Mothered (51)

Grace wasn’t sure how they got from rancid meat to here, but she empathized with her mother’s frustration. “It’s the pandemic. I’m sorry. It won’t always be like this.”

Jackie shook her head. “No. It’s more than that. I don’t have the energy I used to. You remember? I could go-go-go for hours. I fake it really well, but I don’t . . . My body is failing me. My vision goes fuzzy. I miss driving. I miss being in control of my life. Richard and I didn’t exactly have an action-packed social life, but we did everything together. He was so difficult at the end. I barely recognized him.”

This was the mom Grace had anticipated when she’d first moved in—overwhelmed by loss. But Grace wasn’t sure what to say or how to make it better. Preston or River or LuckyJamison would offer pithy advice in such a situation—One day at a time. Jackie would probably kill her if Grace spoke to her in platitudes. “It will get better,” she said softly. “I think.”

“Will it?” Jackie didn’t sound bitter anymore, only sad. “I don’t think my eyes or my energy is coming back. And this will always be your house. I know I can’t stop you from doing anything, but . . . I don’t have a choice about . . .” She shrugged.

“Are you really that unhappy here?” What was Grace hoping her mother would say? Yes, you’re too horrible to live with, I’m leaving. Grace wouldn’t feel good about that, but living together for the rest of Jackie’s life didn’t seem super realistic.

“I am disappointed with you, Grace, I’m not gonna lie.”

The way Jackie said it, a matter-of-fact assessment, made it worse. If Jackie had sounded testy or crabby Grace could write it off as her mother’s problem, not hers. Grace felt her organs shrinking, contracting into a knotted lump inside her.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“I don’t want to control your life. But you don’t even consult me—about bringing home a cat, or running out in the middle of the night.”

“You’re right.” Grace the hypocrite, shitty at communicating after all. “I’ve lived alone for a long time.”

Jackie nodded. “I know. I haven’t. I don’t know what it’s like. I know we’re different. Are we too different to live together?”

It hurt Grace to hear her mother voice the contingency; coming from her it stung with rejection. As a teen, she’d been excited for her independence and had never considered the possibility that Jackie hadn’t liked living with her. That Jackie had wanted something for herself was understandable; that Jackie had bided her time until Grace was a legal adult and then fled from her was a new and uncomfortable idea.

“I think . . . we have to get to know each other. As adults.” She saw the truth in Miguel’s advice more than ever. But now that her mother knew about the catfishing, Grace was afraid Jackie would overlook everything else about her.

“I want to reconnect with you, before it’s too late,” said Jackie. “I wouldn’t have come back here otherwise. But I need you to do better. I’m sorry to have to say that. But you need to do better.”

Jackie took the remote and turned the volume back up. Grace shrank into herself, wishing the sofa could give her a hug, as the mommy-cat chair from her childhood once had, and surreptitiously wiped a tear from her cheek.





32


The game was a sadistic mixture of spin the bottle and dodgeball. They played it in the alley and took turns being the Target. The Target got to spin the dirty Rolling Rock bottle, but they were selecting a Hitter, not someone to kiss. The Hitter’s objective, naturally, was to hit the Target. Everyone used the same stick, but the Hitter got to choose three small rocks: round or flat ones might be easier to strike, but an angular one would do the most damage.

The Hitter would toss up the rocks, one at a time, and take a swing—like a batter sending practice balls to the outfield—aiming for the Target, twenty feet away. Each rock that struck the Target earned the Hitter one point. But the game deviated from dodgeball in that the Target couldn’t dodge, not if they wanted to win. If the Target didn’t duck or close their eyes or run away—if they stood there stoically through all three swings—they earned five points for that round.

Hope kept score; she wasn’t coordinated enough to be a Hitter, and the neighborhood kids didn’t want to be killed by her mom if they injured her—or her chair.

It was Grace’s turn to spin. She felt smug and indestructible, having just had her turn as Hitter. Lizzy was still pressing a wadded paper towel to her busted lip; only one of Grace’s rocks had met its mark—but it was a doozy. The sunflowers on Lizzy’s shirt were dripping blood but she’d taken it well, afterward swatting away the tears so they wouldn’t fall. The kids made a circle, and Grace crouched down to spin the bottle.

For a moment it looked like it was going to settle on Lizzy. Grace felt a crackle of fear at the enjoyment the girl would take in her revenge. But the bottle inched past her and stopped at Davy, the youngest of the Jablonski brothers. That he was short and scrawny did nothing to lessen the danger he posed. If anything, he was the most athletically coordinated of all of them, quick and strong. And vicious. Kids at school—who didn’t know better—sometimes made the mistake of teasing him, calling him a hobbit or a shrimp. He didn’t care if the name-caller was twice his size; Davy always attacked—an angered bull, his hard head a weapon even without horns. No one picked on him twice.