(no subject)
WHO: Jasper and Maia Reynard.
WHEN: May 11th, 2008.
WHAT: Mother's Day. It never really works, does it?
When he stepped through the door into the diner, the bell jangled like usual, but it still took a few moments for the server to notice him. She was a perky blonde with considerable legs beneath the apron. She opened her mouth to say something -- something droll and welcoming, no doubt -- but before she could, another woman bore down on them and swiped the menu from her arms.
This woman was older. She was not perky, not bubbly, not cheery; nor, in fact, any of the typical sociable characteristics valued in a server. But she was solid and dependable, which is why the establishment liked her. She looked older than fixty-six, her eyes tired -- there might have been a sullen sort of beauty to her once, but time had scraped it away long ago. And like everything else taken from Maia Reynard, her sudden burst of confidence seemed to dwindle quickly, draining right out of her. She hovered expectantly, and shot her son a questioning look.
He shrugged.
And so, as the younger woman backed away -- her nametag probably read something like 'Amber' or 'Trudy' -- Maia led him to an empty booth and let him sit. He refrained from glancing back at the other waitress, because letting his mother seat him had become routine by now. Her hands twitched on the place-setting, instinctively starting to arrange napkin-bound cutlery and small plastic glasses.
"Water?"
He nodded. He had forgotten about today's particular holiday. Of course, Jasper had been aware of it in some presumably quiet corner of his mind (Mother's Day is soon, all the gift cards tell you -- have you gotten her a voucher to the movies? have you bought her flowers? have you even said hello?), but he was convinced that this impromptu visit was like every visit before. Wasn't it?
Reynard began reading the menu, his face impassive (but his lips were pressed tight, and that signified something -- though we are uncertain what), and so there was nothing left but for Maia to retreat, clutching the strings of her apron like a lifeline. A small cluster of gossiping waitresses dissipated as she approached the back of the diner. She did not meet their eyes; she fetched an empty jug and filled it with ice and water, saying nothing.
When he'd first started showing up, and when Maia had first started acting strangely, the coworkers had wondered if he might be some young lover, or some illicit affair ended badly. (He was the product of an illicit affair ended badly, but they couldn't have known it yet.) And when the suited stranger kept returning, steel-eyed and silent, and Maia bore it all with a timidity they'd never seen her show before, they realised this was something else entirely. They eventually heard the truth, or at least a whispered skeleton of it: She used to be a single mother, once upon a time. This was her son. He was a doctor now. Very well-to-do. Very rich.
Tipped handsomely.
But every time he returned, Maia's confidence broke, and Reynard's walls remained just as indomitable, just as unbreachable as the days and months before.
After he finished eating, and sat there nursing his coffee (better than the sludge from the hospital vending machines, but not by much), she hovered again. Her fingers plucked at her apron, and she hid behind the dessert menu like a shield.
"Can I sit down, Jas?"
The hesitance and quavering fear in her voice gave him pause. He met her eyes for the first time that day (his orders had been made to empty air, his gaze distanced, his voice clipped), and Jasper shrugged once more. Taking it as a positive sign, Maia slipped quickly into the opposite side of the booth. "I've missed you. You never--"
"Yes, I know."
She paused. Well, he was talking. That was good. But he sounded impatient -- that was worse. They sat there in silence for another minute, mother and son, with Jasper watching his coffee and Maia desperately looking at his face, drinking in the details and noting the places where he looked older. She noted the faint lines that kept appearing during the time she never saw him, and the time it took for her little boy to grow up.
"Are you seeing anyone?" she finally blurted out, her tone awkward and halting, as if she didn't know how to ask. "Some nice young girl? I don't like the thought of you alone, you're all the way up there in Manhattan, all by yourself..."
When he didn't answer at first, Maia wondered if perhaps she'd pushed it too far. He was acknowledging her existence and he wasn't freezing her out anymore, but that didn't mean they could have a conversation--
"I am," Reynard said, finally, and the answer seemed to surprise the both of them. Perhaps it was the fact that he'd answered at all.
"Oh. How long?"
"Since Easter."
"Are you happy?"
Another pause. "Yes. I-- yes."
"I hope she treats you well." Hearing that, he chuckled, and Maia's gut churned in hope. "Well enough, mother."
Like clockwork, the regular silence set in after that, as heavy and uncomfortable and oppressive as before. Possibly even worse. Maia was picturing women, rows upon rows of faces, and wishing she could meet them for once. She wanted grandchildren. She wanted family. She wanted a daughter-in-law. Mostly, she just wanted a son.
Reynard was starting to drum his fingers against the side of his mug and against the surface of the table, feeling steadily more claustrophobic. He had been in a good mood. He didn't know why he had to ruin it by driving out to Jersey and coming here. Even if it was Mother's Day.
Maia tucked a lock of lank black hair behind one ear, then said, abruptly: "Whatever happened to Kelly Chandler?"
You could have cut that silence with a knife. Reynard slipped a few inches back in his chair.
She continued. "I mean, I read what happened in the paper; it was awful. Medical misconduct. Was she alright, after? Losing her job?"
Kelly drinks alone, drowns herself in bitterness, and I twist that emotional knife in her gut whenever I can. Because I like seeing her fall apart over me.
"She's doing fine."
"Oh. I liked her, you know. Very nice girl. What's this one like, then, the one you're seeing now?" He noticed that Maia never said the word 'date'. Even when it came to describing her own string of men and loose ends, and now his -- the Reynards never dated people, they saw them. Briefly and unsuccessfully.
Jess? Also bitter. She has a son and has raised him alone. Just like you, in fact.
"She's very pretty."
The line was delivered with delicate and surgical precision. Maia made a noise in the back of her throat, a vague sound of affirmation. Her fingers twisted around the dessert menu again. The silence lingered for a while longer, and the coffee cooled, and both of them knew this meeting was coming to an end.
When he slipped out of the booth, Reynard did not say anything else. He did not tell her goodbye, and he did not hug his mother. He tipped handsomely.
The glass door jangled on his way out.
WHEN: May 11th, 2008.
WHAT: Mother's Day. It never really works, does it?
When he stepped through the door into the diner, the bell jangled like usual, but it still took a few moments for the server to notice him. She was a perky blonde with considerable legs beneath the apron. She opened her mouth to say something -- something droll and welcoming, no doubt -- but before she could, another woman bore down on them and swiped the menu from her arms.
This woman was older. She was not perky, not bubbly, not cheery; nor, in fact, any of the typical sociable characteristics valued in a server. But she was solid and dependable, which is why the establishment liked her. She looked older than fixty-six, her eyes tired -- there might have been a sullen sort of beauty to her once, but time had scraped it away long ago. And like everything else taken from Maia Reynard, her sudden burst of confidence seemed to dwindle quickly, draining right out of her. She hovered expectantly, and shot her son a questioning look.
He shrugged.
And so, as the younger woman backed away -- her nametag probably read something like 'Amber' or 'Trudy' -- Maia led him to an empty booth and let him sit. He refrained from glancing back at the other waitress, because letting his mother seat him had become routine by now. Her hands twitched on the place-setting, instinctively starting to arrange napkin-bound cutlery and small plastic glasses.
"Water?"
He nodded. He had forgotten about today's particular holiday. Of course, Jasper had been aware of it in some presumably quiet corner of his mind (Mother's Day is soon, all the gift cards tell you -- have you gotten her a voucher to the movies? have you bought her flowers? have you even said hello?), but he was convinced that this impromptu visit was like every visit before. Wasn't it?
Reynard began reading the menu, his face impassive (but his lips were pressed tight, and that signified something -- though we are uncertain what), and so there was nothing left but for Maia to retreat, clutching the strings of her apron like a lifeline. A small cluster of gossiping waitresses dissipated as she approached the back of the diner. She did not meet their eyes; she fetched an empty jug and filled it with ice and water, saying nothing.
When he'd first started showing up, and when Maia had first started acting strangely, the coworkers had wondered if he might be some young lover, or some illicit affair ended badly. (He was the product of an illicit affair ended badly, but they couldn't have known it yet.) And when the suited stranger kept returning, steel-eyed and silent, and Maia bore it all with a timidity they'd never seen her show before, they realised this was something else entirely. They eventually heard the truth, or at least a whispered skeleton of it: She used to be a single mother, once upon a time. This was her son. He was a doctor now. Very well-to-do. Very rich.
Tipped handsomely.
But every time he returned, Maia's confidence broke, and Reynard's walls remained just as indomitable, just as unbreachable as the days and months before.
After he finished eating, and sat there nursing his coffee (better than the sludge from the hospital vending machines, but not by much), she hovered again. Her fingers plucked at her apron, and she hid behind the dessert menu like a shield.
"Can I sit down, Jas?"
The hesitance and quavering fear in her voice gave him pause. He met her eyes for the first time that day (his orders had been made to empty air, his gaze distanced, his voice clipped), and Jasper shrugged once more. Taking it as a positive sign, Maia slipped quickly into the opposite side of the booth. "I've missed you. You never--"
"Yes, I know."
She paused. Well, he was talking. That was good. But he sounded impatient -- that was worse. They sat there in silence for another minute, mother and son, with Jasper watching his coffee and Maia desperately looking at his face, drinking in the details and noting the places where he looked older. She noted the faint lines that kept appearing during the time she never saw him, and the time it took for her little boy to grow up.
"Are you seeing anyone?" she finally blurted out, her tone awkward and halting, as if she didn't know how to ask. "Some nice young girl? I don't like the thought of you alone, you're all the way up there in Manhattan, all by yourself..."
When he didn't answer at first, Maia wondered if perhaps she'd pushed it too far. He was acknowledging her existence and he wasn't freezing her out anymore, but that didn't mean they could have a conversation--
"I am," Reynard said, finally, and the answer seemed to surprise the both of them. Perhaps it was the fact that he'd answered at all.
"Oh. How long?"
"Since Easter."
"Are you happy?"
Another pause. "Yes. I-- yes."
"I hope she treats you well." Hearing that, he chuckled, and Maia's gut churned in hope. "Well enough, mother."
Like clockwork, the regular silence set in after that, as heavy and uncomfortable and oppressive as before. Possibly even worse. Maia was picturing women, rows upon rows of faces, and wishing she could meet them for once. She wanted grandchildren. She wanted family. She wanted a daughter-in-law. Mostly, she just wanted a son.
Reynard was starting to drum his fingers against the side of his mug and against the surface of the table, feeling steadily more claustrophobic. He had been in a good mood. He didn't know why he had to ruin it by driving out to Jersey and coming here. Even if it was Mother's Day.
Maia tucked a lock of lank black hair behind one ear, then said, abruptly: "Whatever happened to Kelly Chandler?"
You could have cut that silence with a knife. Reynard slipped a few inches back in his chair.
She continued. "I mean, I read what happened in the paper; it was awful. Medical misconduct. Was she alright, after? Losing her job?"
Kelly drinks alone, drowns herself in bitterness, and I twist that emotional knife in her gut whenever I can. Because I like seeing her fall apart over me.
"She's doing fine."
"Oh. I liked her, you know. Very nice girl. What's this one like, then, the one you're seeing now?" He noticed that Maia never said the word 'date'. Even when it came to describing her own string of men and loose ends, and now his -- the Reynards never dated people, they saw them. Briefly and unsuccessfully.
Jess? Also bitter. She has a son and has raised him alone. Just like you, in fact.
"She's very pretty."
The line was delivered with delicate and surgical precision. Maia made a noise in the back of her throat, a vague sound of affirmation. Her fingers twisted around the dessert menu again. The silence lingered for a while longer, and the coffee cooled, and both of them knew this meeting was coming to an end.
When he slipped out of the booth, Reynard did not say anything else. He did not tell her goodbye, and he did not hug his mother. He tipped handsomely.
The glass door jangled on his way out.