"And now that you know what I smell like, what are you going to do?"
"Simple. I had it banned from every office I visit. It’s bad enough not being able to touch you; smelling you when you aren't there is torture."
"I can't believe you did that!" I open my mouth in disbelief.
"Believe it. I even made it a requirement for the hotel in Amsterdam." She laughs, burying her face in the pillow.
"I wish you were here."
"You're a drug, Megan. I need a dose every day. I was pissed when I heard about Peter, but I know you’d never go back to a man like that. I don’t mind sharing you, but I know he would be a prison."
A chill runs down my spine and a tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe it with the back of my hand and try to hide it.
"I'll destroy him before anything else. I need to put him back where he came from." I take a deep breath and her green eyes meet mine through the screen. "Can we talk about something good?"
"Please. I spoke to Charlie. She’s expecting you at the Club on Tuesday. You can go alone. I’ll send the address."
"Can I trust that I won't be judged for joining a BDSM club?"
"You can trust that most people don't even know what really goes on there. Go to sleep, Megan. Everything will be fine. I'm here for you."
"I'll be fine. Have a good trip, Kels..." I give her a gentle smile and she returns the gesture. "I can't wait to see you."
"I can't wait. Sleep well..."
#23
"Já faz parte da minha rotina eu te querer percorrer cada traço das suas linhas, meu bem" - Carol Biazin
The morning dew on Monday feels like a cold omen of the coming snow. I can’t quite recall what time I actually fell asleep; I think Kelsey must have been the one to end the video call. I woke up with my phone screen inches from my face, I suspect I drifted off mid-sentence.
I barely hear the alarm announcing it’s time to head to my mother’s. I promised myself I wouldn't let the visit stress me out, but the divorce is an unavoidable shadow. I already know her script: she’s in love with Peter.
Apparently, everyone who doesn't have to live with the man finds him charming. It seems only I and her brother have the clarity to harbor a healthy resentment toward him.
I call the front desk to arrange a car for forty minutes from now. That’s exactly how long it takes to become "presentable" for a woman like my mother.
Right on time, I’m in the lobby, purse on one arm and a gift box in the other. I tip the concierge generously for his service and fire off a message to Kelsey, admitting I’m not mentally prepared for the drive to East Hampton.
K. Calama:"An hour and a half by car? Honestly, Megan... you could have just asked me for a helicopter."
Her message makes me laugh with its tone of simplicity. Of course I thought about a helicopter, but postponing my visit with my mother is a necessity. I send her a message saying that the travel time is good for rehearsing the conversations I need to have with her.
K. Calama:"Everything will be fine. From what you’ve told me, your mother is probably just as temperamental as you are. I’m heading into a meeting, but if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call."
The imposing gates of the residential community appear sooner than I’d like. I ask the driver to drop me at the main reception. The snow is thin, a dusting of powder that makes the stairs treacherous for my heels. I shed my gloves as I approach the desk. I’m told Mrs. Woods is waiting for me at home.
I’m escorted to a golf cart, quickly pulling my gloves back on. At the door of House 21, a quintessential white-and-black American build, my mother stands waiting. She’s wearing a vibrant red coat that looks like a bloodstain against the sterile white surroundings.
As I walk toward her, my anxiety simply evaporates. She is sixty, in perfect physical and mental health, and the source of my own calculated demeanor. She cups my cheeks and smiles.
"No matter how many texts we exchange, I’ll never get used to being without you for so long, Megan." Her eyes are glassy. "Darling, you look beautiful. Perfect posture." She appraises me like a piece of art. "I like the coat. Sit. I want to hear everything."
"How are things here, Mom? Are you settling in?" I shed my coat, the warmth of the hearth hitting me. "I heard they’re allowing shopping trips again."
"It was the best idea you ever had, Megan," she says, settling onto the sofa. "No prying neighbors, no gossiping D.C. vultures like back in Washington." She rolls her eyes. "We go out once a month for the real shopping, but ever since you taught me how to use this phone, I only leave the house for clothes."
The change in her is remarkable. After my father died, she seemed to fade into the background of her own life. This place has brought the color back to her cheeks.
