“You had every reason not to,” she said.
“Well, here I am,” I said, almost defiantly.
“Your brother wouldn’t have come.” And I knew she was right about that too. That Ben lived on the other side of the country wasn’t lost on me. He had come east to our wedding when Mark and I got married, but there was a reason he’d made his home in California. “Not that I would ever ask him to.”
“Well, I’m not Ben,” I said.
“Indeed you’re not,” she said, then asked, “Have you called him yet, to tell him the news? Ding-dong, the witch is almost dead?”
My throat tightened. “No,” I said. “And when I do tell him, that’s certainly not the way the conversation will go.”
I’d thought about calling Ben but had decided to wait until I’d visited her, once I had more details.
She stared at me, narrowing her eyes. It was the way she used to look at me to see if I was lying. And she was always right.I know you better than you know yourself, she used to say.
“No, I suppose not,” she said. “He might say something along those lines, but you never would. You’ve always been my good girl, my trouper, haven’t you? Loyal to the end, no matter what.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I gave her a weak nod.
“I’ve never understood it, you know,” she admitted.
“What?”
“Why you still talk to me at all.”
“Because you’re my mother. And I love you.” The words felt strained. Rehearsed.
She only smiled, but it was a thin smile. AnI don’t believe yousmile.
Our mother had done a lot of horrible things, things fueled by her alcoholism, but she was no monster. She wasn’t going to win any mother-of-the-year awards by anyone’s standards, but I believed she’d done her best. She was a brilliant artist who gave us drawing lessons, taught us to make lemon chiffon pie, danced with us in the kitchen, did silly scavenger hunts on our birthdays, took us on little adventures.
One time we even played hooky from school and she drove us five hours to Cape Cod for fried shrimp. It was during one of her good periods, no drinking, lots of art and adventures. As we drove, she described the little seafood shack she and her best friend, Bobbi, used to go to every summer when she was growing up. “The best fried shrimp on the whole planet,” she’d promised. She worried it might not be there anymore, might have closed, but it was still there, exactly the way my mom remembered it. “It’s like time stopped here,” she said. “Like I just stepped up to the window with Bobbi, and we’re kids again.” She reached for my hand, although I wasn’t sure whose hand she was reaching for: Bobbi’s? Mine? It didn’t matter to me; what mattered was how tightly she held on as we marched up and placed our order.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked now, forcing the words out through my tight throat. I saw the pitcher of water on her rolling table, the empty Styrofoam cup, which, for half an instant, became one of the cups we all drank from that day on the beach—as if time had bent back on itself and I was a little girl again. “Water? Juice? Anything?”
She shook her head, closed her eyes.
I wished Paul would hurry back, carrying coffee. This would be easier if he were here.
If anyone were here.
Mark had offered to come with me, but I’d insisted I was fine on myown. He’d taken me in his arms, done all the proper husbandly things after I told him the news. His arms around me had felt good—real and solid. I loved the way he smelled of tea-tree oil soap and the spicy aftershave he used.
I’d leaned into him, feeling numb, hollowed out inside. A woman on autopilot.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I’d said.
Wasn’t that what I was always saying?
Even back in college when we first started dating, I knew he wasthe onebecause of the way he grounded me, encouraged me to do something with my wild, flighty ideas despite my insecurities. He had pushed me to do my first show in the student gallery, and I’d landed a crucial internship with a well-known printmaker in Provincetown because Mark had encouraged me to drive up and meet the artist, show him how badly I wanted the job. Even the Moxie book would not have existed without Mark’s cheerleading and encouragement. My husband believed in me, and that helped me to believe in myself.
This afternoon he’d helped me pack, booked me a flight, reminded me to bring my toothbrush, a book for the plane, a few granola bars, some Tylenol just in case. He’d asked several times if he should come along, but I insisted he should stay home and be with the girls, decorate the tree, keep things as normal as possible. He’d agreed, but promised to save the tree trimming and decorating until I got back from New York. When I told him that wasn’t necessary, he’d insisted, said it was important to do it as a family. Tradition and all of that.
“Why are you here?” My mother’s words brought me back to the present. Her eyes were open again, staring at me.
I felt dizzy, the room swimming slightly, the edges of things becoming fuzzy. She looked almost see-through. Like a woman made of glass, as breakable as the angel I’d dropped earlier.
I looked down at my bandaged hand, remembering how Mark had led me over to the kitchen sink to rinse my cut, then pressed a paper towelover it, saying, “You need to be more careful.” How when he’d pulled the paper towel away, the bright-red bloodstain looked like a Rorschach blot—a moth. But a moth with a stinger. A wasp-moth, dangerous but beautiful.
