I type out what I wrote to myself in my ethics textbook, about my obligation to myself, and ask if that’s right, if that’s part of LBC and this new way of living. Zed responds right away, happy to see me back after my day off yesterday.
ZED: It’s a moral obligation to have us ALL live our best lives. There’s doing the right thing and there’s doing the best thing. They’re not always the same thing.
The best thing is a challenge. The right thing is often a submission.
We do the best things here. We do the unlikely things.
I nod along with what I’m reading, even though I don’t completely understand it. Sometimes when I’m really deep in LBC, I think I am seeing some new shade of life, like a color I didn’t know existed and maybe isn’t as pretty as blue or green or yellow, but is still worth knowing. I’ve never worked so hard to understand something. All those years of math class, I thought I was really pushing myself. Turns out I wasn’t even close.
I try to picture Zed, and hope, hope, hope that he is tall and strange-looking with light eyes and strong hands and broad shoulders. I hope he wears sweaters. I hope he drinks coffee. I hope he walks barefoot. I hope he reads long books and short haiku and has glasses and a deep but soft voice.
I rub my eyes and rock back and forth in my seat a little. I sigh too loudly for public, and eventually, Cate comes over with a cup of coffee. At first I think this is a kind of peace offering, but from the shrug of her shoulders when she places it in front of me, I know that it’s actually a sign that she’s given up on me. Up close I can see the redness of her eyes and the frizzy, unwashed texture of her ponytailed hair. She smells like her mother’s outdated, too-floral perfume. I press record on my computer, thinking maybe I’ll post the audio of some of this conversation on LBC.
“We’re not going to talk about it,” Cate says instead of hello. I almost hit stop on the record. This isn’t the kind of thing I want people knowing about my mother. That she can be cold and harsh and leave the most important things undiscussed simply because she doesn’t feel like addressing them. But it’s real. And Zed says real is the whole point.
I keep it recording.
“I think we should talk about it,” I say, angling my words toward the computer. I sort of want to apologize, though it seems like the LBC-ers wouldn’t like that. I am probably supposed to stick by my actions and ride them out fully. “I am so, so sorry. I know I messed up. And I know saying I’m sorry is the lamest, but Jesus I really am sorry.”
“You know I love you, okay?” she says, but there’s no hiding the fact that she did not accept my apology.
“I know you love me.”
“I hate being mad at you,” she says. Which means: I am mad at you.
“Both of us,” I add, meaning Paul but remembering not to say his name in the recording. She nods.
“But I am. Mad. Right now. And pregnant.” She looks at me like I’m supposed to know what’s coming, but I don’t. “I’m going to stay with my parents.”
She doesn’t say for how long. I don’t ask, because I’m scared of the answer. I wait, thinking maybe she forgot to finish the sentence, but nothing else comes.
“I know why you’re mad,” I say, trying my best to sound Together and Composed. “I don’t want to, like, be a stoner. I’m not going to let the baby smoke up. Or smoke near the baby. Or smoke ever again.” Cate nods, but there are deep worry lines in her forehead, and I’m not sure she believes me. And she definitely doesn’t believe whatever version of that Paul said to her.
I need to say more. I need to say something unlikely and new.
“I can’t be just your daughter and nothing else, you know?” I say. Cate looks at me funny. I can see a sentence forming behind her eyes, but she shakes her head and I guess decides not to say it. She shrugs, like she has no idea what to do with what I’ve said, or what I’ve done, or who I’m becoming. That’s fair. I’m not sure what to do with who I’m becoming, either.
“Look. I love you more than anything,” she says, too calmly. “I’m right down the street. And here, of course. So it’s not a big thing. Just need some pregnancy space,” she says. “I don’t want to be that crazy, angry pregnant lady, you know?”
I nod, but I don’t know what it means. Cate kisses my forehead and gets back behind the counter. As soon as she’s back there, she nods in my direction, giving Paul the go-ahead to have his part of The Talk with me. We’ve never had family talks in succession like this. We’ve done everything the three of us.
I check the computer. It is still recording.
“What you got there?” Paul says, taking the seat that Cate was just in. He has brought another mug of coffee, and when he realizes I already have one, he get flustered, eventually choosing to put it next to the one I’m drinking, like it’s backup.
“Ethics,” I say.
“I could have used that class, huh?” He grimaces. He is not so good at this on his own.
“I think you do pretty well,” I say.