I shake my head.
“Sharon. This is something people feel but can’t find the words to talk about. That was your first, best lesson: It really is better to be someone else, isn’t it? Someone who hasn’t seen what you’ve seen or felt what you’ve felt. And you wanted it so badly, you found a way to give it to yourself. For a long time. Putting yourself in these stories.”
“Yeah. And it’s done me so much good.”
“I disagree. You have an overpowering imagination,” she says. “But it’s a gift you’ve had to pay for. That’s a story that needs to be told. So tell the fucking story, man. Do the footwork. Don’t just fight a fight you know you can win.”
“You’ve never met my family,” I tell her. “You don’t know what they’re like.”
Mel peers at me. “You know what? I can handle the Kisses family, dude. Bring it on.”
—
My cell rings the next morning. “Sharon?” Mom wavers.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I know that tone. Here comes the explosion. I was wondering when it was going to happen. I take a deep breath and push my oatmeal aside.
“I’m sorreee,” she bleats.
I drop my spoon. It clatters to the floor. Son of a whore. Picking it up is going to be a three-minute operation. I stare at it, frowning.
“Sharon? Say something, honey.”
Today is the first time I have ever heard my mother say the word sorry. She has never apologized, or rephrased, or softened. Usually when she screwed up, she just let us stay out, or keep the car longer. She’s bad for letting stuff marinate. Angry rebuttals delivered two months late, silent acquiescing three weeks after argument. Prime example: She was the portrait of reticence at Dad’s funeral. A few appropriately timed tears, eyes rimmed with red. Two months later, Shauna found her in the backyard setting fire to a pile of Dad’s belongings, screeching and sobbing at it to burn quicker, goddammit, burn QUICKER.
It’s her practice to take in what you tell her rapidly, then give a response that makes you wish you hadn’t told her anything in the first place. A rift between you and a friend, a breakup, the details of a fender bender. For your trouble, you’ll likely get an irritated (and humiliating) “All right. Good God.” This isn’t a biased opinion. This shit could go on her headstone. Anyone in the family will tell you the same.
“I’m here,” I tell her.
She chokes. I picture her clawing at her nose with a Kleenex. The TV, a new flat-screen since the old oak tube set blew up, on mute in the background. “When you called me, I shoulda—I shoulda gone down there to that hospital that instant.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “You were.” Blank. Fuck. She was what. “Busy?”
“A mother should never be too busy to visit her sick child in the hospital,” she wails. “I saw Dr. Ingram this morning and he said what happened to you was real serious. He said you’re lucky to be alive.”
“That’s nice of him.”
“Sharon.”
“I didn’t die,” I say. “I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I’m sure I’m not dead.”
“You don’t sound right. I thought you didn’t sound right when you called.”
“That’s because I just had a stroke.”
“Here I am tryin to talk to you,” she says, “and you keep gettin smart with me.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I am getting better. I have speech therapy and physical therapy. It’s work, but it’s better.”
“I been prayin over you,” she warbles.
I have to stop and think about what’s making me angry about all of this. The word finally occurs to me: sentimentality.
“I been prayin over it, and I made lots of mistakes. I know that now. Specially with you, and you turned out so good.”
“Thank you?”
“We didn’t even go up when you graduated from colletch. What’s wrong with me?”
“I don’t know.”
I hear a snort at the other end.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “Graduation’s not…not a big deal.”
“You coulda died,” she whispers.
“But I didn’t. Fuck.”
“You watch your mouth.”
This sets off a new gale of moans and sniffles. I put my head on the counter. Reach out and try to pull the spoon in with my foot. Oatmeal’s gonna be cold now. Shit.
“Are you alone?” she manages. “You got your friend with you?”
“Her name is Mel, Mom.”
“I know that.”
“Then why do you keep calling her my friend?”
“I don’t know.”
I sigh. “She is here. We rented a house. We’ve been working on a project.”
“How long you gonna stay down there?”
“Until the docs say it’s okay to travel. Then we’ll go back to New York, I guess.”
“You’ll stop here on your way back, won’t you? You ain’t been back in a while. You didn’t even come home last Christmas.”