The nights my mother and I went to the Manhattan restaurant for dinner were special. It meant a break from cooking for her, and for me, it meant eating whatever I liked. We both knew it was a short reprieve from what was waiting at home. I sipped my Shirley Temple and watched my mother look over the menu. I think I'll have pancakes, she said with a smile. It was not something we would have had for dinner at home, so I  smiled too.  I was always surprised by her choices.

There was the one night she ordered a ham steak. The waitress set the plate in front of her. My mother carefully removed the pineapple and maraschino cherry and put them on the side of her plate. I watched as she cut the ham into small pieces, taking a few small bites and then placing her knife and fork in the finished position. I would not figure out until many years later that I was witnessing a small but deliberate act of living. I don't think my mother had ever eaten pork before that evening, but that night she decided it was time.

I liked hearing my mother order her drink:  I'll have a Dubonnet on the rocks.  I never thought my mother really enjoyed it, but liked saying Dubonnet on the rocks.  She sat across from me in the royal blue dining room taking a sip or two, occasionally commenting on the lovely decor.  We had the choice of three dining rooms. She liked the front room, the one facing the downtown shopping area. It was the most elegant.  I liked who my mother was at the Manhattan. She sat up tall in the blue velvet booth. She looked confident and regal. In the soft lighting of the Manhattan, with her frosted pink lipstick, I thought my mother was beautiful. 

My mother tried different things most every time, but I stuck to my favorites. She let me order anything I liked on these nights. I liked mashed potatoes with extra gravy on the side. Iceberg lettuce with Catalina dressing.  The rules for eating only healthy food didn't apply here. We were two fancy ladies sipping our drinks and forgetting our troubles for a little while.  My mother leisurely sipped her drink as she waited for me to finish my hot fudge sundae. Extra hot fudge, please, I would say to the waitress.

We were in no hurry to go home.

But eventually the plates are cleared, the bill is paid, and the dollar bill and two quarters are placed on the table for a tip. It's dark  by the time we walk out of the Manhattan. I hate to leave. I know the spell will wear off as soon as we go through the revolving door. Like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight, I know my mother will turn back into sadness and slumped shoulders, and I will wonder if I only imagined she was wearing frosted pink lipstick.

Several years ago, I went back to the city where I grew up. Back to the street where the Manhattan stood.  I wanted to remember my mother the way she was for those few stolen hours. I wanted to remember her not as the woman beaten down and disappointed by her life. But as the woman with a slight smile as she ordered ham steak with pineapple and cherries on top.  It didn't matter that she probably didn't really like it. Just to have the choice made her happy.  I stood outside where the revolving doors had once ushered us in for an hour or two of comfort, and for my mother, a small liberation. The place has been gone since the eighties, the woman in the dress shop told me. It was something, wasn't it?

It was something, all right. It was where my mother was who she was meant to be. If only for one night.