“Will you be okay, walking home alone?”
“I’ll be fine.” I wait with Ebony until her bus comes.
Ebony and I both did well tonight— she was third and I took fourth out of ten competing poets. The scores we got for the poem we did together don’t help us against each other since we both got the same number of points. But the judges usually like good teamwork, so the higher scores are helpful against the other poets.
There were a lot of good things about tonight.
Licking whipped cream from my upper lip.
Giggling at a poem about cats and dogs running big banks.
Ebony whispering “Perfect” in my ear.
My good mood should have carried me all the way home. Instead, my phone rings somewhere deep in my purse. It’s so late!
I’ve changed the ringtone at least twenty times in the last year but it doesn’t help. If I hear the phone, something in my gut squeezes tight. No matter whose number flashes on the display, if I hear the ring I must answer.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Honey—hi. How are you doing?”
She sounds like she’s out of breath.
“Fine. Busy.”
“How is work?” she asks.
“Fine. Busy. How about you?”
“I’m leaving for a conference in Denver tomorrow. I wanted to make sure we—talked—before I leave. I’m taking two of the senior sales guys…”
I tune out while she goes on about work. Then she switches to how she had an offer on the house that fell through. “The wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. Such a shame.”
I hold the phone a little away from my ear and keep moving through the dark streets of my neighborhood. She keeps blabbing.
She has no clue she has ruined the end of my evening. Will she say something about Hannah? She almost never does. How can she go along with her oh-so-important life and never mention her other daughter? You know, the one who died? Doesn’t she miss her?
“Are you still doing your poetry?”
“Hm.” Mom doesn’t care about poetry. She and Dad never went to my slams back when I lived at home. Mom said it gave her a headache to listen to people yelling about all the terrible things that happen in the world. “None of it rhymes!” she complained. Except for the rappers. She hated them too. They talked so fast she couldn’t keep up.
After Hannah died, I knew Mom wouldn’t want to hear what I had to say. I stopped inviting her and she never invited herself. Then I moved to Ontario.
She’d probably kill me if she heard the poem I performed a couple of weeks ago. Then she’d have two dead daughters she wouldn’t talk about.
I can say this because you aren’t here
you’re in San Francisco, New York Saskatoon, God-knows-where
with your Yes, boss
how high, boss?
yes-men
standing at attention by your side.
“I worry about you, Tara.”
I bet you do.
Does it make you feel better
taller?
smarter?
to jet off
set off
piss off
anyone who dares say
What about this way?
instead of your way?
How do you pack so much
into a carry-on bag
and a slim briefcase?
This month’s sales targets
right on track.
“It seems such a waste not to be going to university.”
Does it hurt to fill
your data slots
with bottom-line-driven
customer relationship management
tools?
Forget about the mess back home.
Ignore the empty bedrooms
keep forwarding your husband’s mail
ex-husband’s mail
call your daughter
remind her of her duty to succeed
coach her in the ways of the world
No degree? No future.
“You can’t defer your acceptance forever.”
Forever is a very long time, Mom.
Move on without the life
you left behind
the day you hauled your
ass
back to the office and said
I’m fine. Let’s get on with it.
Is she going to deliver the whole “such a waste” lecture? Not going to school is a waste. Me working at a bookstore is a waste. Me not living at home and spending my money on rent is a waste. How dare I waste my life when I, at least, still have one?
“Are you still there, Hannah?”
The shock of hearing her name stops me in the middle of the sidewalk.
“I mean—oh, Tara—I’m sorry. Are you still there?”
“Yes, Mom—I’m here.”
“I guess I was thinking about her. I was moving those boxes in the basement into storage. One of them wasn’t closed properly…”
An empty whiskey bottle stands on top of the newspaper box at the corner. It’s too late and too dark to be here by myself, but my feet won’t move. Now that Mom’s talking about Hannah I want her to stop.
“It was a heavy box—”
“Mom, why are you telling me this?”
“Because I had to repack the stuff into two smaller boxes. One of the things I found was her riding journal. I thought you might want it—as a—as a…”
Souvenir? Could that possibly be the word she’s groping for?
“Something to remind you of Hannah. Maybe I didn’t do the right thing. I sent it to you.”
“You what! What’s in it?”
“I—I don’t know. I opened one page and when I saw—when I tried to read— there were photos—I couldn’t—”
At the other end of the line she sucks in a breath. Then she sighs and continues.
“What’s done is done. The package is in the mail. It should arrive in a week or so. I thought I’d better warn you so you didn’t get excited and think it was chocolates or something.”
Chocolates? I’ve been living in Ontario for six months and Mom has never sent me chocolates.
“Mom—I should go. I’ve got to get home.”
“You’re still out? Are you alone?”
“I’m fine. But I should go. You’re okay?”
“Yes, yes of course. Very busy. I’ll call you when I get back from Denver.”
We swap goodbyes and the line goes dead.