I was trying to lighten things up, but my mother seemed too burdened for that. She looked as if she would have run in a split second if her hip had allowed it.
And me? For those times during the drive when I would have turned back, I didn’t consider it now. I was exactly where I wanted to be. That said, it was a precarious spot. I didn’t know what she was thinking; our landscape had changed. And then there was Edward, who, since showing up last night, was doing everything right, absolutely everything. I wasn’t sure what to do with him either.
Mom’s mind seemed to shift, eyes suddenly clinging to me in ways that had nothing to do with food. There was something in them that was so strong, so wanting—but gone as quickly as I identified it, so that I was left to wonder if I had simply imagined what I wanted to see.
I might have asked, but didn’t dare. Feelings were crucial. We had to talk about them, but right now facts were safer. They were also major, given her health.
“How’s your doctor?” I asked her as Edward cracked eggs into a bowl.
“He’s fine.”
“Do you have faith in him?”
“Yes.”
“What do you take for pain?”
Her gaze pointed to the windowsill. “A half dose of whatever’s in that bottle.”
Edward stopped beating eggs and leaned forward to read the label. “Percocet.”
“You never liked taking pills,” I said.
“I still don’t. They make me woozy. That may be why I’m having trouble…” She went quiet and frowned.
“Trouble seeing me?” I had known it wouldn’t be easy, still I felt a sharp pang.
“Trouble believing you’re here.”
“How could I not come? You’re my mother.”
Her eyes moved over my face, taking in my bangs, the sheen on my cheeks, the balm on my lips.
“It’s me,” I whispered.
“You look different.”
“I have to be,” I said with enough apology to make it a perfect opening to discuss the past.
Margaret, too, was in the past, but not where I thought. Eyes haunted, voice unsteady, she asked, “If a mother sends her child away, is she still a mother?”
My breath caught. Uncanny how similar it was to the question I had asked myself so many times. My version differed by a few words, but the agony of puzzling out a new reality was the same.
“Yes,” I said, because Margaret would always be my mother. “Same if a mother’s child dies.” I had to believe that. Otherwise, Lily wouldn’t continue to exist.
“I wasn’t a good mother.”
“I’m the one who wasn’t.”
“It’s an awful thing I did.”
“No, Mom, my fault, all mine—” A shrill whistle sounded. Startled, I sat straight. But it was the kettle, just the kettle.
Edward turned off the gas, and the whistle died off, leaving the sizzle of eggs in the pan and my grandmother’s soft voice in my mind. Tea is my handyman, she used to say. He fixes everything.
“Irish Breakfast?” I asked my mother.
“Please.”
I found tea bags in their usual cabinet to the left of the sink, found mugs in their usual cabinet to the right, and poured water from the kettle that I had used hundreds of times growing up. As computer literate and social-media savvy as my mother was, in these things she remained a creature of habit.
When I brought the cups to the table, she was shifting carefully. “Is that chair uncomfortable?” I asked. “Can I get a cushion? Would you rather lie down?”
She didn’t answer. Rather, seeming baffled, she was looking back at Edward. He had put toast in the toaster and was at the stove again. “I wasn’t expecting you,” she said. Her voice was timid, but at least she was addressing him directly. “You look different, too.”
“More gray.”
“More hair,” she said, and seeming to have used up her courage where direct contact with him was concerned, returned to me. “How long is he staying in Vermont?”
From the stove, Edward said, “As long as my wife is there.”
“Ex-wife,” I told Mom.
“But you’re together again?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Glad you’re in agreement on that,” she said and might have smiled. Instead, she refocused on her tea, dipped the bag repeatedly, as if answers would appear in the dark brew.
Behind us came the scrape of a buttered knife over toast.
I sighed. “Life is confusing.”
“Very,” she said quickly enough.
Before we could get into it, Edward gestured me to move the laptop, and was placing plates before us, then orange juice, napkins, and forks. As an afterthought,