“What do you mean that you need to have someone there to oversee things?” My mother’s stress rips through me. “What? There’s that much? A new roof too? A kitchen? Can’t I sell it as is? Why can’t you decide these—” She pauses, and I hear her exhale way too loudly. “I’m sorry. I can’t face it.”
Fifteen minutes later, my sister and I are still pretending to enjoy our flavorless quinoa junk when our mom all too casually strolls back into the kitchen.
Erica stands and strikes another perfect pose. “So, what was that about?” Her feigned ignorance is fooling no one.
“A sale that I’m dealing with. It’s nothing.” But my mom avoids looking at us and busies herself with cleaning the already-clean counter.
The three of us are silent.
Even Erica can’t pretend that she doesn’t know what’s happening. The phone call was about my childhood home in Vermont that my mother still owns. The one where I grew up with her, my dad, and sister. The house where life felt idyllic.
Wasidyllic.
Erica grabs her coat and makes an excuse to explain why she has to run.
I start to walk to my room, but then I hear my mother in the kitchen, and I backtrack slowly.
What I hear halts me.
My mother’s pain halts me.
She’s hunched over the counter, her sobs and still-fresh grief echoing painfully throughout the room. It’s been years, and her agony is as present as mine.
I try to put my arms around her, try to hold her up. “Mom, let me help—” I start.
She takes deep breaths and stands upright, and I know she’s trying to calm her emotions. “I’m okay. There’s nothing you can do. I’m okay, Callie. I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry.”
I feel helpless. And incompetent. And I know that I’m the last person my mother will accept comfort from because for reasons we don’t ever talk about, she faults me for the pain we all must fight.
And she’s right to blame me.
My mom wipes her eyes, suddenly acting like everything is super normal. “Okay, enough of that. I’m going to dive into a tub of ice cream before bed. Want to join me?”
Because I’m also not big on dealing with feelings, I nod. “Sure. That sounds great.”
After my mother and I silently go through spoonfuls of salted caramel and after she heads to bed so that she can be up early to sell stupidly expensive real estate, I dig into the back of the freezer for the vodka I’ve stashed there.
Ice makes the first glass of alcohol go down easily. I take the second onto the porch of our condo and look out over the city. Los Angeles is so beautiful at night, but the night sky only shows the bright spots. The dark reality of my days is hidden.
A third drink should help.
