Page 20 of And Now, Back to You

“Okay,” I deflect without agreeing, a skill I’ve honed to perfection after years of wild demands. I stare at the weather model open on my computer screen and watch the massive low-pressure system that’s forming at the base of the Rockies. The map cycles through the forward projection and the pressure grows and grows. A giant blob of red that shifts and morphs. I can relate. “What do you need?”

“Don’t you mean, How are you doing?”

I don’t need to ask. I know exactly how she’s doing. She’s in an exciting new place with an exciting new job and exciting new friends, and everything is sunshine and rainbows and chocolate-frosted cake.

Still, I cave. “How is the essential oil business these days?”

“That was two cities ago, Jack. I’ve told you, haven’t I? I work in music management now.”

The background noise abruptly cuts out and a car door slams. Music management. Coffee shop supply. Antique broker. It’s always something. Once during one of these little check-ins, she was sitting in a truck full of livestock exploring her options in restorative goat yoga.

“That’s great,” I answer, unable to rally any enthusiasm. This is not what I need today. It’s another brick on top of my otherwise impossible load. I’m buckling beneath the pressure. “What can I do for you?”

She laughs and my skin pulls tight. “Maybe I just wanted to say hello.”

She never wants to say hello. “Hello. What else?”

“Jackson,” she sighs. “You really do think the worst of me.”

“It’s a prediction based on previous behavior.”

My mother doesn’t do check-ins. She prefers whimsical appearances and sporadic phone calls whenever she needs something for her bright and shiny new adventure, usually with dollar signs attached.

“You make me sound like a monster.”

No, not a monster. Just absent and self-absorbed.

“Camille.” I find the clock at the bottom right of my computer screen. I have about twenty minutes before I need to go on the air. “What is this call about?”

She sighs, put-upon that I’m not indulging her. “I wanted to ask about the girls.”

“Why?” I ask, my hackles immediately up.

“Because they’re mine,” she says simply. “And it’s been too long since I’ve seen them.”

They’re not yours, I immediately want to say. They’re mine. I’ve changed diapers and cooked dinners and done seventy-three thousand loads of laundry. I’ve been at every back-to-school night and fixed every ponytail. I’ve done every sleepless night and every early morning. You gave them to me. They’re mine.

“The girls are fine,” I bite out.

“That’s it?” She laughs. “That’s all you have for me?”

“That’s it.”

She pauses, waiting for me to fill in the gaps. I refuse to.

“Well, what are they involved in? They’re twelve now, right? Almost high school.”

Something in the middle of my chest bends and buckles. She doesn’t even know how old they are.

Suddenly, I’m seven years old again, sitting at a kitchen table with a hollow, aching stomach and clothes that are two sizes too small, watching my mother bake a cake and wondering if she will remember to take it out of the oven before it burns. Ten years old and sitting on the curb outside of my elementary school, watching the sun sink over the parking lot, painting the asphalt in golds while I wait and wait and wait.

Where’s your mom, Jackson?

She’s probably working late. She’ll be here soon.

Always wondering. Always waiting.

“They’re fifteen,” I grind out. “They’re in their sophomore year.”