Lies. So many of them. They became our truth.
They would be our end.
Present
Unexpected phone calls were not a great way to start the day.
“Hello?”
“Imogen Marie. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for days!”
I locked my front door behind me, balancing my phone between my cheek and my shoulder, all the while trying not to sigh nosily in my mother’s ear.
“I’ve been busy,” I excused.
“Well I’ve got man troubles and I needed to talk to my girl.” I could practically hear my mom’s pout.
“What else is new?” I muttered, not bothering to be overly quiet.
“I deserved that,” Mom responded with a slight chuckle. “When will I learn that a huge dick and a hot set of abs doesn’t necessarily mean long-term commitment?”
“Seriously, Mom? I don’t need to hear about you and dicks and abs. It’s too early in the morning for those kinds of visuals.” My mother cackled on the other end, clearly enjoying herself.
It had taken us years to build any sort of relationship. It had been slow. At times painful. It had required a lot of adjustment—on my part. Because I had learned, the older I got, that my mother was way past changing. And I either had to accept her for all of her faults, or be miserable and resentful.
I had opted for acceptance. Though, at times, it was a bitter pill to swallow.
After I returned home following my time as a teenage runaway, it had been rough. Mom had been angry. Adam, her boyfriend at the time, was annoyed that I had put a wrench in his party-and-screw lifestyle he had going on with my mother.
She had screamed at me for what felt like weeks. I had thought her anger was over the top and I hadn’t understood it at all. It had seemed that she was just pissed I had the audacity to come home.
I had been debating whether I should leave again when one evening my mother appeared in my doorway after getting home from work.
Her mascara was smeared halfway down her face and I knew she had been crying. My mother had always been overly emotional and had never attempted to shield me from her highs and lows. I was always carried along for the ride. But since being on my own I found that I was less affected by her moods. I had learned to accept this part of her.
It was sort of liberating. Letting go of the anger. I realized it had eaten away at me.
There was no sense holding onto it any longer.
“Adam’s gone,” she had sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
I hadn’t been surprised. None of Mom’s boyfriends ever stuck around. Though Adam had been around longer than most.
I knew she expected me to pick up the pieces. It had been my role in her life since I was old enough to understandIhad to comfortherand not the other way around.
“I’m sorry,” I had told her, not really meaning it. I didn’t feel sorry. Not in the least.
Mom had stood there, wiping at her face, smearing her makeup even worse. “I didn’t like it when you were gone,” she finally said.
“Even with Adam here? I figured you had your hands full,” I muttered.
“I kept your door shut. It made me too sad. I didn’t like knowing it was empty,” she went on, ignoring my statement. Not bothering to explain why, if she was so upset that I was gone, why she had never tried to find out where I went.
She wouldn’t really look at me. Mom could be incredibly immature and childish. Most of the time she acted as though she were younger I was. It made it difficult to relate to her as a kid to parent.
But I had also known that this was as close to an apology that I would ever get from her. I could have yelled at her for not coming to look for me. For allowing me to sleep on the streets. I could have cried and screamed at how she chose men over me time and time again. But I didn’t want to fight. I hadn’t wanted to argue.
Instead I had taken her words for what they were. A peace offering.
