors, but then my mother would find out, I’d have to explain, and the battle would be lost before it began.

Skipping the elevator, I trudged up the stairs to offload the things I’d bought at the grocery store on the way home in preparation for a long weekend of being sad and broken-hearted. The fat, sugar, and chocolate food groups were all represented nicely. Oh, and lettuce and some baby carrots. Mostly because I wanted the cashier to know I was an adult.

Ten minutes later, which I spent thoroughly examining the many ways that my life was a disaster, Mathias showed up unannounced, bearing gifts of red wine, fruit, and a small dartboard. “A dartboard?” “Hold on.” From his pocket, he produced a crudely cut-out picture of Brent’s head and slapped it on the board. “I printed it off Facebook.” “And the devil horns and goatee?” Mathias grinned. “I added those. I think it suits him. You like?” “Totally.”

“Brent is an asshat. Remember that.” “I mean, maybe⁠—” “Nope. He’s an asshat. You are not the problem here. He is.” He wrapped me in a tight hug and rested his chin on the top of my head. I melted against him, enjoying the knowledge that if nothing else, I always had him. Plus, he smelled good. Mathias took care with his appearance. His outfits—skinny jeans and a crisp white t-shirt today—might scream casual, but they were always calculated to impress. “God, you’re short.” With a snort, I stepped back. “Thanks.” “That’s what I’m here for, to remind you of your vertical deficiencies.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? I could stay,” she said. “Joel would understand.” No, he wouldn’t understand, and neither would our mother. This party was Mom’s yearly chance to show off her beautiful, successful daughter. And me.

“Nothing goes better with pity than jalapeño poppers.” Mathias stuffed a second one in his mouth and talked around it. “Soothes the soul.”

Mathias leaned over and kissed my cheek. “You smell good, and you have great skin and you’re smart and you make me laugh. Why can’t I love you?” I blinked. “I mean, I love you but I’m not in love with you.” He took a deep swig of wine and wiped his mouth with a grimace. “I sound like a character in a cheesy romantic comedy.” “We’d be adorable. We could call ourselves Percias.” Mathias’s nose crinkled. “Sounds like a foot disease.” “I love you, too.”

I slugged back more wine and chased it with a handful of chips. Some of them made it in my mouth, others down the front of my shirt, and one definitely disappeared into my bra. Saving it for later.

When my mother sent Phee off to college, she’d lamented her empty nest and filled it with Pericles—part standard poodle, part demon. Mom doted on him. Pericles had a full wardrobe and was only allowed to eat a homemade diet with ingredients like scrambled organic eggs and rice and sweet potatoes that Mom culled from the canine cookbook she read with religious fervor. But it was his eyes that bothered me the most; the dark, bottomless pits followed me around the room like one of those haunted paintings. I secretly called him Scary Perry when Mom wasn’t around.

Joel Allen nodded a greeting as he passed me in a cloud of cologne and male ego. He had thick dark hair (plugs, Mathias said), a year-round golden tint to his skin (spray tan, Mathias said), and a perma-smile full of ultra-white teeth (veneers, Mathias said).

On the list of People I Despise, Joel Allen was now numero uno. Even before Brent.

“Always choose kindness. Unless the other person’s a jackass. Then all bets are off.”

On my list of People Who Should Die a Painfully Long, Torturous Death, Joel Allen was also number one.

Me: Joel Allen is a jerk. I was surprised to see the three small dots indicating Mathias was typing his reply. Mathias: You spelled ASSHOLE wrong.

“That’s right, Craig, my boy,” Mimi said. “You tell the old drill sergeant to lay off. She needs to remove the stick shoved up her⁠—” “Mama!” Mom shot Mimi a glare that would have cowed a lesser woman.

“What’s this, Cupcake?” my father asked, a forkful of turkey halfway to his mouth. “Apparently Brent broke up with our daughter.” “On the radio,” Joel Allen added. He flinched, and I thought Phee might have pinched him. I would have preferred a fork to the thigh.

“No problem. It happened sometimes when Mrs. Duboniski lived here. She didn’t get a lot of mail. Mostly cat magazines. Oh, and the Victoria’s Secret catalog, which I thought was a little odd since she was in her seventies. Anyway, I usually bring it over when I get home from work. But I came home early because I had a… thing.” “A funeral?” “What?” “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. The black clothes and your eye make-up. You look like you’ve been crying.”

“Well, my boyfriend broke up with me over the radio for concert tickets yesterday and my mom found out about it today after my sister’s boyfriend… no, wait, fiancé now, told everyone, and then my best friend’s heart was broken and, um, it’s been a bad couple of days.” Why was I telling him this? Those murky eyes squinted at me in a way that communicated he might be questioning my sanity. Ditto, buddy.

“The traffic this morning,” she sighed. “Some days, I dream about getting out of my car and explaining to those people how to drive.” “I believe that’s called road rage. Highly discouraged.” She flopped in her chair. “Speaking of killing, I want you to know whenever you’re ready, I’ll help you bury his body.”

Me: I agreed to have lunch with Brent. Mathias: Do you enjoy torture? Me: My mom made me do it. Mathias: You have mommy issues. Me: I KNOW!

I’d just returned from lunch—orange chicken, fried rice, wonton soup from the place down the street—when my phone buzzed. “Go out with me tonight,” Mathias said in place of a normal greeting. “Hi. I’ve had a good day, only one Brent sighting. Thanks for asking.” “Did you hear me?” “I’d probably hear you better if you asked nicely.” He snorted. “Perci Mayfield, would you do me the honor of going out with me tonight so we can have a couple of overpriced drinks?” “See? How hard was that? What’s gotten into you?”

“You lie with dogs, you get fleas. You lie with liars, you get crabs.” —MIMI

“Hey, it’s me, Perci. Remember? I live down the hall from you.” An eyebrow hitched over a murky-colored eye. “I remember.” I propped an elbow on the bar and set my chin in my palm. Nate turned toward me, leaning against the counter like he had all the time in the world. “Has anyone ever told you that you have weird eyes?” I said. A corner of his mouth quivered. “Has anyone ever told you you don’t have to say every thought out loud?” “Yep. Diarrhea of the mouth. I’m afraid it’s a chronic condition.” I grimaced.

“What was I thinking, Sal?” The World’s Best Betta Fish swam about serenely. “I think I’m having an early midlife crisis here. Tell me I’m going to be okay.” He nodded. Okay, fine, I know he didn’t nod in the traditional sense, but I could tell he was listening. Did other people have emotional support fish? They should.

My mother used the guise of a friendly meal to meddle. She expected a full account of my accomplishments for the month, and this naturally presented the perfect opportunity for her to offer her opinion. My accomplishments this last month? I’d kept my fish alive.

“Hello, dear,” Mom said, not taking her eyes from the menu in front of her. I smoothed my hair with a nervous hand and smiled. “How are you?” “Poor Pericles has a cold. I had to take him to the acupuncturist this morning.” Yes, my mother paid for someone to stick tiny needles in her dog. “In fact, we may have to cut things short today so I can pick him up. Poor baby.” “I’m sorry to hear he’s sick.” God didn’t even strike me dead when I said that either.

Mimi came over to my apartment on Sunday afternoon to give me a cooking lesson. “One of you girls needs to know how to make food that sticks to a man’s ribs,” she explained. Naturally, I was the right choice since I also liked food that stuck to my ribs.

My mom loves to call hearty meals rib stickers

“Silence may be golden, but duct tape is silver and it’s real cheap.” —MIMI

With a distracted nod, she went back to her worm book. I stared down at her head an extra beat. The entire exchange was a little dizzying, like driving too fast over a speed bump or watching a familiar movie dubbed in a foreign language. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just made a lifelong friend with an eight-year-old.

“Lilah, you didn’t tell me we’d met before,” I said. Her shoulders rose to her ears. “I didn’t think it was important.” She turned to her father. “This is my new friend, Perci. Her favorite bird is a flamingo and⁠—” “No bird talk for now, please. Let’s get going. I’ve planned a very special meal for my valentine.” “Is it macaroni and cheese?” Lilah dug a fist into her hip. “Again?” “Excuse me, I said ‘special.’ It’s shells and cheese.”

“Nice necklace.” I pointed at the macaroni creation dangling from the rearview mirror. It looked like one of the art projects from Miss Marge’s. “Thanks. I’ve been told pasta really brings out my eyes.”

My face flamed, likely a shade of red so brilliant, there wasn’t a name for it. Now we could name it Perci Red, and Mimi would get a pair of shoes in that very shade and tell everyone they were named for her granddaughter.

Hope House was nestled in the outskirts of west Houston in what appeared to be a former grocery store in a strip mall. Everywhere I looked, off-white besieged me. Off-white walls, off-white floors, an off-white couch that looked like it had lived a long, off-white life and needed to be taken out back and shot.

The women began arriving thirty minutes later. Some looked too young to drink, others looked old enough to have watched Jesus turn water into wine.

It wasn’t the worst presentation ever, but I wouldn’t be winning any prizes. The slide show moved quickly, but it was the interruptions and arguments that delayed us. For example, the impassioned discussion about what size hoop earring was desirable in a work environment. Silver or gold lip ring—which was classier? Were five-inch heels appropriate for an office job? After a heated debate over whether belly shirts were okay to wear to an office party almost resulted in a fistfight, I felt it prudent to call it a night. “Thank you for coming. If you have any questions, feel free to come up afterward and ask.” Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t.

“Where do you work?” I smoothed a hand over the spot of green paint on the hem of my t-shirt—finger-painting day. “At a daycare. But I used to work at a mortgage company.” Her expression disbelieving, she handed the paper back. “You left an office job to work with a bunch of snotty kids? Man, that’s stupid.” Maybe my mom planted her.

But last week, Jacque wasn’t available; Alisa was. Alisa had purple streaks in her hair and rolled her eyes when I explained how Jacque always cut my hair. “A bob like that hits you in the absolute wrong spot. You should totally grow it out.” “Really?” She narrowed her eyes and spun the chair I was sitting in, running her fingers through my hair. “Yes, and highlights would look awesome. They’d brighten up your face and make you look younger.” Wide-eyed, I stared at myself in the mirror. “I look old?” With a shrug, she pulled a hair color swatch book from a drawer. “Thirty-five isn’t old or anything. But you could look younger.” Thirty-five? But I wasn’t even thirty yet. I hadn’t found the love of my life. I still couldn’t use plastic wrap properly. I secretly liked to watch cartoons on Saturday mornings while eating a giant bowl of sugary cereal. I was not old. “Do it,” I’d said. “Do the highlights.”

On my mother’s list of Favorite Sayings, number three was, “I might lose the battle, but I always win the war.” Clearly, she had declared war on me. This was the reason I found myself sitting around the dinner table with my family and Brent. When he’d arrived, a victorious light shone in Mom’s eyes, and I realized I’d been lulled into a false sense of security. “I hope you don’t mind.” What could I say? I hid in the bathroom and texted Mathias. Me: Please save me. Mom invited Brent. BRENT IS HERE. Unfortunately, Mathias did not come to my rescue, nor did I contract bubonic plague and subsequently die.

I rested my chin on my knees. “I don’t want to go back out there.” “Too late for that. If I had to miss bingo night at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow with that hottie bingo caller⁠—” “Isn’t he a priest?” “Priests can be hotties.”

My mother pushed her plate aside and went to her happy place—meddling in her children’s lives. “Let’s go dress shopping soon. We’ll make a day of it—all us girls. Your sister will be a bridesmaid, of course. What colors are you thinking? Perci looks best in black, which won’t do for a wedding.” Her gaze locked on me like a missile with a target in sight. “You know, honey, you have a year. We’ll get you on a diet and⁠—” “I can give you the name of my personal trainer,” Joel Allen chimed in. Kill. Me. Now.

Mom leaned back in her chair, her expression earnest. She was, you know, helping here, after all. “It’s something to consider. Wedding photos do last forever, and you don’t want to embarrass yourself.” The room went silent. I wanted to disappear. Mimi reached for her iced tea, took a slow sip, and set it down with a thunk. “Did you know, Bobbie Jo here used to carry around a few extra pounds? Chubby little thing when she was little.” Eyes narrowed, she turned to her daughter. “Now, you’re skinny and a bitch. Eat some cake, honey. We’d all appreciate it.”

Head high, I twisted on my heels, took three steps and tripped over a prone Pericles. He gave me a look that said, it serves you right; I gave him a look that said, I will dance on your grave someday.

“There’s a foot for every shoe, a hat for every head And an ass for every saddle.” —MIMI

“So, here you are… in my apartment. Surprise.” “I gotta tinkle. Be right back.” Mimi made her way to the bathroom. Mom perched on the edge of the couch. “Your grandmother had a doctor’s appointment, so I drove her.” “Could have gone on my own,” Mimi yelled from the bathroom. “Please. Someone needs to take care of you.” “Yeah. Me. Get your own life.”

I sighed in relief. I already had to juggle my mother, my sister, and my grandmother on Friday night; I couldn’t risk my pretend boyfriend who was my real next-door neighbor and didn’t know he was my pretend boyfriend popping up too. That would be awkward. Embarrassing. Ridiculous. A complete failure on so many levels. So, of course, that was exactly what happened.

“I think that pretty much says it all.” I pointed at the sign Stella had hung on the front of the table which read, Donations welcome. Don’t be a cheapskate.

“I remembered about the bowling, and I asked and asked and asked until Daddy said yes,” Lilah said. With a toothy grin, she adjusted her Wonder Woman headband. “Daddy?” Mom repeated, one eyebrow crawling upward against all Botox odds.

“Why don’t you join our game? We’re about to start another.” “No!” I said, my voice attracting the attention of anyone within a five-mile radius. With a nervous chuckle, I continued in what I hoped sounded like the voice of a completely composed person whose heart wasn’t threatening to combust. “I mean, Nate probably just wanted to stop by and say hi. I’m sure he⁠—” Nate shook his head, his smile confused. “We came to bowl.” “Great.” No, not great.

I found a fifteen-pounder and hoisted it with both hands. “Here. Try this one.” He took it from me, his fingers brushing mine, and it felt like he’d meant to do that. Which was dumb since I was in the middle of what had to be the most embarrassing moment of my life, and that included the time I walked into my second period class in seventh grade with my skirt tucked inside my underwear. Or the time I’d accidentally walked into the men’s bathroom at a Christmas Eve service and got an eyeful of the youth pastor. Or the time I’d face-planted it at my college graduation ceremony.