Mothered (25)

“Silicone,” Jackie said, chipper and matter of fact.

“Why?”

Instead of answering, Jackie gave her a half eye roll and turned back toward the kitchen. Grace wasn’t in the mood for her—what sort of person didn’t want to look at a beautiful day?—but she needed answers.

“Did I ever sleepwalk?” Grace asked, before her mother could fully withdraw.

Jackie came back, the utensils lowered, concern wrinkling her face. “No. Not that I was ever aware of. What did you do to your hair?”

“Cut it. I guess. While I was more or less asleep.” Grace tugged at the uneven strands.

“You did that in your sleep?”

Grace shrugged. “I guess so.”

There was a silent moment while Jackie, face scrunched, considered Grace’s admission. It made Grace feel squirmy inside and she took a step away, suddenly needing a larger buffer of air between them.

“Maybe you should talk to somebody.”

“And who would that be?” Grace was more than ready to be done with this encounter. Her mother had nothing useful to offer, and Grace had no idea who might specialize in the hows and whys of a somnambulist makeover.

She trudged back to the sofa and her remaining coffee. Flipped on Netflix. She expected her mom to disappear into the kitchen with her neon gadgets. But Jackie followed her and perched on the other end of the sofa; Grace didn’t need to look at her to know she was wearing an expression of maternal angst.

Grace didn’t want her worry or pity—where had she been all those suppers ago when Grace spoon-fed her sister one slow mouthful of Tuna Helper at a time? That’s when Grace would have appreciated someone to run interference. How many times had she eaten a cold, half-congealed supper because the rule was Feed Hope First?

“You’re stressed, hon. If it’s about finances, I don’t want you to worry about—”

“It’s not that.” Not entirely.

“Well, the mind-body connection is very strong, and if your mind is tangled up about something, then maybe it gets your body involved too.”

Grace shot her a glare. This reasonable, says-all-the-right-things mom was like a character out of a sitcom.

“It really couldn’t hurt to talk to a therapist.”

“I’m not crazy,” Grace mumbled.

“Of course you’re not. I thought that was one of those insensitive words people weren’t supposed to say anymore.”

Grace gave her mom a long, cold stare. She had no memory of this version of Jackie, mindful of political correctness. This woman was a collection of splinters, held together with glue, dabbed with paint in the general likeness of a person she had once known as Mommy. Grace could hear Miguel’s voice, encouraging her to get to know her again.

“Hope caused a lot of stress.” Grace hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but perhaps it explained why the mom she knew had been so different. In her own way it was an apology, an acknowledgment that their mother had had a lot to deal with.

Jackie nodded. “It wasn’t easy.”

“But we never talked about it.”

“There wasn’t time to talk. Not for me. On any given day . . . I just wanted to lie down. Didn’t get to do that either. I’m sorry. When life got easier, with the husbands, and I had time to really think . . . I know I should’ve gotten more reliable babysitters. I didn’t appreciate how much was on your shoulders—you did a lot for her. Is that why you brought it up? Is that what’s troubling you?”

“I have no idea what’s troubling me.” There was nothing on Netflix she wanted to watch. Grace supported her head with her hand; the caffeine couldn’t eradicate an underlying weariness. “I’m just really confused. About everything.”

Suddenly, seeing a therapist wasn’t such a bad idea. How had she spiraled down to this place so quickly?

“Maybe we should visit Hope’s grave,” her mom said. “Do you still do that?”

“Not recently.” In the years before Jackie moved, Grace used to go to the cemetery twice a year—in February for their birthday and again in the summer. Once on her own, the visits became yearly. Eventually that stopped too. “I’ll take you there, if you want.”

“When you’re ready.” Jackie’s smile was full of sorrow.

“I’m gonna go back to bed for a bit,” said Grace.

She saw deference in the way her mother walked back to the kitchen. Jackie practically tiptoed, as if a nearby rattlesnake might awaken at the vibration of her movement. In contrast, Grace’s escape was defiant and she took the steps two by two, hoisting up her dress so she wouldn’t trip.

Another hour of sleep, that’s what she needed. And then she’d fix her hair. She couldn’t leave the house before doing that, and she needed to run to the store. Her period was only four days late, but the previous evening she’d googled “How soon can I take a pregnancy test?” She’d planned to wait a few more days—most of the tests made seven days sound like the magic number. But a couple of them claimed they were accurate on the first day of a missed period (probably not meant for instances where conception and missed period coincided but whatever). Sometimes it was easy to dismiss the possibility that anything had happened that could result in a pregnancy. But other times, uncertainty nagged at her.