“She can’t be that bad.”
“You sure?” The look in her eyes seems like a challenge.
“Let’s take this relationship to the next level. Bring on your mom!”
It takes a few weeks for Portia to talk her mother into letting me visit, and I’m a little hurt at first, even though Portia explains that no one has visited her mother for decades, and so we are asking a lot of her. “And whatever you do,” Portia says on the ride over there, “don’t touch anything. We won’t be able to sit down because there is so much shit everywhere, and it’s important that my mother doesn’t feel like you might want to alter the state of her home, which I must warn you will be absolutely frightening.”
When we enter the row home, even though Portia said it would be bad, I’m shocked by the number of boxes and things that Portia’s mother has fit into the small building. Endless piles of crap fill the rooms, leaving maybe only a two-foot-wide walking path to navigate. Every other inch of space is stacked almost floor-to-ceiling with boxes and junk.
Mrs. Kane is sitting in a recliner watching some home shopping program on TV. Her body odor is hard to ignore. She’s wearing a very old pink terrycloth sweat suit covered in stains, and she doesn’t even look over at us when Portia says, “Hi, Mom, this is the man I’ve told you so much about. Chuck Bass.”
Portia gives me an I-told-you-so glance. “Mom, don’t pretend to be invisible again, because I want you to meet my boyfriend. He’s become a very big part of my life. I love him, and he wants to be part of your life too.”
Her mother doesn’t look away from the television, which is eerie, and I start to wonder if she isn’t a little slow in addition to being eccentric.
“Hello, Mrs. Kane. Nice to meet you.” I wave, but get no response.
“We’re going to get some Diet Coke,” Portia says.
“With lime!” Mrs. Kane says without taking her eyes off the man in the television who is trying to sell burn-proof potholders made with “NASA technology.”
I follow Portia into the next room, where we are forced to navigate our way around an enormous pile of magazines, and I notice the photos of Portia taped to the wall. I scan the pics of her when she was an adorable little girl and then the awkward school photos and prom dates—“Hey, isn’t that Jason Malta?” I say, and Portia nods. Then I make my way to the other side of the room, where I see a rather handsome man wearing a throwback mustache.
“Is this Ken?”
“Yep,” Portia says.
The infamous Ken Humes.
He looks confident and rich and accomplished and used to getting what he wants out of life—and I burn with hatred and jealousy.
“Why does she still have these pictures of him up?” I ask.
Portia gives me a hurt or maybe perturbed look. “Seriously?” Then she whispers, “Did you not see the state my mother is in?”
When Portia opens the refrigerator, I see that at least half of it is stacked full with soda cans.
“Your mom must really love Diet Coke with Lime,” I say.
“She doesn’t drink it. These are all for me.”
It takes almost ten more visits before Portia’s mother acknowledges my existence, but she eventually does, and then she shows me the pictures that cover the walls of her dining room, narrating each and every one, even the shots of Portia with her husband, who Mrs. Kane says will be returning someday, and after spending so much time with Mrs. Kane it doesn’t even really bother me anymore, because I can tell that my being acknowledged in this house by name means something.
I tell Portia’s mother about the students I teach, and sometimes I show her the pictures my kids paint and samples of their handwriting and other various projects that I assign, and Mrs. Kane begins to pull out Portia’s old elementary school projects. She has them all—nothing was ever thrown away. And while I can tell Portia is embarrassed by her mother, my girlfriend likes the fact that I have made this small connection, and I do too.
It takes some time, but eventually I start to stop by Mrs. Kane’s home without Portia, just to check up on her or say hello or help her count the cars in the Acme parking lot, which she does obsessively almost every waking hour. And during one of these visits, when we finish our count and log it into her notebook, I say, “Mrs. Kane, I’d like to ask your permission to marry Portia. I realize it’s traditional to ask the father, but since he’s out of the picture—”
“Portia’s father was a very kind and gentle man,” she says, and I don’t ask any questions about where he might be now, because Portia has told me the backstory.
“I bet he was. Do you think he would have given me his blessing? Would he have allowed me to marry his daughter?”
“Portia is married to Ken,” Mrs. Kane says, turns on the Buy from Home Network, and plops down in her chair.
“They’ve been separated for a year now,” I say. “And Portia is going to file for a divorce soon. My nephew helped me pick out a ring. Would you like to see it?”
I pull the small box out of my pocket and show it to her.
“Shiny!” she says.
“Don’t tell Portia, because I want to surprise her. I have a trip planned.”
“Do you want a Diet Coke with Lime?”
“I have one already,” I say and lift the can in my hand for emphasis.
“Do you want a colder one from the refrigerator?”
“No, thanks.”
“I’ll go get you a lime Diet Coke.” She stands and makes her way to the kitchen. A minute later she hands me a very cold can. “Here.”