person she was seeing for the first time—was taking in her expertise.
But immediately, her mother—her internalized big-M Mother—took hold, and the patient saw herself through the surveying eyes about to slide over her. She saw the inadequacy of her own outfit; of the gray shirt that had been chosen under fluorescent light which now, in daylight, was revealed to clash with the gray of her pants. Most of all, there was the disaster of her hair, which, with the wind and humidity, had become a mass of frizz.
(Run for your life! I wanted to shout to my dear patient, as if the story had not already happened; as if disaster could still be averted.)
Mother! she called out.
Her mother, who was addressing the ball as the shout came, looked up for a moment. Then she returned to the tee and took her hit.
A massive drive! her mother whooped. Darling! Did you see that?
Terrific, Mother, the patient said.
She walked up to the tee. Her mother stood and watched her come closer. And already the once-over was beginning: the scrutiny, the tightened eyes searching as if down a bombsight, enjoying the hunt for the exact spot to destroy.
Are you sure that top goes with those pants, dear?
You should mention my hair right now, replied the patient.
All right. Can’t you comb it or something?
Hello, Mother, the patient said, going up to her for the obligatory kiss on the cheek.
How nice of you to drive down, her mother said.
Her mother bent down and put another ball on her tee. As she arranged her stance, she said, I hope you don’t mind. I’ve invited one of the other ladies here to join us for lunch. Quite a lovely lady. You’ll like her.
Whack! went the drive, and her mother watched it sail over the hill and into the little valley.
I’d rather it was just the two of us, said the patient.
Her mother placed a new ball on the tee. Oh, why is that, dear? I hope you’re not going to bring up … Well.
She looked up into the haze, briefly distracted from her golfing. Then she returned to her tee.
The patient’s focus was so acute that her mother’s movements seemed to unfold in slow motion. The little wiggles of her mother’s behind as she adjusted her stance. The club head easing toward the ball for the near-kiss of the address. The arc of the club, gently, gently rising toward its apogee. And just at that point—just as her mother was about to uncoil her body and unleash the forces of physics, the patient said:
I found Maria G.
The club head wobbled at the top of the arc. The stroke was enervated. The club barely hit the ball, which wobbled off the tee.
Her mother looked around as if to see whether anyone had seen her bad shot; if anyone were listening; if anyone could possibly wonder over the cryptic “I found Maria G.”
Her mother threw down her club. It’s the hotel’s equipment, she said. Then she strode off, her back to the patient as she called out, Let’s go to the room.
112.
The patient chased her mother up and down corridors that seemed to her all alike but that signified something to her mother, she supposed. They spoke not a word, as if any conversation would poison the air of the hallways, seep under the doorways, into the suites where rewarded clients stared into their fireplaces or gazed upon the restless Pacific.
Her mother’s room was luxurious, the patient saw, as her mother gave her a perfunctory tour: a small kitchen, a central area where three small couches surrounded a fireplace, a sliding door onto a patio that overlooked the ocean, a vast bedroom, a marble bathroom as large as a normal person’s dining room. Laid out upon the bed was her mother’s gown, the midnight-blue one she had waited so long to wear, its sheer organdy sleeves flung upward, like a woman waiting to be ravished.
So, her mother said, sitting on the bed to change the golf shoes for her blue satin, wedge-heeled bedroom slippers. So … You have found her. Your—what did we agree to call her?—your birth mother.
Yes, said the patient. Birth mother.
Her mother rubbed her ankle. Then she untied the bandana.
How’s my hair? she asked, patting it all around. Not too blown out?
It’s fine, Mother.
With a sigh, her mother stood, checked her face in the mirror over the dresser, then left the bedroom for the area by the fireplace, where she opened the sliding door an inch