Valentine’s Day Party
By Allison Plourde
July 15, 2024
July 15, 2024
Today, I wake up thinking about the time my mother showed up drunk to my second-grade class’s Valentine’s Day party. I roll over in bed and turn on my phone, which flashes the date at the top. February 14th.
It’s Valentine’s Day, and I have dinner plans with my mother.
It’s Valentine’s Day, and I have dinner plans with my mother.
*
In second grade, all of the parents had to come help with one of the holiday parties. I tried to pick the one that seemed the most innocuous. She was a terrible cook so Thanksgiving was out for sure; Christmas would’ve been too hard, what with Grandma having her heart attack at the dinner table last Christmas Eve. Halloween wasn’t an option, because I knew I would piss her off trying to put together a last-minute costume (and I was right). What could go wrong with Valentine’s Day?
I knew she was drunk the moment she came careening through the door. She was holding a bouquet of droopy flowers in the crook of her arm, and the plastic cone wrapping was slipping through against her slick puffer jacket. She stumbled into the classroom and stopped just past the doorway before walking backwards into the hallway, where she stomped the snow off of her boots that she had already tracked onto the carpet inside the room. Every student, every other parent volunteer, Mrs. McGivern, the class guinea pig, everyone turned to look at the woman in the doorway. My mother flashed a gummy smile, the kind that made her whole face crumple around her nose as if it were falling into quicksand. She mouthed Sorry! and adjusted the bundles and bags in her arms while moving to stand with the other parents, who shifted a few inches along the wall to accommodate her.
I wanted to sink through the plastic bottom of my chair. Sadie sent me a sympathetic smile from across the room. She was my closest friend in the class, and Mrs. McGivern wouldn’t let us sit together because we would talk and talk. Her mother was a perfect mother: hair to her collarbone in the softest waves, a wrinkleless blouse, high cheekbones with her skin so taut over them that the corners of her mouth were always upturned. And she arrived at the party not just on time, but early, with a foil-covered tray of brownies adorned with heart-shaped sprinkles. If I had that kind of mother, I would beg her to come to every class party.
I knew she was drunk the moment she came careening through the door. She was holding a bouquet of droopy flowers in the crook of her arm, and the plastic cone wrapping was slipping through against her slick puffer jacket. She stumbled into the classroom and stopped just past the doorway before walking backwards into the hallway, where she stomped the snow off of her boots that she had already tracked onto the carpet inside the room. Every student, every other parent volunteer, Mrs. McGivern, the class guinea pig, everyone turned to look at the woman in the doorway. My mother flashed a gummy smile, the kind that made her whole face crumple around her nose as if it were falling into quicksand. She mouthed Sorry! and adjusted the bundles and bags in her arms while moving to stand with the other parents, who shifted a few inches along the wall to accommodate her.
I wanted to sink through the plastic bottom of my chair. Sadie sent me a sympathetic smile from across the room. She was my closest friend in the class, and Mrs. McGivern wouldn’t let us sit together because we would talk and talk. Her mother was a perfect mother: hair to her collarbone in the softest waves, a wrinkleless blouse, high cheekbones with her skin so taut over them that the corners of her mouth were always upturned. And she arrived at the party not just on time, but early, with a foil-covered tray of brownies adorned with heart-shaped sprinkles. If I had that kind of mother, I would beg her to come to every class party.
*
My mother and I live in the same city, so we make sure to see each other every couple of weeks. When she suggested February 14th, I took a moment to turn that date over in my mind. It was only after I hung up our phone call that I realized February 14th is Valentine’s Day, and neither my mother or I would have any other plans.
It was my turn to pick a restaurant, and I picked one equidistant from each of our homes. Lying in bed, I look up the address of the restaurant to see how far it is from work. It’ll only take me a couple minutes longer to drive there straight from work, which I’ll probably have to do. Scanning the map on my phone, I see that the restaurant is only a quarter mile away from my old elementary school.
It was my turn to pick a restaurant, and I picked one equidistant from each of our homes. Lying in bed, I look up the address of the restaurant to see how far it is from work. It’ll only take me a couple minutes longer to drive there straight from work, which I’ll probably have to do. Scanning the map on my phone, I see that the restaurant is only a quarter mile away from my old elementary school.
*
With the commotion settled from my mother’s entrance, Mrs. McGivern continued her speech about bringing valentines for every classmate. Either give a card to everyone, she said, or nobody at all. She said it with the same tone as a reprimand, as if we had already done something wrong.
Then it was time for a craft: mailboxes for our cards. The parents passed around shoe boxes, cereal boxes, repurposed cardboard from old packages. Our tables were flooded with construction paper and glue sticks. Some of the boys complained that they didn’t want their mailboxes to be pink and purple, and Mrs. McGivern told them that was too bad, it’s Valentine’s Day.
Sadie’s mother sat down at my table and showed us how to poke a hole in the top of our boxes with safety scissors. While she talked, I could hear my mother’s laugh, snorting and wild, over the other voices in the classroom. I hid my face behind my Frosted Flakes box. Sadie’s mother knew that my mother was my mother, but I couldn’t bear to see the sad look I knew she was pointing at me. Tony the Tiger smiled in my face, promising that the contents of the empty box were grrrrrrrreat.
The parents were all now flitting between tables, complimenting students on their sticker placement and helping them holding down googly eyes while the glue dried. Mothers in ponytails with glass skin and cashmere sweaters; one father with a kind laugh and soft stubble on his chin. I bet his wife, a classmate’s mother, was working in her own office with shell pink fingernails and a mug full of pens.
Then it was time for a craft: mailboxes for our cards. The parents passed around shoe boxes, cereal boxes, repurposed cardboard from old packages. Our tables were flooded with construction paper and glue sticks. Some of the boys complained that they didn’t want their mailboxes to be pink and purple, and Mrs. McGivern told them that was too bad, it’s Valentine’s Day.
Sadie’s mother sat down at my table and showed us how to poke a hole in the top of our boxes with safety scissors. While she talked, I could hear my mother’s laugh, snorting and wild, over the other voices in the classroom. I hid my face behind my Frosted Flakes box. Sadie’s mother knew that my mother was my mother, but I couldn’t bear to see the sad look I knew she was pointing at me. Tony the Tiger smiled in my face, promising that the contents of the empty box were grrrrrrrreat.
The parents were all now flitting between tables, complimenting students on their sticker placement and helping them holding down googly eyes while the glue dried. Mothers in ponytails with glass skin and cashmere sweaters; one father with a kind laugh and soft stubble on his chin. I bet his wife, a classmate’s mother, was working in her own office with shell pink fingernails and a mug full of pens.
*
I stand in the shower for a long time, breathing in the steam with my eyes closed. I can’t shake the memory of the party. My mother had messed up before, but that was probably the first time I felt like I could hate her.
Blow drying my hair, I wonder how she functioned like that for all those years. It’s hard enough for me to get up and go in the morning, and I can’t imagine having to do it drunk, or worse, shaking through withdrawals. Now, I think, I almost admire her for making it to the party at all.
Almost.
Blow drying my hair, I wonder how she functioned like that for all those years. It’s hard enough for me to get up and go in the morning, and I can’t imagine having to do it drunk, or worse, shaking through withdrawals. Now, I think, I almost admire her for making it to the party at all.
Almost.
*
As I struggled to cut a piece of red construction paper directly to size for the bottom of my mailbox, I felt a wet kiss on my cheek, hot breath from my mother’s nose lingering for a few seconds before she dropped to her knees beside my chair. I angled my cereal box to block our faces from the rest of the table, Sadie’s perfect mother.
My mother asked if I was having a good day so far, and said she was so lucky to be invited to such a fun party. She had no one else to celebrate with, after all, she whispered. It felt like steam was flying off of my face, like rain on hot asphalt. Then she rose again, greeting Sadie’s mother too loudly. We should get coffee or drinks soon, she said, it’s been too long. I wanted to say coffee is drinks, Mother, don’t be dumb, but dumb was not allowed in Mrs. McGivern’s class and my voice was stuck in my throat anyway.
Finally, we passed around our valentines, and the parents were again relegated to the wall to watch. I had pink and white cards from the dollar store and had sealed them up with glittery heart stickers. Most of my classmates had bright characters on theirs, Barbies and GI Joes and Snoopies and Lisa Franks. Some even had lollipops attached to theirs, or tiny boxes of conversation hearts. One girl had these cards with dogs on them that blinked their huge eyes when you tilted it back and forth. I would receive one of each of these cards, but receiving them didn’t matter as much as which ones you were able to buy in the first place.
And I would only receive one of each if my classmates followed Mrs. McGivern’s rule of giving everyone a valentine, which I knew they didn’t. Some kids skipped mailboxes, including mine. Even worse, I watched some kids slip larger cards with candy attached into a select few boxes, while everyone else got a simple paper square. That felt worse, because I was nobody’s best friend and I didn’t get a special card from anyone, not even Sadie.
My mother asked if I was having a good day so far, and said she was so lucky to be invited to such a fun party. She had no one else to celebrate with, after all, she whispered. It felt like steam was flying off of my face, like rain on hot asphalt. Then she rose again, greeting Sadie’s mother too loudly. We should get coffee or drinks soon, she said, it’s been too long. I wanted to say coffee is drinks, Mother, don’t be dumb, but dumb was not allowed in Mrs. McGivern’s class and my voice was stuck in my throat anyway.
Finally, we passed around our valentines, and the parents were again relegated to the wall to watch. I had pink and white cards from the dollar store and had sealed them up with glittery heart stickers. Most of my classmates had bright characters on theirs, Barbies and GI Joes and Snoopies and Lisa Franks. Some even had lollipops attached to theirs, or tiny boxes of conversation hearts. One girl had these cards with dogs on them that blinked their huge eyes when you tilted it back and forth. I would receive one of each of these cards, but receiving them didn’t matter as much as which ones you were able to buy in the first place.
And I would only receive one of each if my classmates followed Mrs. McGivern’s rule of giving everyone a valentine, which I knew they didn’t. Some kids skipped mailboxes, including mine. Even worse, I watched some kids slip larger cards with candy attached into a select few boxes, while everyone else got a simple paper square. That felt worse, because I was nobody’s best friend and I didn’t get a special card from anyone, not even Sadie.
*
Work drags on, but the closer I get to the end of the day, the more anxious I get to see my mother. New memories make themselves known: the time she had to leave church to go throw up; the time she drove me an hour away to Six Flags, swerving all the way; the time she slapped my father across the face, unprompted, while they exchanged me from car to car in a Walmart parking lot. At the Valentine’s Day party, she really was, all things considered, on her best behavior.
Sadie and I hadn’t seen each other since high school, but I could still remember her mother’s taut face as my mother talked at her, wanting so desperately to be her friend.
Sadie and I hadn’t seen each other since high school, but I could still remember her mother’s taut face as my mother talked at her, wanting so desperately to be her friend.
*
After we all finished passing around our cards, it was snack time. We all dumped our valentines onto our tables and picked them apart with greasy, chocolate covered hands from Sadie’s mother’s brownies. I looked through mine pretty quick—no long notes or special cards I had to spend extra time on. Mrs. McGivern turned on the radio and some gauzy love ballad played.
My mother was busying herself with the bouquet she brought, rearranging the gerbera daisies and roses in the plastic cup Mrs. McGivern had provided as a vase. She had two brownies that she ate off a napkin on the counter. There was chocolate crusted in the corner of her mouth and a single pink sprinkle on her chest. A new song began to play on the radio, and she sprung out of her undersized classroom chair, a woman possessed.
She squealed, this is our song, and lunged across the room to me, pulling me out of my chair by my wrist. Not here, not now, I pleaded, but it was too late, she was swinging me around the classroom. We crashed into chairs and parents, piles of cards, the guinea pig cage. I bet Sadie’s mother never dances like this, I thought.
But my mother did, and we spun around the classroom like tops while she sang. I lost one of my shoes. I heard Mrs. McGivern chasing us in circles, but all I could see was my mother’s chest and chin, smell the burning in her breath. I closed my eyes, circling the drain with her.
My mother was busying herself with the bouquet she brought, rearranging the gerbera daisies and roses in the plastic cup Mrs. McGivern had provided as a vase. She had two brownies that she ate off a napkin on the counter. There was chocolate crusted in the corner of her mouth and a single pink sprinkle on her chest. A new song began to play on the radio, and she sprung out of her undersized classroom chair, a woman possessed.
She squealed, this is our song, and lunged across the room to me, pulling me out of my chair by my wrist. Not here, not now, I pleaded, but it was too late, she was swinging me around the classroom. We crashed into chairs and parents, piles of cards, the guinea pig cage. I bet Sadie’s mother never dances like this, I thought.
But my mother did, and we spun around the classroom like tops while she sang. I lost one of my shoes. I heard Mrs. McGivern chasing us in circles, but all I could see was my mother’s chest and chin, smell the burning in her breath. I closed my eyes, circling the drain with her.
*
I end up getting to the restaurant early. I had enough time to stop at home after work, but I didn’t. It felt like I needed to make sure she was real, this mythic woman of another world where I was much younger and couldn’t have understood if I wanted to.
I order a glass of red wine, which I lift to my mouth in a stiff, clawed hand. The tannins float up the back of my throat through my sinuses. Drinking has never made me feel good. I down the wine in a few gulps and hand off the glass to a passing busser. There are only water glasses on the table.
She arrives just on time, her face collapsed around her nose like it always does when she smiles. Her skin glows like she has a candle where her heart should be. She is beautiful, and she always has been.
She removes her jacket and throws it over the back of her chair, coming around to my side of the table to plant three warm kisses on my cheek, one after another. She says she’s sorry, but she doesn’t say why.
I order a glass of red wine, which I lift to my mouth in a stiff, clawed hand. The tannins float up the back of my throat through my sinuses. Drinking has never made me feel good. I down the wine in a few gulps and hand off the glass to a passing busser. There are only water glasses on the table.
She arrives just on time, her face collapsed around her nose like it always does when she smiles. Her skin glows like she has a candle where her heart should be. She is beautiful, and she always has been.
She removes her jacket and throws it over the back of her chair, coming around to my side of the table to plant three warm kisses on my cheek, one after another. She says she’s sorry, but she doesn’t say why.
***
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Allison Plourde is a prose writer from the Chicago suburbs, currently based in New York City. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from Stony Brook University. Her work has appeared in Bending Genres, HAD, Tulsa Review, and Bradley University’s Broadside Literary Arts Magazine.
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Author’s Note:
This piece started as a singular retelling of the narrator’s painful childhood memory. As I developed it further, I realized that I owed it to the narrator to explore how her perspective would shift as she herself neared her mother’s age. This is when I added the scenes of her adulthood looking back. When we’re kids, it’s difficult to grasp that our parents are human beings just like us and not some otherworldly authorities who have never felt the same feelings that we have. Through this story, I hoped to illustrate the strain and subsequent growth inherent within the mother-daughter relationship.