Page 29 of Christmas at Watson Memorial

“Helicopter pilot,” she sighs.

It's not a question, not even a statement. It's her way of belittling people. She has that ability, just by changing her intonation. She and her friends.

“I see…” she murmurs. “Would twenty minutes work for you? Should I bring anything? The last time I was at that apartment, you served truly horrible coffee. You're still in that tiny little apartment, aren't you?”

She doesn't even let me answer. The questions come rapid-fire without a single pause, as if she doesn't need to breathe.

“I'll be there in twenty minutes,” she announces before hanging up without waiting for confirmation.

“Damn, your mother is quite the character,” Selene says, amused.

“What have I done?”

“Should I wear what I wore to dinner last night?”

“The Christmas elf costume?”

“No, the formal clothes I changed into later.”

“Don't go overboard, but let's find you something. She'd have a heart attack if she saw you in that tank top without a bra.”

“A while ago you were saying how good I looked in it,” she teases, checking herself out in the mirror.

The knock on the door comes at exactly three o'clock. My mother has never been late for anything in her life. Never early either. She prides herself on arriving at precisely the right moment.

“You look perfect, relax. You've got this, it's just a visit from your mother,” Selene whispers, watching me smooth down my blouse with my palms while checking in the mirror that my ponytail is properly secured.

When I open the door, my mother sweeps in like a winter wind. Her Carolina Herrera coat is immaculate despite the falling snow, telling me she was either very close by or took a taxi right to the door. She surveys my apartment before saying hello, likely cataloging every flaw and misplaced item in her mind.

“Darling.” Mom leans in for her signature air-kiss, never quite making contact — one of her many peculiarities. The scent of her Chanel perfume fills my nostrils, bringing back memories of countless society events and disapproving looks. “I see you're still living in this… charming little place. Doesn't that hospital pay you enough? You could move to Connecticut, work under me. You'd earn more, save money. New York is so expensive.”

“We've been through this before, Mom. At your hospital, I wouldn't be able to perform cardiac surgeries and-”

“But you'd make an excellent general surgeon,” she cuts me off, fixing her gaze on Selene while raising her perfectly groomed eyebrows with millimeter precision.

“Mom, this is Selene,” I say.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Winters,” Selene extends her hand, but Mom's handshake is so brief it borders on dismissive. At least she spared Selene the air-kiss treatment.

“My daughter tells me you're a helicopter pilot? How adventurous!”

“That's right.”

“So you ferry executives around? When we spent summers at our Martha's Vineyard beach house, we used one of those helicopters. Took us straight from Connecticut, helped us avoid traffic. Now Alexia never wants to go and-”

“I transport organs for transplants, not executives,” Selene interjects politely. “I fly hospital to hospital, not to Martha's Vineyard, Nantucket, the Hamptons, or any of those places.”

“I see. Wouldn't you make more money doing something else?”

“Probably, but I guarantee you that carrying organs that will save lives is far more rewarding. Would you like some coffee?”

Traitor.

Mom makes a noncommittal gesture, which Selene takes as her cue to escape to the kitchen, leaving me alone in the crosshairs.

“Do you remember James Rochester, Caroline's son? He just made partner at his father's law firm. I always thought you two would end up together.”

I just smile and shrug. James is a good friend, though the reason we spent so much time together as teenagers was to keep our parents off our backs. I wonder if Mom knows he's gay yet. Based on her comment, I'm guessing not.