“Why would you do this for me, though? You don’t have regrets about this,” I ask.
“The price of my work just went up. I’ll need to finish that new collection now,” Mom says, looking pleased. Her expression levels out as she adds, “I know you think I became famous on my own, but success didn’t come until I gave birth to you. You were right there with me. I know there were ugly moments captured on that video. There were also beautiful ones that I’m forever grateful live on, because that was the moment that brought me you. I may not regret my own choices in life, but I do regret anything that caused you pain.”
Tears fill my eyes, the heavy drops not wasting any time before rolling down my face in long streaks. “Thank you. So much. This means more than you’ll ever know.”
I wrap my arms around her in a tight, forward-facing hug. It’s unusual for both of us, and somehow that’s okay. We’re getting used to new things. “I know you don’t like getting gifts, but I figured this might be an exception,” I say.
Mom looks at me suspiciously.
“Turn around,” I say, rotating Mom in the opposite direction as she huffs in protest. “There are letters. Giant ones. The subject is iconic, but also easily forgotten. A big risk that the artist wouldn’t have been able to take without her mother.”
“Roo—” Mom says before I cut her off.
“The beginning of something great, even though it doesn’t exist anymore,” I continue.
“Oh, I’ve heard of this one,” Mom says, spinning to face me. “The artist had it in her all along. I can’t wait to see what she does next.”
I hand her a snow globe with the Hollywood Sign inside.
She smiles as she shakes it. “Snow in Los Angeles. Now that would be something to see. I’m glad I hadBaby Being Born. That would’ve been awkward to not have had anything for you. I’ve missed you, kid,” Mom says, her voice taking on its usual edge.
“I’ve missed you. And I’ve missed these Walk and Talks.” Aheadof us is a new painting that I don’t remember seeing before. “Okay, turn around again. One last piece of art to guess.”
Mom does as she’s told, covering her eyes with both hands.
“I’m a flower bud or a womb, split in half because no sides of me are the same,” I say, first describing the mood of the piece.
“Go on,” Mom murmurs.
I take a moment with the painting. “I’m not what I appear. I look like watercolor, easily altered, but I’m oil, once hardened, unchangeable.”
“Oh,Abstraction Blue. Georgia O’Keeffe. You know she’s one of my favorites,” Mom says.
“You’re a little too good at this,” I say.
“What do you know about this piece?” Mom asks.
“Not much,” I say, looking at it again.
Mom smiles. “This one in particular is pretty powerful. It represents a time when Georgia rejected the traditional way of painting that she had been taught. She transitioned to abstraction, developing her own form of expression. She tore herself from how she had been influenced to accept her own way of thinking.”
“Did you read the card?” I ask, covering it with my hands.
“I happen to love this one. There’s room for growth in all of us.” She gazes at the blues and pinks of the painting. “It was strange not having you around,” Mom says, her tone softening. “It’s always been you and me.”
“I’ll always be your person.”
“Yes, you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.” She wraps her arm over my shoulders.
“This is a different side to you. I don’t know how to handle it,” I joke, side hugging her back.
“The other day I woke up with a smile on my face. Isn’t that sickening?”
“Is that because you finally created the best Chinese tea egg recipe or because Dusty was cuddled up next to you?” I clarify.
Mom thinks on this. “A little of both, I think,” she says, nudging me. “And you’ll be happy to know I’ve made use of our time apart by perfecting milk bread. It’s very fluffy.”
“Just like you deep down,” I tease as Mom groans and waves off my accusations. “Do you think Dusty’s your… you know.”
