| |
I didn’t move. I’d known my mother wouldn’t be thrilled to see me, so her icy welcome shouldn’t have been a surprise, but I was always amazed at the way the woman could put me in my place like no other human being on earth. For the millionth time in my twenty-eight years of life, I wished my mother and I had a normal relationship.
I couldn’t remember a time when things weren’t tense and difficult between us. I usually dealt with it by running away, and that’s exactly what I wanted to do—get in the rental car and race back to New York. At the same time, I felt an intense responsibility as her daughter. She had no one else.
I pushed down my anger, took a deep breath, grabbed my bag, and walked into the house. She was sick; that much was obvious from her haggard appearance. But I had no idea the extent of her illness. She was nowhere to be found, so I assumed she was in her bedroom, hiding from me. Feeling awkward and out of place, I trudged through the kitchen and up the narrow staircase.
At the top, I turned left and into my old bedroom. Everything was exactly the same as the day I’d left. I was stunned. It was like going back in time. I’d expected her to convert it to a junk room, or a sewing room, anything to erase my memory completely. Instead, it was like a shrine to my youth.
It was immaculately clean, which was no surprise since this was my mom’s house. I was certain that even dust particles feared her. I slipped my feet out of my shoes and plunged them into the plush beige carpet. The baby-pink walls were still decorated with my posters. Photographs of Kelsey and me at various stages of our childhood were tacked to the walls and framed throughout the room. It was as if time had stopped. Nothing was moved or changed.
I sat down at the vanity table, on the padded chair with the faded pink rose pattern, and ran my hand across the surface. The familiar wood felt smooth under my fingertips. How many times had I sat there as a teenager, closely inspecting my image in the mirror? At least a thousand. Those days seemed like a speck in my very distant past.
I opened the top drawer, and was greeted by my old hairbrushes and makeup. Mom hadn’t thrown anything away. I didn’t understand; I’d been so sure she would be happy to be rid of me. I’d envisioned her having a celebratory bonfire and torching any remnants of me. Reality was a bit unsettling.
The thought of her coming in here every week for the last ten years, cleaning and dusting around my personal items, made me feel sad in a way I couldn’t describe. What did she feel when she came in my room? Did she miss me, even a little? Was she disappointed in our relationship? I’d never considered that my mom might have a soft side. She was so rigid and distant, even when I was a small child. I felt strangely uncomfortable discovering that she hadn’t wiped away my memory after all.
When I glanced in the mirror, the stress of recent weeks was startlingly obvious. I’d always been told I was pretty, but right then I just looked wretched. My chocolate-brown eyes were hollow and lackluster; I had angry, dark circles underneath from stress and lack of sleep. My pale, freckled skin was ghostly white, with no trace of the usual rosiness in my cheeks. Golden-blonde hair that normally cascaded in thick waves down my back, now hung limply around my face. I tried to remember the last time I’d even brushed it.
If I were being honest, I didn’t look much better than my sick mother. The impending divorce and the news of my mother’s illness had taken its toll on my appearance. Then there was my recent miscarriage, which only my doctor and Jonathan knew about. My body and mind needed time to heal, but I seriously doubted that could happen in this house. I grabbed the bottle of anxiety medication from my purse and considered sliding it into the vanity table drawer next to my childhood mementos. I changed my mind and dropped it back into my purse. I might need the pills after all.
I walked to the window next to my bed, leaned on the white, wrought iron frame, and pushed the lace curtains to the side. My bedroom had the best view of the Pacific Ocean. I’d spent countless hours standing at this window, looking out at the crashing waves, dreaming about my future and the day I would finally break away from this place.
Ironically, I was right back where I started. The future of which I’d dreamed was decimated, and I was left holding remnants and scraps of the life I’d wanted. I’d had so many dreams when I’d left home. I’d envisioned a happy marriage, a couple of kids, and a career as a writer. If it weren’t for the fact that my books were a huge success, I would feel like a complete failure.
Sighing, I realized that I couldn’t hide out in my bedroom forever. Eventually, I would have to talk to Mom. I figured there was no time like the present, so I boxed up my emotions and put them aside. I’d spent my life compartmentalizing my feelings and I was very good at it—most of the time. I kept every painful, difficult memory inside a little box in my mind, refusing to entertain it unless I wanted to. It was the way I made it through my less-than-ideal childhood, and the only way I knew how to deal with pain. I simply chose not to feel it. Unfortunately, there were many things in Woodridge that I’d never been able to box up.
I looked at my lone bag sitting in the corner and hoped the moving truck with the rest of my belongings would arrive soon. I would have to find a storage unit or something until I figured out what I was going to do with my life. It was all like a bad dream. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was six o’clock in the evening, and my stomach warned me it was time to find some food. The kitchen was my mother’s domain, and I was terrified of doing something wrong, so I wasn’t about to cook anything. I decided to get a pizza, and went in search of my mother to see if she wanted some. Maybe she would view it as a peace offering.
The door of her bedroom was open, and she was sitting on her bed, staring off into the distance. She hadn’t yet changed from her scrubs. In fact, I had the sneaking suspicion that she hadn’t moved from that spot since she came inside. I marveled again at how tired and old she looked.
I cleared my throat to get her attention. “Mom, I’m hungry. I thought I would run to Salvatore’s and get a pizza. Will you eat some if I go?” I stood there awkwardly, half in and half out of her bedroom.
“I should eat, I suppose. Let me get you some money.” My mother rose slowly.
“I don’t need money, Mom. I can get it. I’ll be back soon.” I turned on my heel before she could argue.
Climbing into the safety of the vehicle, I breathed a sigh of relief. This situation was much worse, much more toxic than I’d anticipated, and I felt helpless to fix it. I was not strong enough for this.
I turned the key in the ignition and was about to back out of the driveway when I noticed a beautiful little girl playing at the house next door; the house where Sam used to live. She had long, white-blonde ringlets and looked like a fairy running through the grass. She climbed onto the tire swing that hung from the large, sturdy oak tree in her front yard.
As if sensing my stare, she raised her little hand and gave me a shy wave and a sweet smile. I returned her wave before backing the car out of the driveway. I had the strangest compulsion to stop and talk to her, but I had no idea why.
