lemon drop martini.

Whenever the flu or head cold or sheer angst waylaid me, my dad—my real dad—let me stay home from school and watch The Wizard of Oz. Sometimes he’d call in sick too, and he’d persuade Mom to follow suit. We’d huddle together under a stained duvet, white-and azure-splashed after my five-year-old room-painting jamboree. He’d point out the gorgeous liberties the set designers had taken with the flowers. Occasionally we’d press PLAY twice. ​ My friend Kate once bought me a “making of” volume. I read two chapters (she’d dropped $25.99) then committed it to the library’s donation bin. It only undercut my happy ignorance of the exploding broom, unconscionable makeup injuries, and Toto’s out-earning the actors. ​ If I could simply exist over the rainbow— —where trouble melts... ​ —amid Technicolor brilliance / glorious florae / the overwhelming conviction that goodness would triumph— —without tests / passive-aggressive classmates / reliving Dad’s last lily-scented, screeching-monitor moments a year ago. ​ Then, earlier this morning: “Susan.” Jonathan, perforating my mother’s name. “Mandy’s—ill,” my mother faltered, only then remembering to retrieve the plausible thermometer from her apron pocket. “I see.” Jonathan’s Disney-hero jaw worked, clicking away billable minutes. “Mandy—could—maybe you’d better, ah, go.” Jonathan had selected my mother over the fifty-odd glamorous divorcées he had successfully represented. Possibly because her responses to his overtures began with, “Oh, dear, I couldn’t,” and ended with, “You’re probably right.” “...and avoid additional Cs in trigonometry,” Jonathan added. “With daisy-doodles in your margins.” “Probably inevitable.” ​ Thereafter: Jonathan’s legal/almost clerical strictures on Diligence. And punctual reminders to my mother that her indulgence would only solidify my (a)pathetic trajectory. Now, I’m loitering on the cracked pavement before Hoover High’s drab façade, waiting for Jonathan’s car to turn the corner… …gone. ​ Finally. ​ I cut first period and purchased affordable carnations before slouching toward the cemetery. College. A two-hours-distant branch-campus of Midwestern State University sufficed. I went to class, sometimes—pajama-ed, often—and haunted the ribbon paths of the campus gardens. I called Mom weekly, reporting on none of this. She texted me pictures: Jonathan called her “a prime-of-life icon” after —selecting a bleach-silver pigment for her hair. —taking up Zumba. —losing twenty pounds. ​ After I stumbled into a dozen seminars, the botany professor lovingly press-ganged me into his classes. A significant improvement on trigonometry. Horticulture, landscape design, ecology...branching out. Dr. Gentius recommended me for a Public Gardens internship three states away. I raised it during a visit home. ​ Jonathan folded his arms. “We’re not wasting thousands on—” “It’s paid.” “—it’s far—” “I’m twenty-one.” “—even if they did...take you.” “They have,” I said, extending my glowing phone face toward him. Mom sputtered, “Honey, maybe—it’s—I...” “I’m going out drinking to celebrate,” I said. I brought Dad wildflowers first. The bartender approached. “What can I offer you?” Journeys beyond the rainbow? Restrained glee couldn’t melt away my troubles, as Miss Garland once sang...but... “A lemon drop martini, please.”