“Yes.”
“Oh. Well.” She keeps on blinking. “So, does this mean you’re a lesb—??”
“Oh my god, really?” I stare at her. Sure, years ago I told her that I liked girls and, yeah, she blew it off. But I guess somewhere deep inside I’d hoped she still knew. She could tell, because I’m her daughter and she’s my mother and I belong to her, no matter what.
But when it comes to Maggie, hope is a sad, silly thing.
“No, I am not a lesbian,” I say. “And if you’d ever paid one bit of attention to anything, you’d know that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m bisexual. Okay? Do I need to spell it out for you or are you going to wave your manicured hand and say, Well, sure, who isn’t?”
“I don’t understand.”
My lower lip jumps all over the place and my throat aches. Never has anything my mother has said been more on point than those three little words. They hit like a punch in the gut, real and raw and oxygen-sucking.
“I know that,” I say softly. “You never have and I’m done.”
She drops my hands and backs up. “You’re done?”
I bridge the distance between us again, but I don’t touch her. “I can’t live this life with you anymore. It’s not who I am, and it shouldn’t be who you want me to be. You should want college for me. You should be shoving me out the door; you should—?”
Her mouth falls open, horrified, and it stops me for split second, something habitual and protective unlacing inside me, but I tie it back up.
“I’m not going to get a job after I graduate,” I say quietly. Resolutely. “You need to get a job and let me do what I need to do, what’s best for me, what I want. Mother”—?I gesture toward her and then tap my finger on my own chest—?“and daughter, like we should be. And you need to deal with things for once in your life. Pay Pete back—?”
“I am not paying that asshole back.”
I let her have that one because as usual she’s missing the point. So I step even closer and link our hands, our fingers, dark purple on stripped bare. I press my forehead to hers.
“I want you to get some help,” I say. “Real. Help.”
She jerks back from me, and her eyes go hard. “You’re my daughter. You can’t tell me what I need. And what do you mean ‘real help’? Are you talking about one of those treatment centers where everyone sits around and talks about their feelings and pretends they can actually get better? That life won’t continue to shit all over them?”
Her words slice through me.
Pretend they can actually get better.
She knows. She knows she’s sick. She knows she needs help. She’s probably known for years. She just won’t try.
“Yes,” I say, my voice thick. “I’m talking about one of those places, but I do believe you can get better.”
She jerks away from me. “I don’t need that kind of help. Couldn’t afford it anyway. I just need my daughter. That’s it.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m sorry, Mom. You don’t need me. You want me with you, to clean you up, keep you out of trouble, whatever. There’s a difference. But that’s not what I need. And you can get a loan for the rehab. I’ll send you money now, get a job when I get to New York and send you money next year too. Anything.”
“What the hell? New York?”
I press my eyes closed, swallow down the hurt I still feel at her surprise over my future, over the future she seemed to really believe in once upon a time. The hurt I’ll probably always feel. “Either way, Mom. Whatever you decide to do, I’m going back to Cape Katie tonight.”
“What? You belong with me. You’re really going to leave me? I can’t do this alone.” Tears spill down her cheeks now. She digs her fingers into her eyes. Her nails are immaculately purple, even after the car accident. Not one chip. She takes a few heaving breaths, and her voice is clogged and small when she speaks again. “I never planned to do this alone.”
And I know she’s not just talking about me coming with her anymore. In this moment, I see her for who she is, who I maybe should’ve seen sooner but didn’t know how to deal with, didn’t know what it meant for me. My mother, a woman who planned a life with the man she loved. A woman who lost that man in a blink. A woman who was left alone and sad to raise a little girl who could never fill that void, no matter how hard she tried. And maybe it’s more than just grief and too many vodka bottles. Maybe she’s sick in a way that has nothing to do with situations or loss. I don’t know. Whatever it is, she’s still facing it alone, desperate for her kid to act more like a partner.
“Do you remember what you used to say about wishes?” I ask her, stepping closer.
She lifts her head to look at me.
