“We’re almost there!”
I swallow the throw up forming at the bottom of my throat and suck in a deep breath.
Almost there, almost home, almost to mom.
We pass a sign graffiti’d with something I don’t understand. I barely make outPineridge Communityin the faded letters. We pass trailer after trailer, some better kept than others, until finally we reach one painted light yellow, the color singing to me that this one has to be Mom’s. We get out of the boxy car and Grant pulls our trash bags from the trunk.
This will be our first time home in over six months and while I’m nauseous, I also feel like I could float. I’ve thought about my mom everyday, waiting to see her again, waiting until she’d be able to tuck me in at night—just waiting. Grant tried to pull me out of it, tried to distract me with new art pencils or the sketch book he swiped from one of the other kids. It never worked. Most nights, I just sat at the big bay window in the group home, the only beautiful spot in the whole place, and I’d wait.
Gloria uses her clipboard which she holds like a weapon to knock on Mom’s door and the shuffling behind it fills me with excitement.
“Shit, shit, shit,” we hear muffled behind it as more shuffling ensues. I notice Grant shifting on his feet, the way he does when he knows something is off. I just focus on the door, knowing his feeling is wrong.
When it opens, a skunky smell is everywhere and I know. I can’t quite see Mom; she’s crouched behind the worn doorway, her blue eyes all that’s visible in the sliver she’s opened.
“I’m sorry, um—” Gloria flips through the papers on her clipboard, confused. “I’m looking for the residence of Constance Tucker?” She clears her throat awkwardly, confirming the addresses match.
“I didn’t realize—I didn’t realize it was today.” Every word sounds like it barely made its way out, and the thick sound of tears in it has me digging my nails into the palm of my hand. I try to focus on them, how I painted them this soft blue because it’s Mom’s favorite color, how I was so upset when they chipped on the way here because I was scared she wouldn’t like them.
Gloria pushes the door open so she can see in and Mom stumbles back. Grant knew something was wrong and, of course, he was right. He’s always right. An unfamiliar man isshirtless, his head lolled back on the couch, ashes accumulated on the coffee table along with several small pieces of tinfoil. A bunch of tools, cans and bottles are scattered all over the place.
“Please. Just—just give me a week.” Mom reaches for Gloria like she’s desperate, but the woman’s already on the radio she wears on her belt buckle, calling for additional help. “I can fix this. I'm—I’m better. I’m better. I swear. This isn’t what it looks like.”
Tears well at the bottom of my eyes becauseI know. I know they aren’t going to let us stay. I see Grant turn in my periphery, wordlessly walk back toward the car we just got out of. My bottom lip starts to tremble.
“Mama…” Sobs choke my throat as my mom sees me, her face the same it’s always been to me and for a second I forget—forget I have to leave again just as I got back to her. She moves toward me and Gloria tries to block her but I shove her to the side, falling into my mom’s embrace. “Mama, I wanna stay. Please Mama, I wanna stay.” I breathe it into her like a wish I know won’t come true.
“I’m so sorry, bug. I’m so, so sorry.” I feel Gloria’s grasp, gently trying to pull me back. “No.” Mom’s voice is harsh. “No, you can’t do this. Not again.” Her voice is stumbling over itself, sharp with pain. “She’s mine! Stop, she’s mine!” I barely hear the sirens wailing behind us now, hardly hear the police officer’s voice, telling me it’s time to let go.
“Ma’am, we are going to take her now.” His voice is so soft as he tugs me back but even so, I scream. I scream and wail and kick as hard as I can, trying to free myself. My mom’s a crumpled pile on the porch.
“Mama! Please! Don’t make me leave. Don’t make me leave.” She doesn’t look up. Just lays there wilted, lifeless. Grant tries to hold my hand, but he’s not even crying. Just sitting there, waiting to leave. I stare out the rear window at thatyellow trailer until it’s engrained in my mind, tears clouding my vision, until that exact shade of yellow is all I see.
September
“So what do you think?” My mother, with her long flaxen hair and laughter softened eyes, spreads her arms, gesturing toward the space and I finally look away from the pale yellow curtains, lightly blowing in the breeze of the open window.
There was a point where I assumed I’d never get this. I was always hopeful, but there was a time when that hope dimmed. We hadn’t heard from her in so long, and asking about her felt worse than just imagining her happy and alive somewhere. I was a junior in high school when she called my phone from an unknown number, of course. And then that’s the way it was for a time. Two Christmases ago, she finally gave me an address and I sent her a painting I’d done of the redwoods. It’s here, on the wall leading to the bedroom, and I can’t help but feel right for once.
I train my gaze back on her; she’s so much smaller than she was even a few months ago, when she first was diagnosed. Her hair has lost its shine, her skin is more sallow, even her eyes seem weary which may be the most jarring. Even at her worst, her eyes always told me she was alive.
She smiles patiently, awaiting my answer. In reality, the apartment is not great. Sure, she’s put her little Constance spin on it the way she always did when we were kids, when she was sober. She’d paint some walls, hang up pictures, but even so, the smell of mildew was always unflappable. The floors never stopped feeling rough and sticky under your feet even with shoes and the dingy kitchen could never be completely cleaned,no matter how much bleach you used. This place reminds me a little of that, and I wish she’d let me lease the apartment I’d picked out for her.
Getting her moved and set up in Boston was the first time she really allowed me to do anything for her and that was only because she had no choice. Well, I left her no choice after she called me to tell me she had cancer. It was a few days after Elliot had all but kicked me to the curb, and it felt like some sick twist of fate. Like the universe had ejected me from one world so I’d be ready to navigate another.
Terminal, she’d said on the phone, but she’d only gottenoneopinion. Thank god she’d given us up for adoption, I’d joked, because I’d figure everything out with my gold-plated trust fund. She didn’t laugh; just sighed into the telephone and told me she wasn’t worried about all that, but that she needed to talk to Grant. And, in another sinister move by the universe, Grant happens to live near the Dana–Farber Cancer Institute, one of the best in the country. Much better than any care she’d be getting in the middle of nowhere Georgia.
If I’d left it up to Connie, she’d be doing all of this alone, waiting on a call from Grant that would never come. No—this is as good as it can be.Thisis fate.
“It’s great, Momma,” I finally say and her face perks up. “We should probably get goin’. The hospital’s across town and we really can’t miss this first appointment.” I check my phone, feeling a little too much like Grant, watching the time on the Uber tick up. He’s usually the one ushering me along.
“Sloane.” I glance up and can tell my mom is uncomfortable, can tell this whole arrangement is antithetical to her entire ethos as a person and for a second I feel bad for trapping her here. But she’s sick and as much as she fought me on getting treatment here, I know her time on Earth is a long way from being done. “Thank you, for doin’ all this…” She teeters off nervously, her voice a little shaky, reminding me just how old she’s gotten. “I know things haven’t always been what they should be with me…but I do love you and your brother and?—”
I walk toward her and wrap my arms around her slender frame that used to be so similar to my own. I feel her body melt into mine, a small surrender that says she’ll let me steer this ship for now.
“It’s going to be okay. I promise.” I squeeze her hard once and she nods absentmindedly just as the ding of my phone alerts us that our Uber is here.
“You ready?”
