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“You liked all the colors of the rainbow.”
“But I had to have a favorite.”
Her frown deepens. She’s thinking. Her shoulders finally lift, fall. “I don’t think you had a favorite, or if you did, I don’t recall.”
As we walk back to my apartment, Mom takes my arm, gives me a little squeeze. “I really enjoyed having a girls’ weekend with you, Holly. It’s so fun doing girl things together.”
I nod, and I’m completely conflicted on the inside, but I’m glad I was able to spend time with her. I probably don’t see enough of her. “Thanks for driving up.”
“You were surprised!” She laughs.
“It was a good surprise.”
She pats my arm. “I’m glad. I did want to see you. I’ve been worried about you… you know… since separating from Jean-Marc and moving up here alone. I just felt so much better when he was taking care of you.”
We’ve reached the steps to my building, and I stop on the sidewalk. The sun is high and shining warmly, having decided to act like summer after all. “Mom, I’m not a little girl. I didn’t need Jean-Marc to take care of me.”
“I know, but it’s nice to be treated special… have someone do things for you. Protect you. That sort of thing.” And she sounds wistful, full of longings and regrets she never talks about with me.
“I can do things for myself.”
She nods quickly, too quickly. “Of course you can.”
“I can.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“But you look completely dubious, Mom, as if I haven’t managed to do anything right in my life.”
Mom reaches for me, gives me a swift hug. “Now, that’s silly. You do lots of things right. And someday you’ll meet someone new and even more wonderful and he’ll sweep you off your feet—”
“Mom.” I cut her short, and I’m not gentle and not patient. “I don’t want to meet anyone new, and I certainly don’t want to be swept off my feet, or rescued. I don’t want or need another Prince Charming.”
Mom’s features pinch. “I was trying to be supportive.”
Christ. I cover my face, take a breath, fight the twenty-five years of shared history. She’s my mom and I love her, and I’m her daughter and she loves me; this is okay; everything’s okay; conflict is normal between mothers and daughters…
“You’re very supportive,” I say after a moment, dropping my hand and forcing a smile. “You’re great. You really are.”
I carry Mom’s suitcase down to her car, which is still parked down the street where I left it two days ago. As Mom climbs into the car, I ask her to call me, let me know that she’s made it back safely; sometimes I’m not sure who’s the parent and who’s the child.
Then her car pulls away, heading down the street, and she puts on her blinker, signals she’s going to turn at the corner, and as her car disappears around the corner, I feel something break loose inside me.
It’s terrible. Sad. I feel so sad.
I want to run after her, chase her car down like a five-year-old on the first day of kindergarten, crying, “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t go!”
And I think I’ve missed her my whole life, and I’m not even sure what that means, but I wish I could go back in time and undo whatever has been done so I’m not hurt and scared any longer.
Cindy and Drew emerge from the Victorian even as I head back in. Cindy nods at me, and I nod back as I climb the front steps.
In the apartment I face the empty living room, the empty hall, the emptiness beyond. It’s okay to be alone. I’m not lonely—Mom was just here—but right now I don’t want to be in the apartment all by myself, and I have no money to blow, so I change into my sweats and put on running shoes (an optimistic purchase for me when I’ve never done much more than jog/walk) and head out for a jog. Walk.
And I’m going to keep jog/walking until I can handle the emptiness and loneliness, because this is my life.
*
Back at workMonday it’s busy, which helps the time pass, and our usual Monday morning team meeting is smooth, without any obvious tension.
