She has her knees tucked under her chin as she looks out the bay window with Borris in her lap. It’s dark outside, and her light-brown hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and she changed into her PJs the moment she got home from work. To be fair, I think I’ve worn the same two-piece set for three days and have barely come out of the studio.
Suddenly, I remember the juice she brought up for me, and take a refreshing sip.
“Lorraine, your books definitely have the spark. You just need to believe in yourself. The right audience will find your work,” I say with the utmost confidence. I mean, that’s what happened for me. And I’m a firm believer that if you don’t put yourself out there, you’re not going to get anywhere.
“I’m not like you, Romi. I don’t have a steadfast career or money to back me up.”
It always irks me when she brings up my parents' money. Yes, I come from a wealthy family, but I’ve worked every hour, honing my skill, putting myself out there without their help when I could’ve had it many times over with their influence. But I always wanted to do it myself. I acknowledge that our upbringings were different, but I won’t have it used against me as a narrative that I didn’t work toward my achievements or that it’s part of the reason that holds her back from her own.
But I also know Lorraine struggles with bouts of depression. I’ve been so focused on my collection that it isn’t until now that I realize she might be in the depths of one of her down periods.
“Your work always has so much life to it. It’s beautiful and edgy. It has that spark. Sometimes I think I’m just not capable of it, and that’s okay,” Lorraine says glumly.
I pick up an unused brush and throw it at her.
“Ow!” she squawks, then suddenly looks my way instead of outside the window where it’s raining and dreary.
“You’re phenomenal. I’ve read every one of your manuscripts, and you know I wouldn’t bullshit you. We just need to send it out into the world and see how it goes.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not that easy. You don’t understand how many hoops I'll have to jump through just for someone to look at it.”
“If you don’t want to go a traditional route, let’s look at how you can do it yourself; build from the ground up.”
“It’s not that easy. It costs so much to publish, and I can barely pay my bills.”
“Then maybe you need to stop sending money to your mom.” It’s a sensitive topic. We’ve discussed it a few times already, but whenever her mother calls, which she had only a week ago, it's often when Lorraine spirals.
“You know I can’t do that.”
I sigh. I know when she’s open to my advice and when she’s not. I refocus on my painting, looking it over and deciding where I want to embellish certain colors. I’ve been very drawn to oranges and golds for this collection, as I’ve designed the background to look like autumn leaves.
Lorraine lights a cigarette, and I look over my shoulder. “I know. I know they’ll kill me one day. Whatever, I’ll stop soon.” I shake my head because I didn’t even say anything. This time. “You’re not coming for our morning walk tomorrow, are you?”
“No. Lily’s dad recently passed, and his funeral is tomorrow. Are you sure you want to walk in all this rain?”
She waves a hand. “Rain can’t hurt me.”
I look over my shoulder again. I really don’t like when she’s in this headspace.
“Okay, maybe stay away from the pier, then. You know how it gets slippery after rainy days.”
She salutes me. “Aye, aye, captain. You know I’m going to start calling you 'Mom' soon.”
“Eww. I don’t think 'Mom' suits me in the slightest.”
“The way you fuck might suggest you’re trying to become one.”
I smirk, picking up another paintbrush and throw it at her. Except this time, she doesn’t laugh. She’s staring out at the rain again. I bite my bottom lip. I know she never listens and always ends up caving to her mother’s demands, but it doesn’t sit right with me the way she uses her own daughter. I want to shake some sense into Lorraine sometimes. I hate seeing her used and manipulated in this way.
So, I rip the Band-Aid off.
“What did your mother want this time? She only calls when she needs you to bail her out with money. She’d steal your kidney in an alleyway and sell it if she had half the chance. You once said that to me.”
She clicks her tongue, still not looking in my direction. “Not all of us have stable parents, all right? I have a deadbeat dad in prison who I’ve only met once and who still wants nothing to do with me, and the only family I have is my mother. The moment I stop sending her money, I’ll have no one.”
“You have me,” I correct her, trying my hardest not to be goaded into the comparison with my parents and their stability while giving enough of a bite to humble her. “You’re not the only one who has lost a parent.”
“Yeah, but the difference is, it’s harder when it’s by their choice.”
