The Underside of Joy

up into the pretty clip the kids gave me the previous Mother’s Day. I washed my face and even put on makeup and silver and jade earrings.
    As I stepped gingerly over the photos, cutting from path to path, Sergio’s booklet caught my eye. I stuck it in my pocket.
    The rain had stopped as quickly as it started, and the sun was already working on drying out the store’s puddled parking lot, which swarmed with activity. A woman with short, dark hair, dressed in cream slacks and a crisp white blouse, a couple of guys with camera equipment, a younger woman in jeans carrying two oversize vases of flowers, all filed up the porch steps. I followed them in. David introduced me to the photographers, who reminded me of Joe, the way they carried their cameras and lights with such confidence.
    David mentioned to the dark-haired woman, ‘Ella, this is Blaire Markham. She’s writing the article for Real Simple. ’
    Blaire smiled and extended her hand, which felt cool in my clammy one. ‘You have quite an inspiring story. I am so sorry about the loss of your husband.’
    ‘Thanks.’ I felt sweat beads breaking on my upper lip.
    ‘We like to feature women who defy odds, who carve out a unique life for themselves that truly reflects their personality. That’s why we’ve chosen to write about you.’
    I nodded, kept nodding, kept myself from letting out a big, fat HA! Joe Sr and Marcella walked in, wearing their church clothes. They stood back by the board games, Marcella’s arms folded across her chest, her black patent leather purse hanging from the crook of her elbow.
    David introduced them to Blaire.
    ‘Great!’ she said. ‘I’d love to get a multigenerational shot in front of the store, so we could lay it out next to this one.’ She walked over and tapped the frame of the photo of Joe and Joe Sr and Sergio that hung on the wall by Joe’s apron. ‘Where are your children? We like to include lots of pictures of the family in the spreads we do at Real Simple, since they’re always a central part of the story.’
    ‘It’s not that simple,’ I say. ‘In fact, it’s Real Complicated. ’ I let out a nervous laugh. The room fell silent, and while Blaire waited for me to explain, Marcella said, ‘Multigenerational, my foot. Ella’s not my daughter. And she’s not my grandchildren’s mother.’
    David said, ‘Ma. That’s not fair.’
    ‘It may not be fair, but it’s the truth. What is she even doing here? This store is for my grandchildren, who no longer belong to her. For a woman who’s so bent on telling the truth all of a sudden, she forgot a few very important details. If you ask me.’
    ‘Which, as I recall, no one did.’ David was the one laughing nervously now. The timer went off, and he called out, ‘Saved by the bell! Snickerdoodles for everyone,’ and went to pull them from the oven. He set them down on a table, poured mugs of coffee, and said, ‘Ma, Pop, sit. Ella, get busy in the kitchen.’ He placed a basket of lemons and a pitcher on the counter. ‘And we can even get a lemonade-out-of-lemons shot. Here, hold the knife.’
    I took the knife from him. The lemon felt slippery in my grip. The photographers adjusted lights, changing positions, angles. Trying to make me look my best.
    ‘I can’t do this,’ I said.
    ‘Oh, my mistake.’ David handed me another knife. ‘Much sharper.’
    ‘No, David, I mean this. I mean pretending like everything’s lemonade and snickerdoodles when at this particular moment, it’s horrible and rotten. I mean not talking about what’s really going on, so people can see only what they want to see.’ Blaire took her pen and notebook out, clicked her tape recorder on, like we were celebrities and she was writing for the National Enquirer, as if anyone would care about our little family’s heartbreak.
    ‘Ella? Now? Really?’ David tilted his head.
    ‘Yeah. Really.’ I turned to Blaire. ‘Marcella’s right. I’m not Annie and Zach’s mother. I’m their stepmother. Their real mother just won custody of them and moved them to Las Vegas. My husband drowned. And this store? It was drowning in debt. We took a huge risk and remodelled it, and we’re trying to bring it back to life because we can’t bring him back to life. And that sign out there? Life’s a Picnic? Yeah, sometimes. Other times you’ve got to lay out your blanket in a barbed-wire internment camp.’ I pulled out Sergio’s ID and waved it. ‘Because the man who built this store?