“He’s fine.”
“Do you have faith in him?”
“Yes.”
“What do you take for pain?”
Her gaze pointed to the windowsill. “A half dose of whatever’s in that bottle.”
Edward stopped beating eggs and leaned forward to read the label. “Percocet.”
“You never liked taking pills,” I said.
“I still don’t. They make me woozy. That may be why I’m having trouble…” She went quiet and frowned.
“Trouble seeing me?” I had known it wouldn’t be easy, still I felt a sharp pang.
“Trouble believing you’re here.”
“How could I not come? You’re my mother.”
Her eyes moved over my face, taking in my bangs, the sheen on my cheeks, the balm on my lips.
“It’sme,” I whispered.
“You look different.”
“I have to be,” I said with enough apology to make it a perfect opening to discuss the past.
Margaret, too, was in the past, but not where I thought. Eyes haunted, voice unsteady, she asked, “If a mother sends her child away, is she still a mother?”
My breath caught. Uncanny how similar it was to the question I had asked myself so many times. My version differed by a few words, but the agony of puzzling out a new reality was the same.
“Yes,” I said, because Margaret would always be my mother. “Same if a mother’s child dies.” I had to believe that. Otherwise, Lily wouldn’t continue to exist.
“I wasn’t a good mother.”
“I’m the one who wasn’t.”
“It’s an awful thing I did.”
“No, Mom,myfault, allmine—” A shrill whistle sounded. Startled, I sat straight. But it was the kettle, just the kettle.
Edward turned off the gas, and the whistle died off, leaving the sizzle of eggs in the pan and my grandmother’s soft voice in my mind.Tea is my handyman,she used to say.He fixes everything.
“Irish Breakfast?” I asked my mother.
“Please.”
I found tea bags in their usual cabinet to the left of the sink, found mugs in their usual cabinet to the right, and poured water from the kettle that I had used hundreds of times growing up. As computer literate and social-media savvy as my mother was, in these things she remained a creature of habit.
When I brought the cups to the table, she was shifting carefully. “Is that chair uncomfortable?” I asked. “Can I get a cushion? Would you rather lie down?”
She didn’t answer. Rather, seeming baffled, she was looking back at Edward. He had put toast in the toaster and was at the stove again. “I wasn’t expecting you,” she said. Her voice was timid, but at least she was addressing him directly. “You look different, too.”
“More gray.”
“More hair,” she said, and seeming to have used up her courage wheredirect contact with him was concerned, returned to me. “How long is he staying in Vermont?”
