I walked over and sat on the couch beside her recliner. My eyes found hers, neither of us feeling strange at the closeness. “I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know why I keep coming back here. I don’t know why I want to talk to you.”
“You don’t want to talk to me.”
I took a second before I answered. I really didn’t want to talk to her; she was right. “I want you to be my mom. I don’t need you to make me cupcakes or be all lovey-dovey or anything, but I do want you to act like you are my mom. Like you actually care about me. Or maybe at least act like you don’t want to see me hurt all the time.”
She shrugged but still held my gaze. “Why?”
“You’re my mom.”
“And you’re grown up. You don’t need me to be a mom.”
“Why do you do this?” I could feel myself start to get angry, and I didn’t want to. Not again. “What have I done to make you hate me? I don’t believe it’s just because of the gay thing.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Then why?”
She didn’t answer.
“Mom, please. Can’t we just… I don’t know… we could….”
She glanced toward the kitchen. “Would you get me some water?”
I let a sigh escape. “Sure.”
“Then, why don’t you leave?”
“Mom, come on. Let’s just talk a little bit.”
She almost gave me a smile. “Just leave.”
Twenty-Nine
Jedhad been upstairs taking a bath for quite a while. Things had been going well at Cottey so far, but he struggled to get used to lesson planning again. He had arrived home at three and stayed in our room preparing for tomorrow’s class. When Maudra and I heard the water of the bathtub begin, we started dinner.
The ground beef was cooked, the tomatoes and lettuce chopped, and the cheese grated. All we had left was to fry the tortilla shells in the skillet.
“So, I talked to Mom today.”
Maudra raised an eyebrow quizzically when I didn’t refer to her as Rose, but kept on slowly spinning the tortilla with her fingertips in the sizzling butter, without saying a word.
I waited momentarily for a response, then continued. “She asked me why I keep coming to see her.”
“And.”
“And… what do you think I should have said to that?”
She paused after rolling up the tortilla and placing it on a plate in the oven to keep warm. “Wha’dyousay ta that, Brooke?”
I felt Thurston walk across my toes and glanced down. “At first I told her I didn’t know why I was here. After she kept pushing, I told her I just wanted her to be a mom, to care about me.”
She nodded her approval. “Some honesty. ’Bout time in that house. Wha’d she say ta that?”
“She said ‘why?’” My voice rose, beginning to give in to the frustration. “Can you imagine? A mother asking why her son would want her to be a mom? She said I was all grown up, as if that meant she wasn’t my mom anymore.”
Her voice was soft and tender, like she was telling a child his puppy had gotten hit by a car. “Youaregrown up, Brooke.”
I tried not to let my irritation show in my voice. I failed. “That doesn’t mean I don’t need to know that my mom doesn’t hate me.”
