Whoever said, “The truth will set you free” obviously has never met my mother. 

My first instincts were to lie.  Lie, lie, lie.  As soon as my mom told me that she and my dad were coming in from Florida, where they now reside, to South Philadelphia, to see my thirty year old Italian-Jewish, born-and-bred-Roman-Catholic brother get “Bar Mitzvah,” and they’d “naturally” be staying with me, I should have told them that the house had, unfortunately, burned down.  Or was being fumigated for rats.  Or that I have a psychotic roommate who hears voices and talks to his hands (which is actually true, but kind of endearing.) 

The one thing I definitely should not have done is tell them the truth—that being, I love my parents dearly, but they drive me up a wall.  (Okay, to be fair, it’s just my mom, but they’re sort of a package deal.)  Then when you add the fact that said house used to be the family home, until I moved back from Los Angeles and they sold it to me at “well below market value,” well, you can see where they might take a weensy bit of offense.

Okay, so I was wrong.  I should have bit the bullet and told them how great it would be to have us all under one roof again.  After all, it was only for a few weeks.  How bad could it be?  And then I remembered, how, when I was eighteen, my mom cancelled my subscription to Vanity Fair, because she thought the ads were “too risqué,” and my stomach did the “Acid Reflux Rumba” and before I knew it, I was telling them I thought they’d be much more comfortable at Paulie’s. 

“Your brother lives in a one bedroom, over a garage.”

“Yeah.  It’s so convenient.  You could get the rental car tuned up for the ride back to Florida.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Brandy.  Paul has enough to worry about, what with his becoming a man.”  Unhhh!  She made it sound like he was undergoing a sex-change operation.  “And you have plenty of room at the house,” she continued, oblivious to the knot that was forming in my stomach.  “Is that Ventura boy still staying with you?”  Toodie Ventura is thirty.  Two years older than I am, but to my mother, we are eternally twelve.

“No,” I sighed.  Toodie had recently moved back to his Granny’s house, at her request.  Seems she missed his shadow puppet shows. 

“Good.  It’s settled then.  Oh, and don’t forget we’re having people over on Sunday, after church.  It’ll be good to see Father Vincenzio again.” 

Father Vincenzio is a senile, old goat.  If I never saw him again it would be too soon.

“Sounds like a blast.”

She couldn’t decide if I was being sarcastic or not so I decided not to press my luck.

“I’ll see you on Thursday, Mom.  Give Daddy a kiss for me.”

I guess if I were being totally honest, I’d have to admit that a part of me was relieved to have the company.  About a month ago, I’d been involved in a series of pretty scary events, which left me with a two-inch scar on my side, courtesy of a gunshot wound.  Since then, I’ve been afraid to go to sleep, spend time alone, be in a crowd or pass a mime on the street.  (But that has nothing to do with my “ordeal.”  Mimes are annoying.)  My friend, Franny DiAngelo told me she thought I should “talk to a professional” about everything I’d been through, lately.  I told her I was fine—if night sweats and facial tics constitute a healthy psyche.

The thing is I’m not all that good at expressing my feelings.  I believe it’s best to keep them bottled up until they can’t breathe and die a natural death.  Besides, if I dwelled on every Tom, Dick or Harry who’s tried to kill me, I’d never get anything done, and as it was I was late for work.

I am an investigative reporter for a local cable TV news station.  Okay, so maybe the title is a slight exaggeration.  Technically, I’m their puff piece reporter (a lateral move from my job in L.A.) but it’s just a matter of time before they see my full worth and promote me to hard news.

It’s only my third week there, and I’ve already made some inroads.  The station manager knows my name now—but that’s only because I keep parking in her spot—or did until she had the car booted.  The important thing is I’m getting to know people in high places—which is good, because all my co-workers seem to hate me.

It’s not my fault the last person to hold the job was fired.  Her name was Wendy and she was beloved for her sunny disposition and home baked sticky buns.  Unfortunately, Wendy became enamored with her own culinary skills, gained about seventy-five pounds and was no longer able to perform the sometimes-rigorous physical requirements of the job.  A lawsuit is pending, but the show must go on, so they hired me to take her place.  It would not have been my first choice, but I had mortgage payments and home-improvement bills to pay.   Plus, I like to eat.  (But apparently, not as much as Wendy.)