I parked in the narrow gravel drive and stared at the overgrown lawn and crooked shutters blown loose by a recent storm. I felt ashamed for being ashamed that my mother lived here.
I sent up my usual fruitless prayer for a decent visit, then left my SUV in the driveway and trudged up the path.
Mom opened the front door before I reached the steps. “Where are you supposed to be this time?” she asked. Her gaze roamed disdainfully over my Lululemon leggings and tank top. “Yoga?”
“Pilates.”
She sniffed and moved aside for me to enter.
I looked like my mom in most ways, willowy and fair skinned with little ski-slope noses and lightly freckled cheeks. But Mom had red hair. I had brown. Her eyes were narrow and close set, mine wide and round. As a child, I couldn’t wait to grow up and be as beautiful as her. I’d never imagined she’d age like fruit.
The air inside her home was stale, the rooms crowded with an abundance of things. Unopened boxes from bouts of online retail therapy formed a wall near the entryway.
She closed the door, snuffing most of the light.
I blinked to adjust my eyes. Heavy drapes and endless piles blocked every window. “You didn’t sound well the last time we spoke,” I said. “I wanted to check on you.”
“I’m fine.” She crossed her arms, and the sweatshirt that fit her well not so long ago bagged dramatically in response.
When had I last visited? I tried to come every other week, but I’d missed our last visit when Robert ambushed me with guests. He liked to grill lunch on our new patio for prospective clients and pretend he was a family man. I played the role of traditional wife. After clearing the table of their meal, I’d presented them with a strawberry torte ringed in ladyfingers and tied at the center with a red ribbon. A woman in my flower-arranging class had commissioned the torte, but I’d cracked under the pressure to impress and served it to Robert andhis guests instead. I spent the rest of my day making another torte to fulfill my order.
Mom coughed against a tight fist as she headed for the kitchen. The pallor of her skin and gauntness of her cheeks added further confirmation. She was far from fine.
I’d missed whatever she said but knew enough to follow.
We weaved along a narrow path between collections of old and new things, then stopped in the mostly uncluttered kitchen. She poured coffee into two mugs and passed one to me.
“How long have you had that cough?” I asked. Combined with her general appearance, I wondered if she’d somehow gotten pneumonia.
“Why?” she asked. “Afraid I’m contagious? Is that why you stayed away so long this time?”
My mind returned to the mental math I’d abandoned earlier. I hadn’t seen Mom in nearly a month, and it irked her. “I’m sorry,” I said, taking a seat at the table. “Different things kept coming up, and it’s harder to get away than you’d think.”
“That’s because you married an asshole,” she said. “Don’t bother defending him. I know an asshole when I see one. Robert knows I see him clearly. It’s the reason he never liked me.” She lifted the lid on a nearby soup pot and removed a flask, then poured the contents into her coffee.
I bristled. When had she stopped bothering to pretend she didn’t have a drinking problem? The child in me wondered when she decided I wasn’t worth shielding from her ugly truths anymore.
Another round of coughing hit, and she covered her mouth with one hand while bracing the other against the table. Pain marred her pretty face with each sharp exhalation.
“Mom?” I reached for her, but she stepped away.
She lowered onto the chair across from me and breathed heavily for several minutes as I watched.
We didn’t have the sort of relationship where we comforted one another. We didn’t hug or share words of affirmation. So I sat helpless,wondering what I could do other than feel utterly useless as my mother struggled for air.
I moved to the sink and filled a glass with water, then returned to her side. “Drink this. I don’t think whatever you put in your coffee is going to make you feel any better.”
“You’re wrong about that,” she croaked.
I set the glass before her, and she ignored it, raising the mug to her lips instead.
I returned to my seat, frustrated and angry. “How long have you been sick?”
“I’m not sick. I’m old.” She rose unsteadily and shuffled to the cluttered countertop, searching through the piles of things.
“You’re not old,” I argued.
“Then I’m just tired,” she said.
