Weather Girl(92)

I tell her more about the recent reorg, Torrance, my mentee before asking her the same question. It’ll never not feel a bit odd: my mother and me, two adults discussing our jobs.

“I’m actually looking at retiring within the next couple years,” she says, “which is exciting. I didn’t realize it would be a possibility this soon.”

“Retiring? Wow.” My mother is almost sixty, but somehow I can’t picture her retired. Maybe because I’ve always viewed her through a certain lens retirement doesn’t quite match up with.

Because now, of course, my mind swims with what she’ll do with all that free time. If she’ll have enough to keep her busy, or if she’ll fall into one of her old patterns.

“There’s this guy in my department who’s been there about as long as I have, and we’ve been talking about it a lot lately.”

If there will be another man to drag her down.

“Talking,” I repeat, and her brow furrows as she gets my meaning.

“I think I want to take it slow. I’m not exactly eager to jump into anything serious. I haven’t been single in a while,” she muses. “It’s kind of nice—nicer than I was expecting, if I’m being honest, only to have to worry about myself.”

“That’s good. I’m really glad.” I pick at my muffin, still feeling as though we’re only skimming the surface of what I want to be discussing. I have to just go for it—I’ll regret it if I don’t. “And you’re . . . feeling okay? If that’s all right to ask?”

She goes quiet as she excavates a chocolate chip. Apparently, it’s easier for us to converse with baked goods than with each other. Because this is another thing my younger self wouldn’t have believed I’d do as an adult: talk to my mother about our mental health.

“Some of the medications had harsh side effects at first,” she says, not making eye contact. “That was something I was anxious about. I told the doctors I’d go to therapy the way they wanted me to, but no meds. I wanted to still feel like myself, you know?”

My heart sinks. “Oh.”

But she shakes her head, and when her dark eyes meet mine, there’s a conviction there I’ve never seen before. “The therapist I talked to—she was amazing. And I had the time to do some research, and, well . . . the meds on the market today are quite different from the ones I heard about growing up. I thought they would numb me completely. That I wouldn’t feel anything at all. I always thought it was better to feel too much than to feel nothing. But I wanted to get better so badly, Ari. I was terrified, but I agreed to give medication a try.”

“Mom. I—I’m proud of you.” The words are fragile, delicate things. I’m not sure if I’ve uttered them aloud. If I’m allowed to be proud of her.

“That was why they kept me so long. They wanted to make sure they had the right meds, the right dosage. But now that my body’s gotten used to them . . . I’m not sure I can even express how much they’ve helped. Not an instant fix, of course, but—well, you know.” A bite of her muffin, and then: “It makes me wish I’d started them much sooner.”

I let that hang between us, processing it. All the things I’ve never said bang against the inside of my brain. All the things I used to want from her.

“Yeah. I do, too.”

“Ari,” she says, but I’m not finished.

“I’m glad you’ve gotten help,” I continue, touching the tiny lightning bolt around my neck for a shock of courage. “Truly. And I know it’s an intensely personal thing. A personal journey. But I’ve been wondering lately . . . why now? What made this time the time, instead of when Alex and I were kids? Because sometimes it makes me feel like—like we weren’t enough for you back then.”

I watch her absorb this, the way her dark blond eyebrows draw together and her mouth parts before she closes it, as though carefully considering what she wants to say. Then she drapes her hand over mine, giving it a squeeze. “Arielle. Ari. I’ve wondered that every day since I left the hospital. I wish I could answer that question for you in a way that was even remotely satisfying.” She runs her thumb along my knuckles. “I don’t know why it took so long. Maybe it was having the right therapist—the one I’m still seeing. Maybe it was feeling like this whole group of people cared about me and wanted me to get well. I don’t know why it took me getting to that awful place I was in before I was admitted to the hospital, and I am so, so sorry.

“Eventually, you deal with something for long enough that it becomes such an intrinsic part of you, and you can’t imagine yourself without it. You accept it, maybe because you think you deserve it but also because you’re scared that if you tried to change it, it wouldn’t work. It feels easier to live in that somber place because you don’t know who you are otherwise, and you’re worried about putting in all that effort without a guaranteed outcome.”

“You knew I got help. You knew it worked for me.”

“I did,” she says. “And I’m even happier now that you were able to realize it so much sooner than I was. I’m sorry . . . if I let you down, by not getting you help earlier.” At that, her voice wavers and she pulls her hand away, seeming to almost fold in on herself. My mother has never looked as small as she does in this moment, and it is absolutely staggering. “I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me. I’m trying to give you an explanation—not an excuse.”