I am about halfway through my second cup of coffee on Monday morning when I decide to start wading through my old clippings. I’m contemplating whether it would be feasible to reslant any of the stories into new, unbelievably brilliant article ideas. The first few years I did freelance work, I’d written several pieces about what it was like having a colicky infant—all the different methodologies I tried to help Charlie sleep through the night. Going for drives, feeding him homeopathic antigas tablets, and finally, eliminating all dairy and wheat from my own diet in case Charlie might have been allergic and I was making him miserable with my breast milk. I wrote about how none of those methods worked—I simply had a child who was only happy when I was holding him. Tears begin to well in my throat as I think about what I would give to be holding him right now. Obviously, in my current state, I can’t write about parenting.
Sighing, I abandon my clippings, flip open my laptop, and start reading the headlines on a local news webpage, another technique I’ve used in the past for finding a seed to a story. A local man was arrested for flashing a group of teenage girls at a Tacoma high school. A profile piece, maybe? The Man Behind the Trench Coat. I roll my eyes to the ceiling at the absurdity of this thought. Scrolling down the page, I see a video clip about an organic produce delivery service. Five minutes later, I know more about cow manure compost and how it relates to a successful heirloom tomato crop than I ever thought possible. Where’s the story idea in that? The Road to Going Green Is Paved with Crap? I sigh again. Honestly, this is pointless. How did I ever come up with good ideas before?
The phone rings, saving me. It’s my mother, inviting me to come visit her at her office. I haven’t spoken with her since the pancake breakfast at Jess’s house, but it’s as good an excuse as any to escape trying to write. Thirty minutes later, Keiko, my mother’s receptionist, lifts her eyes from her computer and comes out from behind her desk to let me in. She is a young, gorgeous Japanese girl, petite enough to make me feel like a lumberjack.
“Cadence!” she greets me, ushering me inside. She locks the door behind us, tucks her long, sleek black sheet of hair behind one ear. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I know. How’ve you been?”
“Pretty good. How about you?” Her face immediately morphs into a look that tells me my mother has already informed her exactly how I’ve been. Lovely—just what I need, a twenty-year-old receptionist for a judge.
“Fine,” I say brightly. The easiest answer often turns out to be the biggest lie. I smile. “Is my mom around? She’s expecting me.”
“She’s in her office.” She steps back behind her desk, reaches for the phone. “Want me to let her know you’re here?”
“That’s okay. I’m pretty sure I can still find it.” I step down the hall past the wandering labyrinth of cubicles; Mom once told me she had the place designed so skittish patients would have a hard time making a last-minute run for it. I find her sitting at her desk and plop down in one of the buttery-smooth red leather chairs.
We sit in silence for a moment, my mother’s eyes on me, my eyes on the floor.
“How’s that grandson of mine?” she asks, her voice attempting joviality.
I look up. “I’m sure he’s fine.” I pause, the sudden wedge in my throat making it impossible to speak. The truth is, I don’t know exactly how he is. I can’t wait to see him for dinner on Wednesday. “And Mark? How is he?”
“You mean Mike?” She looks a little shy, then smiles, and it strikes me how similar it is to my own.
“Right, Mike. Sorry.” Handlebar Mustache Mike, Jess had dubbed him. The new boyfriend. “How are things going with him?”
“Good. He’s very sweet. He’s teaching me how to dance.”
“That’s nice of him. Are you guys getting serious?” I ask this despite already knowing the answer is no.
“It’s too soon to tell. I like him, though. He makes me laugh.” She pauses, looks at the wall, then back at me. “So, honey. I have to ask you something.”
“Okay . . .” I cross my arms over my chest, wondering if all women automatically go on the defensive around the person who brought them into this world. But I realize this can’t be because it doesn’t happen to Jess. I attempt to rearrange my face to keep this from showing too much.
Her expression is hesitant, but she leans forward, folding her hands together on top of the paperwork on her desk. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About your . . . problem. With alcohol.”
“Join the club,” I say, my own reach for levity. This conversation is dangerous; I should have suited up with protective gear.
She gives me a faltering closed-mouth smile. “I can imagine.” She takes a deep breath in through her nose. “I’ve been wondering what I’m going to say when Mr. Hines asks me if I think you’re ready to take Charlie back.”
“Oh.” My insides begin to shake; I grip the arms of my chair to steady myself. “Did you come to any conclusion?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you think you’re ready to have him?” Her body is rigid as she speaks, welded into position, bracing herself for my response.
I cross my legs now, too, and proceed to uncontrollably wiggle my airborne foot. “Of course I am. I’m his mother. He’s never been anywhere but with me.” As I say this, I hate the hesitance in my voice. I want Charlie back. I ache for him so deeply I can barely breathe. But that isn’t the question she asked. She wants to know if I am ready for it. I have not thought to ask myself that question. Scott hasn’t even asked me that. My mother asking it of me now raises a wild, panicky feeling inside me. I don’t know what to do with it. “He needs me.”
My mother’s features soften. “I have no doubt he needs you. That little boy loves you beyond belief, and I know you adore him. But I just . . .” she trails off.
“I’m not drinking anymore,” I say. “Treatment is helping.” I use the same phrase I used with Martin the night he called. This is not a case of me repeating something again and again, trying to make it true. It is true. I am better than I was two months ago. I’m a smart woman. I’ll handle it. Children should be with their mothers; that’s all there is to it.
“I’m sure treatment is helping.” She unlatches her fingers, drumming them on the papers beneath.
I give a short, sharp nod, acknowledging she is right. The bright beep of the intercom on her desk makes me blink. My mother pushes a button.
“Yes?”
“Your ten o’clock appointment is here, Sharon.”
“Thanks, Keiko. I’ll be right up.” She stands, gives me another dazzling smile. “Sorry. Can we talk later?”
I stand, as well. “I’ll have to call you. I’m not sure what my schedule is going to look like.” She stares at me, blinking, both of us knowing full well that my “schedule” consists of a fat lot of nothing.
“Sure. Just let me know.”
We both move to walk out of her office, me a couple of paces ahead of her. I love her, but I don’t know how to reach out to her. But then I don’t have to, because it is she who sends out a hand and grabs me by the arm, pulling me to a stop.
“What?” I say.
“If you need me—” she starts, but I cut her off.
“Okay. Thank you.” I cannot help but think, Too little, too late. I don’t believe her. She knows how to say the right thing, just not how to do it. My bitterness tastes like a mouthful of pennies.
“I just—” she begins helplessly, but doesn’t finish the thought.
“Mom. I know.” I hate the way I sound. I want to thank her, I want to be the kind of daughter who can crumple into the safety of her mother’s arms and fall apart. But I’m not. I’m the daughter she raised; the kind of daughter who pulls her arm away from her mother’s touch and plans to keep on walking until no one can touch her at all.
