Two Women Laughing

We are late for our 7pm dinner reservation. It takes time for my 92 year-old mother to negotiate curb heights and uneven sidewalks, slick with winter slush. The flagstone pathway to the door of the restaurant is dimly lit and treacherous. Hungry patrons brush by us, wearing expressions of false friendliness, their impatience singeing the night air. Sometimes, I'm tempted to pick my mother up under one arm and make a dash for it like Tom Brady; sometimes, I want to grab her cane and whack someone. Occasionally, I breathe deeply and practice patience. 


This is the mom who made me a robot costume one Halloween - a square box spray-painted silver with a hole cut in the top for my head to poke through. She wrote Victor Robot Model A on it, and I wore some sort of tin hat and grey grease paint on my face. The box covered me. When Tommy's mother took us trick-or-treating, I got stuck in the car door, legs in black tights kicking.


Because we're late, they haven't held her favorite table nearest the door by the window. It's tricky for her to thread her way through chairs and tables. The manager impatiently ushers us up a flight of stairs into another room where everyone is yelling to be heard. It isn't easy walking two abreast amongst waiters bearing steaming plates. My daughter is waiting at the table. We settle my mother, cane there, purse here, coat there. She beams at Katherine.


"Oh, Katherine, you look simply wonderful," she says.


"Thanks, Gogs, so do you."


"I hope you're not getting too many of those sonograms," she says. My mother is worried about the effects of electro-magnetism from cell phones, cell towers and microwaves. In her way, she is an activist. She is also worried about dirty electricity. Sometimes she gets carried away, so I'm poised to interject an alternative subject.


"No, Gogs," Katherine says easily.


"That's good," my mother nods. "And no wi-fi in the bedroom?"


"No, Gogs," Katherine smiles.


 My shoulders relax.


Katherine entertains my mother with details about her recent business trip to New Orleans. In her role as corporate event planner, she had arranged for her clients to participate in a private parade that included a brass band and beads.


I'm observing these two women together. My mother inclines her head toward Katherine, so as not to miss a word. She is genuinely interested, full of praise, and Katherine is glowing with pregnancy and pride. 


When the waiter comes to take our order, my mother turns to me,


"What is it I always have?" she asks.


"Gnocci!" Katherine and I chime together.


"Of course! Gnocci, and don't spare the cheese," Mom says.


"I must tell you about this new recipe for stuffing turkey," she says to Katherine.


"What's that, Gogs?"


I lean in.


"You use popcorn," my mother explains. "Only the best gourmet popcorn."


"Popcorn?" my daughter queries.


"Popcorn," my mother repeats emphatically.


She pauses.


"Then, when the turkey's ass blows off you know it's done."


I guffaw so loudly that Katherine shushes me. "Mom." 


At neighboring tables, despite the din, heads swivel.


I can't stop. My mother is laughing too. This just happens to us - instantaneous hysteria. Coursing tears, loss of breath. It's happened in golf carts - twice in this particular restaurant. We share an unbridled hilarity, an intimacy free from the mother-daughter yoke. 


We're just two women laughing.