THAT NIGHT my mom took me to dinner at this French restaurant downtown. It was a cosy little place on a back street. The guy came over and spoke to her in English but she answered him in French, giving me a little look just to make sure I was listening. He took us to our usual perch on the second floor. I loved sitting up there, you could see the whole place, the people eating, the waiters gliding around, a pretty girl in the coat-check room. I raised my arm to get the waiter’s attention. “Don’t,” she whispered. “They have radar. The good ones.” Sure enough the guy, who had his back to us, looked around, saw my mother with her chin on her hand and hurried over. She ordered a martini.
“You know what I was thinking today?” she began. My mother loved getting all dressed up and going out and when she was happy, like she was tonight, she could talk the hind legs off a donkey.
“I was thinking that you should have a party. You’re sixteen and you’ve never had one. And I suddenly realized why.” She touched my hand just to make sure I was paying attention.
“You’re afraid, no, afraid is the wrong word, you’re nervous rather, that no one will come. I felt exactly the same way when I was your age. The shame of no one coming!”
