"My Mother and Ronald McDonald"

We are finishing Mr. McGee’s early birthday dinner of lemon chicken and roasted potatoes and this is a good thing as I can’t take much more of my mother’s flirty laughter. Her face is all rosy. A person could look at that face and never believe it was flushed with anger just an hour ago when I held a mirror to her conscience. It was the longest spell of real emotion I’ve seen in her since dad died.


“Amelia, what is the big deal here? Vinny and I are just friends,” she said and grabbed a bath towel.


“Then why are you taking a shower now? Who are you trying to impress?” I followed her into the bathroom and sat on the toilet.


“Amelia, it’s hot and I’m tired.” She caught her reflection in the mirror. I didn’t care one bit for the way she angled her face to the glass, flirting with her beauty, imagining Mr. McGee no doubt. “Can you please give me some privacy here?”


I stood up so that our bodies were almost touching in the tiny room. “What do you think Howard would say about your new little friendship?”


She slapped me. One of her child-sized hands slapped me hard and fast on my cheek and time suddenly stood still. She sucked in her breath as if it were her face which stung. “I’m sorry.” She squeezed her towel.


“I’m getting used to it.” I said and pushed past her.


“Now what is that supposed to mean? You know I’ve never done something like that before.” A hand flew to her mouth.


“I wasn’t talking about that. You try to control everything and you don’t give a damn about who you hurt in the process!” Unshed tears pricked the back of my eyes.


I listened to her take a few quick breaths and mumble something about teenagers and left the nail biter alone with her fat lies.


Now Mr. McGee asks us if we want dessert but he is only really looking at mom who is only really seeing him. That slap was nothing more than mom fighting her conscience. But here is Mr. McGee, resting his hand on mom’s shoulder just long enough for all of us to notice, just long enough to help mom forget that she was ever married and deeply in love with our father.


Mr. McGee asks mom to close her eyes and winks at Jack who scurries to the kitchen counter with the ease of someone who’s lived in this apartment his whole life. Jack puts candles on a cake that Mr. McGee lights and Seth raises his eyebrows at me. “Okay mom, you can open your eyes now,” Jack says and begins to sing “Happy Birthday” with the McGees. Mom’s face practically glows between bursts of “Oh my” and “You shouldn’t have” like she is Miss America or something.


“Make a wish, Samantha.” Mr. McGee’s hand touches her shoulder again.


“Her name’s Sam,” I correct.


“Nah, your mother’s too pretty to be a Sam.” He smiles and mom turns a fresh shade of pink.


“Samantha’s mom’s real name anyway, right mom?” Jack hugs her from behind.


“Yes.” Mom looks at me to see if I agree with her answer. But Mr. McGee slides an envelope in front of her so that it no longer matters what I think. “Oh Vinny, you shouldn’t have,” she gushes and takes two tickets from the card.


“Ah, it’s no big deal,” he grins and hands mom a giant piece of cake.


“Really, you shouldn’t have,” I say and stare at him long enough for him to know that we are now enemies.


“Trust me. It really is no big deal. Dad gets stuff like that free all the time,” Seth says.


“Real smooth kid,” Mr. McGee says and turns as dark as his freckles.


“I love the symphony,” mom says and touches the tickets with the tips of her fingers.


“Vinny’s McGee in the Morning,” Jack says and stuffs more cake into his mouth.


I knew there was something nauseatingly familiar about the deep voice with the thick New York accent. Seth said he worked at a radio station but that’s not the same thing as the awful, Howard Stern-esque talk show host. So the skinny pervert with the fedora hat and cowboy boots made his bread and butter doing crank calls and phone polls ranging from how many times a week you and your partner had sex to how many people prefer a toilet seat up rather than down. Mom couldn’t have found a bigger loser to date.


Seth smiles at me and I fight to mirror his expression. Everyone wants this date, this odd match of my beautiful mother and Seth’s homely, freckle-faced father—everyone but me.


No, my father would never consider this lanky, purple-clad DJ good enough for my mother.


I take one last look at my new beaming friend and mentally say goodbye. I need to do this for my father, for my mother: I need to stop Sam and Vinny.