Whisper Me This(43)

The screen wavers in front of me, and I realize my hands are shaking. I close my eyes to break the spell, to shut out this face, and immediately see the child version, the imaginary friend Marley of my childhood. I can’t begin to understand what happened here. How my over-responsible, zealous, helicopter parent of a mother could have somehow forgotten a child.

Waves of dizziness wash over me, and Elle barely rescues the tablet from a plunge to the floor. I fall back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“We have to go see her,” Elle says. “We can listen to the band. And then you can talk to her after.”

My lips are numb, and my voice sounds foreign to my own ears. “We can’t go anywhere right now, Elle Belle. We have Grandma’s funeral to plan. And we have to figure out what to do about Grandpa.”

“We don’t have to go anywhere. They’ll be here. Well, almost here. Kettle Falls at the Northern Ales on, let’s see, Friday night. Family friendly, it says, so don’t even think about not taking me with you.”

“Elle. We can’t go.”

I say it with conviction, but I’m torn. Marley. After all these years. The possibility of seeing her, of connecting, of doing something about those ragged threads of incomplete memories that keep snagging my current reality and tugging me backward is deeply alluring.

“Why can’t we go?” Elle demands.

“Because Grandma. People don’t go to concerts right after somebody dies.”

“I don’t see why not.” Her face retreats out of my field of vision, leaving me alone with the ceiling. There is a tiny spider up there, moving around on spider business. I let my gaze fixate on him, one small black speck in an expanse of white, or almost white. It comes to me that if Dad goes into a nursing home, I’ll need to sell this house to pay for it. And then I get sucked into wondering how I can possibly navigate everything that needs doing here while still maintaining my apartment in Kansas City. I can’t afford to fly back and forth. I’ve already maxed out my credit card to pay for this trip. I can’t afford to take more time off.

The truth is, the time I’ve already taken is going to make it pretty near impossible to cover my bills this month. I live way too close to my margins. The temp agency I’m currently working for doesn’t provide benefits, so I’m not getting vacation pay. My only savings resides in the account where Greg deposits child support, a fund that I dip into only when Elle needs something I can’t otherwise provide. A familiar web of worry and indecision grounds me in my accustomed reality. The worry points are different, but the feeling is the same. I’m still me, even if my mother is not who I always thought she was. This is strangely comforting. My breath eases, my heart slows. My eyelids grow heavy, and I am sorely tempted to drift off into sleep. Elle, oblivious, keeps up a running commentary, her fingers still moving.

“What’s the father’s name? On the birth certificate?”

“Alexander Garrison.”

“Hmmm. There are a bunch of Alexander Garrisons. Who knows which one it is? But maybe Marley could tell you about him. We are going, right? To the concert?”

I need to tell her no. No, we are not going. But I’m so sleepy now that it’s hard to form words. Her chatter is familiar and comforting. I let it circle around me, just the cadence and the music of it, taking pleasure in her enthusiasm without latching on to the meaning. I’ll worry about Marley and the concert later.

The next thing I’m aware of is Elle shaking my shoulder. I mumble something and try to roll over. My tongue feels hot and dry, stuck to the roof of my mouth.

“There are people here. You have to wake up!”

“What people?” At least that’s what I meant to say, but I hear it come out as “Mmm?”

“You’ve been sleeping for hours. And I’m hungry, and we’re out of pizza. Mom!”

This time, the shake of my shoulder is energetic enough to hurt. My eyes blink open and then squint against the light directly overhead. I bring up my forearm to shield my eyes. In my entire history I’ve been hungover exactly once, and it’s manifestly unfair that I feel that same way now but haven’t had the benefit of a single drink. Inventory of my body isn’t promising.

Mouth: fuzzy.

Stomach: rebellious.

Brain: sluggish.

Head: pounding.

“Mom. Seriously. You have to get up. There are church ladies in the living room. They are asking an awful lot of questions.”

Rolling over onto my side, I push up into a sitting position and sit there, blinking at Elle. She goes in and out of focus, but it’s impossible to miss the exasperation. Hands thrown up in the air and that toss of the head are pretty much a universal language.

When she stalks out of the room, I let my throbbing head drop into my hands, rest my elbows on my knees, and try to engage my wayward brain.

Much as I would like to escape out the bedroom window, I need to deal with this.

Elle, still stiff with disapproval, returns with my hairbrush and a dripping washcloth. She holds the cloth out to me, and while I scrub it over my face, she starts brushing out my tangled hair.

“You’re a good kid,” I mumble, and it’s true. She’s a great kid, in fact. I don’t deserve a kid like this. “Okay. I guess I should go face the music.”

“Clothes.”