“I know I didn’t go about it the right way. I know that now. But I just wanted what every mother wants. I wanted you to be happy. I wanted you to have choices.” She looked into Abby’s eyes, her expression beseeching. “I wanted you to have all the choices in the world.”
Abby knew this was the moment where she should have said, I understand. Or even, I forgive you. But she could still feel the sting of being exiled to Camp Golden Hills, the pain of feeling like her body was wrong and shameful, piled on top of the fresh grief of being alone. “And look how well that worked out,” she said.
“Oh, Abby.” Eileen walked around the counter and perched on the barstool next to Abby, close enough that Abby could smell perfume, and the retinoid cream Eileen dabbed under her eyes at night. Eileen touched Abby’s hair. “Mark was a nice guy. But being a nice guy doesn’t make him the right guy for you.”
Abby stared at her mother, shocked beyond words. Eileen’s hand was very gentle as it smoothed her curls. “Come on. This can’t be such a surprise. Your father was a nice guy. Is a nice guy. But we weren’t a good fit. And you and Mark weren’t a good fit, either.”
“You…” Abby shook her head, wondering how many more surprises Eileen had for her. “I thought you loved Mark! I thought you wanted me to marry him!”
Eileen looked genuinely puzzled. “Why would you think that?”
Abby shook her head again, still feeling like the world had gone sideways, like nothing was what she’d thought and everything had changed. Like, if she reached for her water glass she’d find herself grasping a goldfish, or a hammer. Had she been completely wrong about her mother? Had Eileen been enthralled with the idea of Abby marrying a nice Jewish doctor because she was convinced Mark was the best (and possibly only) man who’d love her second daughter? Or had Abby herself internalized those ideas about who, and what, she was supposed to want, about what she deserved and what was possible for someone like her? Had she swallowed them all down, all those rigid notions and demeaning expectations and hashtag life goals, then, somehow, projected them onto the size-two screen that was her mother? Her mother, who, it turned out, had been a victim of diet culture, too?
Abby closed her eyes. She was remembering how her mother would comb her hair when she was little, using a wide-toothed plastic comb, gently teasing out each knot, telling Abby how pretty her hair was. Had she made herself forget the times when Eileen had been kind to her? Had she erased those memories on purpose, unwilling to see Eileen as anything other than cold and critical, judgmental and withholding? Unwilling to believe, no matter how many times she said it, that Eileen really did want her to be happy?
“Abby,” her mother was saying. “Mark never ate dessert and he doesn’t ride a bike. And he wasn’t willing to change.”
“He… but I thought…” Abby sniffled. “He’s a doctor!” she blurted.
“He is,” Eileen confirmed.
“And he loved me!” Abby sniffled.
“He did,” Eileen agreed. “But sometimes that isn’t enough.”
Abby shook her head. She folded her arms on the table, rested her head on her forearms, and cried a little, in the dark space she’d created, as her mother stroked her hair.
“When you were my age, you had two kids and a house,” Abby said in a muffled voice.
“And when I was ten years older than you, I was divorced,” Eileen said. “If I learned anything, it’s that you don’t need to rush. You can take your time and find the right person. Someone who’s going to love you, just as you are. Or even when you can’t love yourself.” She gave Abby’s hair a final fond pat, then gathered the rest of the vegetables, arranged them on the tray, and began opening the packages of smoked fish. The air filled with the scents of lox and smoked sable. Abby’s mouth watered.
“So what’s going on with Sebastian?” Eileen asked. “It seemed like the two of you enjoyed each other’s company.”
Deep breath, Abby thought. Buck up. “Sebastian is a lot of fun,” she said. “But I don’t think he was looking for anything serious.”
“Well.” Eileen began arranging slices of lox on another platter. “Maybe you don’t need serious right now.”
“I’m almost thirty-four,” said Abby.
Eileen waved that information away with the knife’s blade. “Please. Friedelle Gould’s daughter froze her eggs and had a baby last year, and she was forty-two. You girls have options.”
Abby shook her head. She and Sebastian had only had four nights together, and one of them had been two years ago. She barely knew him, and most of what she knew wasn’t promising. Sebastian wasn’t a relationship kind of guy.
And yet. And yet, she still wanted him. And her mother was still looking at her; her gaze unwavering, steady, and full of love.
“Call him,” said Eileen. “Invite him to Philadelphia. See what happens.”
“And what if he doesn’t want to come?” Abby swallowed down something that felt sharp-edged and tasted bitter. “What if it was all about the chase, and he’s not interested, now that I’m available?”
Eileen’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Then you’ll know. And you’ll move on.” Her mother carried the platter of fish into the dining room. Abby sat, thinking.
It made sense. It was unassailably logical. It was the rare occasion where both Lizzie and her mother were telling her to do the same thing. Except the thought of actually doing it, of running the risk that Sebastian would send her a politely worded thanks but no thanks text, made Abby feel dizzy and sick. It made her want to do what she’d done back in Buffalo: climb on her bike and ride away, as fast and as far as she could go.
But that wasn’t an option. At least not now. Soon, the doorbell would be ringing, the house filling up with friends and relatives, Gary the Businessman’s kids, and Abby’s siblings and niece and nephew.
Abby greeted the guests as the sun set. She stood beside her mother as Eileen lit the candles and said the blessings. She ate an everything bagel with whitefish salad and red onions, and half of an egg bagel with cream cheese and lox. She didn’t pass judgment on her mother’s plate, and hoped that Eileen wasn’t passing judgment on hers. At the end of the night, Eileen packed a bag with apple cake and rugelach, bagels and spreads, and helped Abby pack up her panniers.
“Do you forgive me?” Abby asked her mother.
“Of course.” Eileen slipped a container of whitefish salad into the bag, then clipped the pannier closed. “And I know it’ll take time before you can forgive me. But I’m glad I told you. I’ve been meaning to do it for a long time.” She pulled Abby into a hug and, for once, Abby let her mother embrace her, without thinking about her own body, or Eileen’s, or how soft and squishy and possibly revolting she probably felt in her mother’s small, sinewy arms.
“I want you to be happy,” Eileen whispered. Abby nodded, and tried her hardest not to think about her mother as a body and tried, instead, to think of her as a soul—wounded and defensive; vulnerable and loving. A mother who only wanted the best for her child; who was trying her hardest; who regretted her mistakes.
“Thank you,” Abby said, and Eileen kissed her cheek in farewell.
One Year Later Abby
August 2024