‘Things are a little tricky with Norah at the moment. I’m not sure I can leave her again,’ Mom says. Her shoulders sink to the floor.
This is the third new job she’s had this year. Last year there were two new jobs. It’s tricky finding a boss who can be flexible with our situation. I’m dependent, and her job requires travel. Her employers keep promising she can bypass the travel part, but she’s so good at selling construction equipment, they end up changing their minds.
‘Leave it to me,’ she says. I choose this moment to sit down beside her. She doesn’t startle. Maybe she knew I was here the whole time. She hangs up, winces at me.
‘Sneaking up on me?’ she says with a smile.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘You’re my child. I always know where you are.’
That catches my brain in a way it wouldn’t for most, and I start wondering if there’s any validity to this theory. She mistakes my silence for anxiety.
‘I should have applied for that nine-to-five gig at the bowling alley.’ She rubs her face with both hands, pulls down her cheeks so I can see the pink, squidgy bit of her eyes, and blows a raspberry.
‘You love your job.’
‘But I hate leaving you here alone.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I tell her. My fingers find a pimple on the side of my leg. I pick at it until it stings.
‘Maybe I could call in sick and they’ll have to find someone else to go in my place.’ She’s not listening to me. She never does when this happens.
‘Mom.’
‘Huh?’
‘I’ll be okay.’ The times when we get to switch roles are very few and far between.
‘Norah . . .’
‘Mom. I just need groceries. The rest I can do myself. I’ll be fine. Promise.’ I’m oversimplifying. I dislike being alone, sure. At first, it’s overwhelming, like trying to find your way out of a forest without a map. It’s easier to explain away noises, and the dark is always a shade less severe, when you know someone is sleeping down the hall, but I’m not afraid. I don’t know. Things are always much more manageable from inside this house. Plus, I’ve done it before and nothing bad happened. My head puts a lot of stock in that, keeps track and uses it as a benchmark for next time. Dr Reeves explains it better, with a bunch more science and phrases like eliminating the fear of the unknown – which I’m pretty sure is the title of a Star Trek episode.
It’s Sunday. Mom crashes down the stairs, dragging a suitcase behind her. It slams into a step, pops her on the butt. She slams into a step, collides with the wall. The whole descent has the elegance of an elephant performing Swan Lake on a pogo stick.
As a fangirl of anything sci-fi, Mom’s almost always wearing a shirt adorned with an alien or a Captain Somebody of Something. Today is no exception. Some creepy green interstellar species is flashing a peace sign at me. Slung over Mom’s arm is a garment bag that holds a designer suit for tomorrow’s conference. She’s only ever conservative at conferences. In real time, her hair is the colour of a fire engine and she has a peace lily tattooed on her wrist.
Crash. Bang. Wallop. Down the stairs she comes. ‘Are you sure you don’t need some help?’ I cringe, watching the battle through my fingers.
‘I got it,’ she says, touching down on even ground. I exhale, stop chewing holes in the side of my tongue. The bitter taste of blood hits the back of my throat. In the twenty seconds it’s taken her to get from top to bottom, I’ve watched her trip and break her neck eight times.
‘What’ve you got in there?’ I flick my eyes towards the tattered suitcase. ‘Bricks?’
‘Ha-di-ha-ha.’ She snorts. It’s funny because her suitcase actually is full of brick samples and various other building materials she’s showcasing at the conference. ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this to you again,’ she says, all joking a distant memory.
‘I’m fine. I swear.’ I twirl, because nothing says I’m mentally stable quite like an impromptu pirouette. She’s beating herself up. I can tell. The fight with her luggage may be over, but she’s still wincing. ‘Mom, really, I’m fine. It’s only for two days—’
‘Less, if I can get away sooner,’ she interjects, dipping into her purse. She pulls out a compact, dabs her cheeks with pink powder. I smile to myself, recall the early mornings when I was still at school. We used to share the bathroom mirror. I brushed my hair while she painted her face bright colours.
Make-up days for Mom are almost non-existent now. She stopped wearing it when I got sick and there wasn’t much call for her to leave the house. Guilt is a squeezing sensation in the pit of my stomach.
She needs these trips, these brief moments away. She needs to be with grown-ups every now and then. To feel social and not secluded. I’m secretly hoping that she’ll go out, get drunk, and shamelessly flirt with some dark-haired, dark-eyed Latino who sweeps her off her feet. I’ve seen the staff photos on her work website. Apparently, construction is where all the hot guys hang out.
‘Okay.’ She snaps her compact shut. ‘Hotel, conference centre, cell, pager—’