A mother-daughter story

I just want to finish my story about Tio Lucas. As I said, everything about the evening had been a little bit off beginning with the fact that even though this is one of San Miguel’s most popular restaurants, it was a very slow night. And then there was the odd couple dining beside me, a middle-aged woman from New York and her mother who, it appeared, lives here in San Miguel.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on it but neither of the two women seemed to be particularly comfortable with the other. The daughter, who was pasty and a little over-weight, just seemed to have the air about her of someone who is finding it difficult to navigate through life’s daily challenges, and her mother—who was extremely attractive and very well dressed, seemed almost embarrassed by her rather mousy-looking offspring.

If I had to guess, I’d say the daughter had recently had some rather serious mental problems. Perhaps depression or a break down of some sort. And she was in San Miguel to recover. With a mother who, obviously, wasn’t entirely sympathetic.

Photo by David Lansing.

I was watching the two women and trying to figure this all out when a jazz band started playing in the corner of the restaurant. The music annoyed me. The band wasn’t very good and it allowed the mother and daughter to continue to wolf down the wine without continuing their strained conversation. The band was made up of a cross-eyed bass player who grunted his way through certain songs as well as a hawk-faced drummer who wore his shirt open to the navel, highlighting a silver coke spoon on a chain over his hairless chest. The third member of the trio, a saxophonist, seemed to be the leader of the group. He was middle-aged, in denim jeans and a guyabera shirt. He had Einstein-like hair and an untrimmed goatee.

The weird thing was that the young woman dining with her mother seemed to recognize the saxophonist. All through the set, she kept putting a single hand in the air and waving at him, trying to get his attention. Even though she was only five or six feet away and the only other person in the room was me.

Eventually the trio took a break and the saxophonist, not looking particularly pleased, went over to the table with the young woman.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” she said. “Mother, didn’t I tell you it was Mark?”

“You did,” said her mother.

“You look really good,” the young woman said. “I recognized your face immediately.”

The saxophonist slowly nodded. “You look nice too,” he said.

Their heads bobbed up and down while they tried to figure out what to say next.

“I’m doing great,” the young woman finally said.

“Nikki,” said her mother, leaning forward and putting a hand on her daughter’s arm, “don’t.”

The young woman ignored her. “No, really,” she said. “I am. In fact, my doctor says I’m almost normal.” And then she giggled. “Whatever that means.”

The saxophone player weakly smiled and nodded. “That’s great,” he said. And then he looked over his shouder and added, “I guess I’d better get back. Good to see you though.”

“Yeah,” said the young woman. “What a surprise.” Then, after a pause, she added, “Life is full of them, isn’t it?”

The saxophone player nodded.

After he left, the mother quickly asked Max for the check and the two women left before the music started up again. I watched as the mother hurried out the door, her daughter trailing several feet behind her.