15. #Retreat, December 2017

Mike greeted his mother and her husband with a goofy smile from his overstuffed armchair. "Hi Mom, Don. Sorry I'm not getting up. I have a bit of an injury."

In matching skiing suits, white-and-turquoise, the Sutherlands looked vigorous. Fresh-faced even. Tanned, because they held onto the eighties' belief that tan was an outward expression of hale spirit.

A hairdresser improved upon the original red-golden hue of Juliana Sutherland's, néeDanioni, hair. Covering gray was an afterthought, the paint job hinted. The master did not stop there. Mike remembered his mother's hair to be frizzly, and now it was set in heavy coils that couldn't be undone by a day spent in the wind and snow.

His stepfather didn't have to worry about the elements' impact on his coiffure: Don was balder than his shoe soles.

While the happy couple divested the snow-crusted outerwear, Mike gazed from one to another, caught up in the spot the differences game, but whatever he uncovered only convinced him that after a decade of marriage, the Sutherlands completed their transformation from a married couple into fraternal twins.

Once the couple stripped the outer layers and was ready for conversation, Mike set aside his Japan, to Modernity, of which he conquered twenty more pages. He felt none the wiser for it.

"How was heliskiing?"

"It was magnificent," his mother exclaimed, pecking him on the cheek. "The resort staff set up a luncheon for us with a view of the Coastal Range. They made pancakes fresh side-table and served them with local preserves and an assortment of meats and pickles. I don't know if I have an appetite for dinner, but we'll come to keep you company, darling."

Don smiled, apparently unconcerned with his wife not asking if he had worked up an appetite. The implants he flashed at Mike looked so real, they would have made any dentist proud. He shook Mike's hand. It also felt real, his handshake applying just enough pressure to the hand, as he tugged the arm just enough to convey his friendliness.

"Mike."

"Don."

Whenever Mike saw the Sutherlands, he ended up eating a black forest cake.

It sprung into being before his mind's eyes just as Don said his name.

The chocolate shavings, each curling up in its own unique fashion, coated the thick layer of almost too sweet dark icing. Red maraschino cherries nestled in their cream nests; those were for decorative purposes only unless one was courting toothache.

With a suppressed groan, he pulled the black band on his wrist... it snapped some sense back into him. Enough to notice that in his chocolate fantasia he'd missed whatever Don had said to him.

"Ah, yes... yes, of course," he mumbled in response to it with a forced smile.

"Do you remember that little place in Osaka by the castle, dear?" Don turned to Mother.

Ah, so he was asking about my riveting book. Or if I was interested in Japanese history. Anyway, my answer was exactly what he had expected. Yay, me!

"The one with the pretty gate?"

Ah, that narrows it down... But that didn't stop Sutherlands from exchanging vague allusions about that place in Osaka Mike had never visited. Why they invited him to join them for Christmas eluded him.

Mike rolled the band off his wrist and stuffed it into his pocket. The fruity goodness bled from the moist chocolate sponge of his imaginary cake in a red wave, when one prickled it with a knife. It had a sour note, and--

This time his mother must have called him by name, probably more than once, judging by the attention both Sutherlands were paying to him when he looked up.

Mike bought himself a moment by replacing his glasses. People had a strange respect for glasses. Well, except a certain challenging period in Cambodian history, when suspected intellectuals were identified by wearing glasses and cleansed.

"Sorry, Mom, I drifted off."

"Let's go to dinner. I can use a glass of Chardonnay," Juliana repeated with an indulging smile. When he was young, she'd say 'oh, he has his head in the clouds, it is an artistic gene' to the grown-up strangers with that same smile.

"Dinner?" Mike glanced at the old-fashioned clock, the one with real dial and clock hands. It was barely six pm. Looking at Juliana, it was easy to forget that she would soon qualify for senior discounts. Dinner at six pm... why not?

He dug deep to summon enthusiasm for micro-greens drizzled with balsamic vinegar or whatever other twigs were on the menu. "Sure thing, let's go to dinner."

***

Mike unveiled his big surprise after browsing the pathetic dessert section. It featured berry mousse, more berry mousse and goat cheeses with dry... yay, more berries!

"Could I get a green smoothie to finish up?" Mike asked the waiter. Her eyes widened as she looked up at him from gathering the used cutlery. Really, who would need a top-up after a saucer-full of sauteed chanterelles with seasonal roast vegetables?

His mother dropped an olive she was examining with the thoroughness of a TV detective. The olive rolled down the table. That was too bad, now she'd never crack the toothpick murder case...

The waiter got over her surprise to beam at him. "What kind of smoothie do you prefer, Sir?"

What was he supposed to say? Daya's flavor? He bit his lip: it sounded suggestive in the light of his spa dreams.

Fortunately, the waiter rushed to his rescue. "Matcha-Pear, Ginger-Kale-Ornage, Flax-and-Oats Sprouts, Honeydew-Mint—"

"Celery," Mike cut in before the rambling drove him to tears. "I like celery, cucumber and apples in it." He remembered buying a lot of those with Daya. "Oh. And lime. Do you have something like that?"

The waiter looked like she was ready to wrap Mike in a hug. "Winter Detox! Excellent choice!"

"Yes, that's the one." Of course they had a name for it.

Once the waiter dashed off, his mother cleared her throat. "Are you finally considering improvements to your lifestyle, dear? Your face looks a little thinner."

Under her scrutiny, Mike shifted, fingering the hairband in his pocket. "It's for recovery. I fell and broke a couple of toes in November."

"How dreadful. Why didn't you call?"

"I..." Just how difficult did it have to be to say, I had someone to help me around the house?

"I had someone to help me around the house." It did not come out as nonchalant as he had intended.

Juliana's face assumed an expression that the famous theatrical producer Stanislavsky might have had when he yelled, "I don't believe it!" to his actors.

"Ah, how nice. Your housekeeper?" She lifted the wineglass to her lips. The ruby liquid in the glass wobbled, then touched the carmine gloss of her lips. Having had benefited from professional training, his mother's question sounded every bit a polite nothing.

That's how I should have delivered my lines. How she went unnoticed by the movie people all these years, beats me.

"I've met a personal trainer who was looking for a place to stay about that time. I have a spare bedroom in my condo, so I offered it in exchange for help," he said avoiding the pronouns. "It worked out great."

The waiter reappeared with his smoothie in a frosted glass. A skewer popped out of the glass, with three frozen green grapes set on it. He took a long sip, hoping that the conversation was over.

"Mmgh, this is very good..." It annoyed him that the pureed vegetables tasted as if Daya had made it for him. Nobody expects loyalty from the limes. Celery, celery should have known better. It should have tasted like an armpit.

"Is she fat?" his mother asked the moment he replaced the glass on the bamboo-fiber tablecloth.

Oh, wait, it did taste like an armpit! At least the aftertaste that rose up in his throat was nasty.

"Who is fat?" Mike played with his speared grapes, trying not to think about an obvious analogy with the other kind of fruit being speared.

"The friend of yours, the one who is staying with you." His mother twisted the screws a little tighter, stretching the friend out, letting the word drip honey.

"Well," Don said, pushing up to his feet with an unexpected vigor. "I will join the boys for a card game. See you later, my dears."

Mike resisted calling his step-father a good man for years, but now it popped in his head. Apparently, one could expect as much loyalty from him as from the limes. Sorry, dad.

His mother rolled her head backwards toward her husband's peck on the forehead, then reset it to face him squarely. Her eyes did not blink, like a cobra's.

"Daya is the opposite of fat," Mike said. Argh, he should not have mentioned her by name. "And she is a friend-friend. No funny business. She helps me with restoring my range of motion and pours kale-infused drinks down my throat. My foot's range of motion."

His mother watched him take another swig of his smoothie, so he chugged down more than he intended. Her eyes grew wider with every swallow.

"Daya has my undying gratitude," she said after he didn't volunteer anything else. "Forgive me if for a moment I chased a glimmer of hope that you got over this shut-in phase and met someone."

"It's not a phase, mother. And I am not a shut-in." When she acted like this, his brain switched to the primal flight mode. He re-engaged his higher brain functions and searched for a response worthy of an adult. "If that's your concern, then you should be doubly grateful to Daya. She kept me moving around even on the crutches. I went to work. To the gym even. I'm fine."

"The lady is a treasure." Her face telegraphed a sincere admiration, but there was speculation in her gaze he'd rather not endure.

Mike closed his eyes and imagined Daya's lovely face.