Corner Booth

I was having a heated discussion with my mom. It was all in my head, but I was getting my thought out regardless. I’ve started having these conversations with myself instead of with her, not because I was afraid of these conversations with her, but because I knew how they would end. In my head, I get a tearful apology and changed actions that confirmed that apology. In reality, however, it would end in a fight. I would plead my case, she would insist she’s doing absolutely nothing wrong with that tone that takes me back to her middle naming me when I was in trouble when I was young. Her brow would furrow and I would retaliate in that booming voice that frightened my brother when he was little. We wouldn’t surrender until the other walked away and then we wouldn’t speak without harsh tones for days. Eventually, sweeping the issue under the rug to fester and never again see the light of day. This is how every confrontation with my mother has gone for as long as I can remember, and I don’t have it in me to fight right now. So, I play both parts and say each line over and over until I get the result I feel I deserve. Just another item to add to the list of things I need to talk about in therapy.

This diner has been my sanctuary for years. Since I was fourteen, I would come here to escape fights with my mom or stepdad. I would bring my siblings here for an ice cream when our parents were screaming at each other. I’ve slept in these booths more times than I can count. Tommy and Lorna are family to me at this point. Tommy runs the kitchen during the graveyard shift and Lorna runs front of the house. Tommy always greets me with his overzealous “Roman! How the hell are ya?” And Lorna, in her unmatched New England accent, calls me love and asks about my day. She knows the code; if I sit at the counter I need an ear, the middle booth means I can handle a lighthearted chat, and the corner booth means please leave me alone. No matter what, she always brings me a cup of coffee, says it’s nice to see me, and squeezes my hand .

Tonight, I’m in a corner booth. Lorna greeted me with a coffee and gave me a heartfelt smile while she did her signature hand squeeze as if to say “I’m here for you when you’re ready to come to the counter.” I came home from college for the summer to look after my brother and sister. Being the oldest, I feel responsible for their happiness a lot of the time. I know how hard things were for me growing up, and I’ve never wanted them to feel even a fraction of that. I knew being here would mean I took the brunt of the hostility, because I’ve always done that, and that my mom and I would argue a lot. I also knew that I had my Hodgkins family to come home to. I knew Lorna would put extra whipped cream on my brother’s double fudge Oreo milkshake. I knew Tommy would make my sister that bacon and egg stuffed waffle she loves so much. I knew they would be treated like family by people who had love to give. People who made me feel safe. All these years, I’ve slept in this corner booth when I needed a safe place to escape. Tonight, I’m wondering if they will ever need this booth. Will they need Lorna and Tommy as much as I have? Do they have their own Hodgkins family somewhere else? I want them to feel this safety, this love. This is what home is supposed to feel like.