“Isn’t it the worst?” She smiles, revealing bits of pastry stuck between her teeth.
Irritated, I don’t reply, grabbing three large books that have been rubber-banded together. The cover of the first one has a large fantastical dragon breathing fire over a modern cityscape. I take them back out front and hold them up for the Cat Sisters.
“Found ’em,” I say.
“Took you long enough,” the one with the overcoat mutters.
I clench my gloved fist and sit down, then take the proffered library card from the sweater-garbed one and start the checkout process. When I hand the books and card back over and they finally leave, I take a deep breath of unpolluted air and stare at the blank computer screen in front of me, trying to part the haze of self-pity that’s done nothing but build on itself since the movies.
An ear-piercing screech jerks my head like a marionette to the children’s section. A little girl, her head wrapped in neat rows of braids and beads, sits on the floor, howling and clutching her knee. “IT HORTS! IT HORTS!” she says in her childlike speech.
“Shh,” says her mom, standing over her. “I told you not to run in here. Get up, sweetie, you’re fine.” That only causes the girl to cry harder. Trying another tactic, the woman’s body collapses accordion-style, until she’s eye-level with her daughter. “Let Mommy kiss it,” she says, gently bringing the girl’s leg up to her mouth. The girl whimpers, her hysterics subsiding, and she crawls into her mother’s arms. The two of them join like they’re playing a child’s game of chance: paper covers rock.
Other children in the section carry on, pulling books from shelves. Roger pecks away at his computer keyboard, oblivious to the pair, but I can’t tear my eyes away from them. Their flagrant display of affection. The palpable love that courses from mother to child as natural as a river flowing downstream.
My lungs contract in my chest, the giant’s fist back to exact his revenge, and I can’t—
“Jubilee?”
I look up into Eric’s olive eyes and wonder how long he’s been standing there.
“Are you OK?” he asks, his face a mask of concern.
And it’s the sight of him, the warmth in his voice, that causes water to spring to my lashes, my vision to blur. And I realize that no, I’m not OK. I’m not OK at all.
“My mom died,” I say, my voice cracking on the word “died.” And then, I feel my face crumple like a poorly made sand castle and I start to sob.
SITTING IN THE front seat of Eric’s car, I blow my nose loudly on a tissue he gave me. We’re still in the library parking lot, but I’m not sure exactly how I got here, except that he said he was there to drive me home and it struck me as such an unexpected kindness that I began crying even harder, drawing Louise out of the back room. I assume they exchanged some looks and then someone handed me my coat and bag and I followed Eric out the front door, barely keeping my eyes trained on the back of his coat through my tears.
He’s silent for what feels like a record amount of time as I honk and blubber and wail. When I finally begin to calm down, I dab at the flow of snot with the tissue and take a few deep breaths, my shoulders shuddering. Only then does it occur to me to be embarrassed at the spectacle I certainly am.
I glance over at him, sitting stoically in the driver’s seat, his left hand clenching and unclenching the steering wheel, his right hand resting calmly on his thigh. I take another deep breath.
“Sorry . . . about . . . um . . . all that,” I say, my voice still wobbly.
He turns his head toward me. “No, it’s fine,” he says. “I’m sorry about your mother.”
“Well, it was a couple of months ago.” I sniffle and wipe my nose again. “I guess it all just kind of hit me at once. That probably sounds ridiculous.”
“No,” Eric says. “It doesn’t.”
We sit in silence for a little longer.
“Were you guys close?” Eric asks.
“Not really. I hadn’t seen her in nine years. I kind of hated her, to be honest.”
Eric narrows his eyes at me, and I know he’s listening, waiting for more.
But how to explain my mom? She smoked and wore tight blouses and was obsessed with men and money. She made fun of me for sport. She treated me like I was her roommate. And that’s when I finally put voice to what’s been bothering me for so many years.
“It’s just . . . she left me.” I swallow, trying to soothe my raw throat. “Left me right when I needed her most. Right when—” I think of Donovan and the humiliation, but I know that’s not all. It’s not what’s causing my hands to tremble and my bones to feel hollow. And then the woman and child from the library flash in my mind and my chest splits wide open like a skull hitting pavement. “She never touched me. Ever. Not after I got diagnosed. I mean, I know she couldn’t give me regular hugs and kisses. But she could have—I don’t know—put on gloves and rubbed my back or patted my head, for Christ’s sake! Or . . . or . . . I don’t know—wrapped me in a blanket and squeezed me tight.”
I know I’m rambling, but I’m a burst pipe now, with no control over my words gushing out. “She acted like I was a pariah. I mean, I was used to that, the kids at school treated me like one, too. But my own mom.” Rivulets of tears are falling from my eyes, mixing with the blobs of snot coming from my nose, but I don’t care. I wipe my face with my gloved hand and lean my head back on the seat, letting the tears fall, until it doesn’t feel like I have any left. I sniff.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
He doesn’t respond. I glance over at him again, but he’s just sitting there, like he’s made of bronze or something. Why am I telling him all of this? I’m suddenly so embarrassed by my admissions, I want to jump out of the car and pedal my bike far away.
“Will you say something?” I ask.
Eric shifts in his seat and massages his jaw, as if, with a little elbow grease, he could rub the prickly black hair that’s sprouted right off his face.
“Soooo . . .” He stops rubbing and turns to me. “You wanted your mom to suffocate you?”
I stare at him. I know my thoughts were all over the place, but seriously? That’s what he latched on to? But then, a small grin cracks the side of his face. I try to narrow my eyebrows—how could he joke about this? But his smile is contagious and I’m powerless to stop myself. A giggle escapes my lips, and then another one. And then I’m full-on laughing and I wonder if I look as manic as I feel.
I try to catch my breath, but my body’s on autopilot now, alternating between laughing fits and light sobs, and I have to let it run its course. When I finally start to calm down, I expect Eric to say something else or start the car or do something, but he just sits there, staring out the windshield.