had to go. But she didn’t care if he was around or not. She said she just felt bad about causing so much trouble for me. She sounded tired, but not particularly upset. “I’ll come get the rest of my things later,” she said. “I’ll be fine, honey. Really. I just don’t want to bother you for a while.”
But I pleaded. I insisted. I told her it wouldn’t take long, and that I would wait with Bowzer in the van. When none of that worked, I told her the real reason I needed her to come in was that I was about to get fired for keeping a dog in my room, and that I needed her to confirm my story, so my boss might give me another chance. I made my voice sufficiently righteous and whiny. It was for her own good, I told myself. Once Gordon met my mother, he could not possibly expect her to sleep in a van. She would charm him. He would understand that she didn’t deserve any of this, even if she wouldn’t get rid of the dog. He would bend the rules, and let her stay.
I was wrong. Twenty minutes after my mother walked into the dorm, she came back out to the van with a handwritten list of social service agencies and homeless shelters. Bowzer strained against my arm, trembling in his excitement over her return. As soon as she closed her door, I let him go, and he lunged, falling between her lap and the steering wheel.
“That’s how he thought he would help?” I snatched the paper out of her hands. My eyes moved over words: “shelter,” “crisis,” “homeless,” “emergency.” He’d neatly written out phone numbers and hours and rules. By one listing, he’d added, “Ask for Carla, re: gas voucher.”
“I though it was pretty nice of him.” She took off her hat and put it on the dashboard. “It’s not his problem. But you wouldn’t have known that, talking to him.” She took the list back from me and studied it. She didn’t look that bad, considering she hadn’t gotten a shower that morning and she’d spent most of the day in the van. She was wearing the scarf I’d given her. In the sunlight coming through the windows, it looked itchy, made with cheap yarn. And the red was too bright for her face.
“He gave me some career advice, too.” She looked up at me, smiling.
I waited, but she waved me off.
“What? What did he say?”
“Later. Maybe.” She kept looking at the list. “None of these places take dogs.”
“Mom. That doesn’t matter. You’re not going to a shelter.”
She started to say something, but when she saw my face, she stopped smiling, and all at once, she looked as if the skin of her face had suddenly grown heavy. She put her hand over her eyes and turned away.
“Mom. Let me call Elise.”
She shook her head. She still had her hand over her eyes, her elbow resting on the steering wheel. Bowzer sighed in her lap, content.
“Then let me call Dad. I won’t even mention you. I’ll say I need the money. I’ll make something up. I’ll—”
She put her hand on my knee. “Please stop talking,” she said. “Please? I just need you to be quiet for a moment. I have a little dignity left, and I’d like to keep it. I’ll think of something else if you just give me a minute. Okay? I’ll come up with something else.”
I gave her a minute. And then two. And then five. And then ten. She didn’t speak, and neither did I. I looked out the window, up at the sky, which was soft and gray this morning, though there was still no sign of snow. Tim. I could call Tim, and ask him to take the dog. My mother could stay with me. But I couldn’t call him. Just a few days after Third Floor Clyde did not seem like the best time to ask him to take care of my mother’s slightly incontinent dog. You couldn’t push someone away and then lean on them. And although my mother was quiet, no ideas yet, I knew that if she knew everything, she wouldn’t want me to ask him.
Also, I thought that if I waited long enough, she would give in. She would let me call Elise or lie to my father. She would realize there wasn’t another option.
But she didn’t give in. I don’t know how much time passed. It