OLIVER WIPED THE SAUCEPAN with a paper towel, then rinsed the residue in the sink. After four purple drops of dishwashing liquid, he used a stiff-bristled brush to scrub the pan clean. As he rinsed the suds, he used his thumb to massage the pan’s inner wall in search of any marinara remnants or melted mozzarella he might have missed. He inspected it once more with his eyes and placed it on a rack to dry. When you only used one dish, it made sense to keep it clean.
As he mopped up small puddles around the faucet, he caught a glimpse of his mother’s handiwork outside the kitchen window. He smiled in spite of himself. And in spite of the torrential rains turning his backyard into marshland.
The cups had been her idea. It had been a particularly good day. He remembered his mother as being sober, rested; she’d even faked an appetite.
Oliver dried his hands on his jeans and carried a kitchen chair out the side door and into the backyard. He positioned it under the fattest limb of the Bradford pear tree, just like his mother had done a decade-and-a-half ago. It was raining even harder than he’d thought. Plus, the twist ties had rusted, both of which made getting the cup out of the tree way harder than he’d imagined. Back inside, it took him a good five minutes to change out of his soggy clothes, and another fifteen to find his version of his mother’s mug at the bottom of a cardboard box marked Dorm Junk. He set the mugs on the table, side by side, and dialed his memory back about a decade and a half. When he felt his eyes getting hot, he pushed back from the table and went to the garage.
He was surprised, and more than a little perturbed, to see a bundled sleeping bag, a battery operated lantern, and a few retractable tent poles littering the only clean spot on the garage floor. He made a mental note to yell at Joey about the mess as he dug through a pile of boxes that contained his mother’s prized vintage clothing. Eventually he found a small plastic tub marked Dot’s Crafty Craft Box and lifted the lid. He grinned at the familiar sight of permanent markers, yarn, construction paper, scissors, rulers, glue, and of course … three clear plastic mugs. His mother always bought extras—likely a conditioned response/internal urge to want to fix the inevitable mistakes she knew she’d make along the way.
On his way out of the garage, Oliver did a double take—he would have sworn that his mother’s mannequins were wearing different clothes the last time he saw them.
Oliver poured a to-go cup of coffee, dropped the mismatched mugs into the craft box, and eventually found an umbrella that worked. The drive to Shady Grove took three times longer than it should have. The radio dial was filled with flood warnings.
Betsy was preparing to leave for the day when he breezed into the lobby. “How is it out there?”
“Wet,” he said. “How’s Mom?”
“Still on the ground floor.”
This was Shady Grove shorthand for still sane enough to take care of herself. The higher the floor, the further removed from reality the patients were. The folks on the second level were no crazier than the first, but were far less ambulatory. Levels three and four housed the bedridden, the comatose, and the deranged. The fifth floor, at least according to legend, was one short step removed from actual prison, complete with locked doors and barred windows.
“So,” he said. “You really think they’re going to move her up?”
“Oh, I have no idea,” Betsy said, her cheeks filling up with hot pink. “I was just making a joke. A rather insensitive one, I guess.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t suppose Dr. Strahan is here?”
She shook her head.
“This time he’s out of town. I actually booked the flight myself.”
“Why do you think he’s avoiding me?” Oliver said.
“I wouldn’t take it personally,” she said. “He seems to be avoiding everybody all the time. As a matter of fact, I wanted to tell you —”
The door to the patient rooms opened and the beefy security guard stepped through with two steaming mugs of tea. “Thanks, Tyler,” Betsy said. Oliver offered a manly nod to the security guard who pretended like he didn’t see it. Betsy blew on her tea and asked Oliver, “So what’s in the box?”
“Memories.”
“Good ones, I hope?”
“I think they’re mostly mixed.”
When it came to his mother, memories were never that simple. Although he had no intention of trying to explain all that to Betsy. She’d been acting weird lately, like maybe she wanted to ask him out or something. A month ago, this prospect would have thrilled him.
He found his mother watching TV when he entered the room and set the box on the edge of the bed. It seemed every channel featured colorful 3-D radar screens and anxious, bleary-eyed weather people.
It was official. Nashville was flooding.
“Hey, Mom. How are things?”
She glanced up at him suspiciously, then pulled her covers up a little higher, a little tighter. Oliver sat in the recliner and tried to think of something to say. He asked how she was feeling, if she was taking her medication, how her patients were doing. But her answers were either short or nonexistent. She seemed to be more in the mood to listen than talk. So Oliver told her things instead.
He told her about the upcoming Downers gig, how he’d decided to only tell the truth in his act, how he thought it might actually work, and that he’d even hired a manager. She didn’t seem impressed. His voice cracked when he told her about Roscoe and his apparent cancer. But if she comprehended what he was saying, she gave no outward indication. She just kept staring at the television. He told her that the house was fine, that Joey was still coming by and fixing things, and he even manufactured a small chuckle when he informed her that he still hadn’t unpacked his suitcase from his one failed semester of college.
“I still use the exact same dishes every day,” he said. She responded by changing the channel.
At the next commercial break, Oliver said, “I’ve met this girl.”
Nothing.
“Her name is Mattie. And I think you’d really like her.”
His mother turned then, eyes narrowed slightly. She said, “Think you could fix me a drink?”
“Afraid not,” he said. “But I did bring you something.”
Oliver lifted the lid from the craft box, removed the trio of leftover mugs, and placed them in his mother’s lap. There was more than a flicker of recognition as she picked them up, one in each hand, and studied them. For the first time in months she looked truly nostalgic about something. Her eyes darted from one detail to the next as she held a mug in each hand. Her lips kept flirting with smiles, but would then deflate into looks of confusion and distress. Apparently, her memories were as complicated and confusing as Oliver’s.
Eventually she set the mugs down and fixed her wet eyes on the television screen. Undaunted, Oliver began unpacking various supplies and piling them in her lap.
“I thought we could decorate them. You know, like old times.” Oliver placed a few colorful markers in her lap. “They’re mood cups, remember?”
Apparently, she didn’t. She clicked the TV off and turned onto her side. Eventually, her pretend snoring turned into actual snoring and Oliver put the supplies back in the box. But instead of leaving, he decided to follow her advice and try to find the funny in their situation. He opened his notebook and waited for inspiration to strike.
Decorating the mugs was another of her creative ways of apologizing. But Delores Miles never really learned how to apologize. Instead, she atoned, obfuscated, hinted at things, changed the subject, and made peace offerings. And since she never actually said she was sorry for anything, Oliver never really learned the finer points of forgiveness.
After a particularly nasty fight that started with the ten-year-old version of Oliver dumping an expensive bottle of some stinky brown liquor down the kitchen sink, included Oliver locking himself in the bathroom to keep his mother’s fists out of his face, and ended with her slumped and sobbing outside the locked door, she was ready to make amends.
First, they split an extra-large, extra-gooey pizza. Then it was an afternoon of splurging on ice cream and video games and another new skateboard. Dinner consisted of sugary cereals and cinnamon toast, at least for Oliver. Delores mostly sipped her dinner.
After one such trip, she returned with an armload of supplies, announcing, “I have a little project.”
Oliver pawed through the piles of permanent markers, blank pages, and large plastic cups that looked like frosted beer mugs. “What is all this?”
She bit the cap off a marker, then began writing on one of the mugs. She inspected her work, then pushed the pile of supplies toward Oliver.
He recognized the roles they were supposed to play. She was TV mom, sassy and smart and demanding. He was the lovable, neurotic son, torn between craving his mother’s attention and pretending to be annoyed by it. So he did as instructed.
“Have you ever seen a mood ring, Oliver?”
“No,” he said. “They only had those in the olden days, back when you were a kid.”
“Well, Mr. Smarty Pants, we’re making mood cups.”
“So?” Oliver held his up to the light, squinting at it. “These are supposed to turn colors?”
When she didn’t answer, he followed her gaze to a thumb-sized bruise on his wrist. Oliver pretended to have an itch and moved his arms under the table. Some days her heightened sense of regret made even his most innocent comments sound like indictments.
Oliver watched his mother work, her tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth, sweat beading on her forehead as she focused intently on coloring in the loopy letters of her name. He could have watched her for days. Although it was beyond the ability of his young mind to process, Oliver knew there was more to her fierce concentration than coloring inside the lines. This was his mother’s version of penance. She was atoning, and she had to get it right.
Eventually she held her mug up for inspection and announced, “There, that’s not bad.”
On the side opposite the handle she drew a hash mark in the middle and wrote the word, Half. Near the bottom, she wrote Empty. And the word Full hugged the rim of the cup, as if she couldn’t write it high enough.
Satisfied, she excused herself to the attic. He heard her humming a tune and rummaging through boxes. She returned with a rusty hammer, some fishing line, and a mouthful of nails. Oliver carried one of their kitchen chairs out into the backyard and watched his mother study the branches of their Bradford pear tree. It didn’t take long to figure out what she was trying to do. She was going to hang their cups from a tree limb, and she wanted them to be high enough to see from the kitchen window. He volunteered to do the hammering, but she insisted he steady the chair for her while she worked. When she climbed down, her forehead was beaded with sweat and her skin pink and splotchy. She looked good, healthy for once.
She rested her hands on her hips and studied her work.
“There,” she said. “Now, even on the rainy days, our cups will be half-full. And I don’t know about you, but I think we could use some better days.”
“What about mine?”
She looked from the decorated mug in Oliver’s hand to the ladder and back again. “We’ll keep yours inside. For emergencies.”
“It’s a good idea, Mom.”
“And …” She stopped to clear the tears out of her throat. Then she placed both hands on his shoulders and continued. “Whenever I get particularly hard to live with, maybe you can come out here and, you know, fill my cup up for me.”
Oliver stared at his mother as she stared up into the branches, desperately wishing he could give her what she really wanted. But real forgiveness was beyond his adolescent ability to articulate. So he did the best he could with what he had. “I love you, Mom.”
“I know that,” she said. “But you still deserve better.”
“Stop it, Mom. You’re the best and I mean it. And when I grow up I’m going to find a girl just like you and live happily ever after.”
He never saw the slap coming, but he would feel it for days.
“Don’t you ever say that again, Oliver Miles. Don’t even think it.”
Hours later he found her in her recliner. The shopping network was on, the sound down. The lights were off, and she was sipping more stinky brown liquid from his recently decorated cup. In the glow of the television Oliver noticed it was empty. Then his mother retrieved a bottle from her lap and slowly filled her cup to just above the Half-Full mark.
“There,” she said. “That’s better.”
But it wasn’t, he thought, as he watched his mother dozing to the sound of thrumming raindrops. And probably never would be.
When Oliver felt himself begin to nod off, he closed his notebook and watched his mother sleep a while longer. He’d found very little funny in the memory of their mood cups. And nothing he could use in his act.
He flipped the television back on, muted it, and watched the footage pouring in of neighbors helping neighbors find higher ground. He wondered what would happen if his mother’s house flooded. Did she have insurance? If not, how would he pay to replace the carpet? He decided to call Joey as soon as he got home. Then he remembered that he’d never called Joey before, that he had no idea where the man lived or what his phone number was. He just showed up a few times a week, ate all the cookies he could find, avoided fixing things, and messed up the garage.
Oliver had planned to find an open-mic night before clocking in at the hotel. But it looked like the city was shut down. So he leaned over and kissed his mother. He whispered, “I love you, Mom.”
His heart nearly stopped when she opened her mouth. Then she replied by snoring in his face.
She still had great timing, even in her sleep.
On the way out he took his cup with him and made a halfhearted promise to keep it half-full. As he drove through the relentless downpour, Oliver put his window down and held his mug out in the rain. By the time he arrived home, the left side of his body was soaked. But at least he’d made good on his promise, if only for a day.