I wasn’t sure what would happen when I saw Mom for the first time. When she saw me. I imagined some grand cinematic reunion, where the music (that would somehow be playing around us) would slow down and come to a dramatic crescendo. We’d rush at each other through the crowded entryway while everyone else froze in their tracks. She’d cry. I’d cry. We’d hug for some indeterminate time.
Then everything would be back to normal. We’d talk like normal and we’d laugh like normal. Normal, normal, normal.
In reality, though, our grand reunion is nothing like my daydream. We’re not in the entryway; we’re in a little room off a side hallway. It’s cozy, with white walls and a few overstuffed chairs in a pretty blue-and-white print. There are a bunch of pictures that I bet are supposed to be calming—a sailboat, an apple orchard at sunset, and a flower garden filled with all the colors of the rainbow.
I hope they calm everyone here, because they’re sure not working for me. Because the second Mom enters the room, my heart starts beating so fast I’m surprised it doesn’t pop out of my chest like in some gross horror movie.
“Hi.” Mom says the word softly, like I’m a baby kitten she’s afraid to spook. She’s still in the doorway, and Dad takes a step closer. He squeezes her hand, like he’s infusing her with all the love she’s been missing out on for the past month. Mom doesn’t give him a hug or anything, though. She doesn’t move at all—she’s just focused on me.
I’m her priority. Not Dad. Not drinking. Not anything else in the whole wide world.
The thought makes my insides warm.
“Hi,” I finally manage. I want to run to her and squeeze her tight, but I’m also afraid that I’ll break her, that she’s a statue made out of glass and anything I do wrong could be the hammer to shatter her. I take a small step closer. “Hi,” I say again.
Mom sits down on one of the chairs and pats the cushions of the one next to her. I take it cautiously.
“I’m looking forward to today.” She says it slowly and deliberately, like she’s picking out apples in the grocery store, choosing the ones that are the brightest and least bruised.
“Me too.”
“I wish I could spend more time with you two, but I have my own groups to go to.” Mom brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. For some reason, I’m surprised to notice that Mom’s bangs are longer now. Of course Mom’s hair would have grown in here. Lots of things about her are changing, after all.
I remember reading once that your skin cells replace themselves all the time, that we’re always shedding old bits of dry skin and growing fresh new cells. It sounds kind of icky—who wants to think about all that gross skin falling off all the time?—but it’s kind of comforting at the same time. That a month from now, there will be all new skin cells on the outsides of us.
Just like, in some amount of time, all of Mom’s hair will be new. It’ll be hair from the time when she isn’t drinking anymore.
Not from when she was.
“Honey?”
I pull my gaze away from Mom’s hair and finally meet her eyes. At least they look exactly the same.
“It’s okay if you have groups,” I manage. My eyes are filling up with tears and my throat feels thick with sobs. I told myself to be strong today, but my plan isn’t exactly working. I take a deep breath, then puff it out as slowly and quietly as I can. “Dad told me that you’re going to be busy with stuff.”
“I have my therapist this morning and then a peer group. But we can have lunch together,” Mom says. “And after lunch we’ll meet as a family.”
“We’re so happy to be here, Anna.” Dad finally wraps Mom in a hug. I think about how when I was a kid, I always got super jealous whenever I saw my parents hugging. I’d run up and wrap my arms around one of their legs, then proclaim we were having a “hug party!”
Today, though, I let Mom and Dad have each other.
“We have some good news for you, too,” Dad says once he’s pulled away. His face is bright, his voice perky.
“Ooh, what?” Mom sounds the same way, like she’s pretending to be the “Perfect Recovery Mom,” someone who doesn’t get upset about anything and whose life is going to be absolutely wonderful from now on.
I peer at Mom’s face more closely. She actually does look a lot happier. Healthier, too—her cheeks are rosy and her eyes sparkle. Maybe she’s not pretending—maybe Mom actually is doing well.
“Veronica?” Dad nudges me in the side.
“I made the All-Star team.” I look at the ground when I say it. Well, whisper it, actually. Which is weird. You’d think I’d want to stand up on a table and shout it to the entire room. The entire world, even. Instead, I’m almost … embarrassed. Like I don’t deserve to be on the team. Like this new bit of news is a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit into the whole of me.
“Honey!” Mom screeches loud enough for all of us, though, then reaches forward and sweeps me up in a hug. “I’m so proud of you. You must have been working so hard without…” She pauses, a wistful expression passing across her face. “Well, without me.”
“Mom, it’s okay.”
(I mean, it’s not okay, but I can pretend to be Perfect Happy Daughter, too. That’s half the point of today.)
“I’ll make it up to you once I get out of here.” Mom nods her head firmly. “You’re going to have such a good season.” She continues to gush as some Pine Knolls staff member starts to herd us into a different room.
As Mom’s voice grows more animated, the pit in my stomach grows. Because seeing Mom so happy has made me realize that lately, I haven’t been happy. That thinking about playing on the All-Star team makes me unhappy.
That as much as I’ve tried to deny it, I don’t want to join the team at all.