Mothered (45)

“There’s lots more in the fridge,” she said, her mouth full of lettuce, as Grace walked past.

“Thanks.” But Grace wasn’t heading to the kitchen for food; she needed something to drink. She filled a sports bottle with water—only slightly concerned that she couldn’t remember when she’d last washed it—and glugged half of it down. Refreshed, she returned to the living room and plopped down on the other end of the couch.

They’d recently developed a mutual interest in true-crime shows, and Jackie was halfway through an episode of Disappeared. It was easy to catch the gist of what she’d missed, and Grace was immediately absorbed. She became aware of her mother staring at her but decided to ignore it.

“Grace?” Jackie stretched out her name, elongating it with a tone of inquisitive displeasure. Grace took a sip of water and flicked a glance at her. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” her mother asked.

It had been a good day, but Grace sensed it was about to topple off its pedestal. She wasn’t in the mood to play guessing games with her mother and had no idea what Jackie was alluding to. After a momentary stare-off, Grace gave in. “What?”

Jackie gave her the Are-you-daffy? look, blinking her eyes and pursing her lips. This time she lost the stare-off. “I realize you’re an adult and you can make whatever careless decisions you want, break whatever rules don’t fit in with your lifestyle, but . . . I don’t think it’s too much to expect you to be courteous and considerate.”

What the fuck was she talking about? When Jackie proved unable to read her face, Grace had to actually say it. “What are you talking about?”

“The gentleman? In your room? While I think it’s unwise to have someone over while we’re self-isolating, you don’t need to hide him. And I don’t think it’s very nice to just leave him alone while you watch TV.”

Grace’s mouth dropped open, but she quickly shut it when she realized she didn’t know how to reply. Fuck. She’d been so sure she’d gotten away with it. Her heart pumped a little harder, and she hoped her blood vessels weren’t turning her a guilty shade of red. Every ticking second would make it harder to lie convincingly. “I was FaceTiming with Miguel,” she said, trying to add both amusement and annoyance to her voice.

Her mother had a disgruntled expression for every occasion. The one she put on now said, Please, I’m not stupid. “I know Miguel. That’s not what Miguel sounds like.”

It was too late for a better lie. She should’ve told her mother she was watching something online. Grace focused on the television, unsure what to say. Unsure what to do. Disappeared repeated its favorite image, custom made for each episode, a facsimile of the missing person walking away from the camera . . . and evaporating into thin air. Grace wished she had that option right now. Maybe if she didn’t say anything, pretended the matter was settled, her mother would forget it and move on.

But Grace had forgotten that this version of her mother cared about things like manners and being a good hostess.

Jackie hauled herself off the sofa and marched over to the bottom of the stairs. “Young man, it’s safe to come down!”

“Mom!” Grace jumped up but didn’t bother to chase after her mother—it wasn’t as if Jackie would find a man hiding in her room if she went upstairs to check.

“I have a nice big salad in the refrigerator, if you’re hungry,” her mother called.

“Mom, there’s no one up there.” The words were out before Grace realized the implication of what she was saying.

“Grace, what . . . what’s wrong with you? I heard a man. My eyesight isn’t as good as it was, but my hearing is just fine. I’m happy for you if you have a boyfriend. You don’t have to keep secrets from me.”

Torn between the crappy escape options of dashing outside or clenching her eyes shut like a toddler—You can’t see me!—Grace collapsed onto the couch.

“It was me. You heard me.”

She saw in her peripheral vision as her mother made her way back to the sofa, her footsteps cautious, her gaze baffled and a touch alarmed. The movements and expression of someone confronting the possibility that Invasion of the Body Snatchers wasn’t just a horrifying movie but a horrifying and very present reality. Jackie sat very straight on the edge of the seat cushion; she aimed the remote at the television and Disappeared disappeared.

Grace had a decision to make: refuse and deny, or tell the truth. Jackie apparently intended to sit there, riveted, until Grace came up with an explanation.





28


“Sometimes . . .” Grace faltered. “I have another identity I use online.”

Partial truth: a compromise. But Jackie looked more flummoxed than ever.

“Why? What does that even mean?”

“It’s like . . .” Grace tried to think of something plausible, if untrue, that her mother would understand. “When I was little, and Hope and I had our paper dolls. We lived vicariously through them, and could make them whoever we wanted them to be.”

“What does that have to do with what you sounded like? Who were you talking to?”

“I was talking to a woman who only knows me as a man. That’s the identity I use online.”

Jackie screwed up her face, really trying to figure it out. “So does that mean . . . Are you one of those transgendered people?”