The Mystery of Hollow Places(54)

“It wasn’t that kind of thing with your mom,” Todd continues. He hands me an overfull plate and leans back against the counter, contemplating a pizza bite. “She wouldn’t take anything from me. I told her I had a spare room above the garage, but she insisted on paying rent, and paying for enrollment at New Hope. Said her cousin had sent her some money and helped her out.”

Now I know why Mom called Lilian Eugene asking for cash after all those years apart.

“But you weren’t, like, together?”

“Not for a while. Not until she got help, and said she felt strong enough for a new start. She had a job offer here in Windham—one of the doctors at New Hope connected her with a lawyer friend looking to hire an assistant. She asked me to come with her, so I did. She proposed to me last year.”

“How romantic.”

We stuff our faces in silence for a while, and after refilling my plate for me, he starts up, “Normally I wouldn’t be telling you her story like this, Imogene. I’d say it was hers to tell. But you’re probably carrying around a lot of real hurt. That’s natural. I just wanted . . . I’m explaining so you’ll give her a chance. Try to listen to her. She’s had a hard life.”

“I really don’t care.” I shove my twice-emptied plate away.

Just then the front door opens and quickly shuts, and a woman’s voice calls out from the far room. “Sweetie? Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a bitch in the snow.”

“We’re in here!” he shouts back, watching me. I try to keep a blank face, but I can feel the blood draining out of it, pounding straight into my heart. I wipe my suddenly sweaty palms on the hem of my sweatshirt and try to find a pose that says Fuck you, world. I settle for sitting up straight on the counter and crossing my arms to stop myself from cracking my knuckles.

“Who is ‘we’?” And then my mother is standing in the kitchen doorway.

Ticking my head to the side, I examine her: a small, thin woman with lots of mouse-brown hair waving down to her elbows. Framed by all that hair is a small heart-shaped face. Big hazel eyes under pointed brows. Thin lips that rest in a kind of amused miniature smile. Under one arm she carries a big drawing pad. Her coat is off, but a flouncy blue scarf is tucked under her narrow chin. My chin.

“Hi, Mom.” It comes out rough and dry, like the sound of Dad rasping a hand down his unshaved cheek.

“I knew it,” she whispers. “After the phone call. Imogene? How . . . ?”

“Oh.” I shrug. “You know. I broke into a hospital. Stole your medical files. Tracked down your cousin. Phony-called your old boss. Got money for a fake prom. Talked to your old neighbor. Found your husband’s address. Took a bus.”

One delicate eyebrow shoots upward. “You knew how to do all that?”

“I read a lot.”

When she and I are seated at opposite ends of the kitchen table, Todd kisses her temple through the curtain of her hair. Illuminated in the chandelier light from above, it’s not as dark as it seemed in pictures, but a kind of dirty blond.

He sets down a glass of juice in front of my mother (she had no interest in pizza bites or pot stickers) and says, “I’m going out. See if old Mrs. Walters doesn’t need help salting her front walk. You two . . . call if you need anything.” There’s the shuffle of fabric as he zips on layers in the front hallway, and then he’s gone. Aside from gnawing on her thumbnail, my mother’s been frozen since Todd sat her down in her seat, but at the sound of the door she comes to life again. She starts to slide the drawing pad under the table.

“Can I see?” I ask.

She pauses, then hands me the pad, as long as my arm at least, and as I flip through the sketches I try to look as if I don’t care, like I’m just checking eggs in a carton for breaks, the way I do when I grocery shop for me and Dad. They’re good, though none of them are complete. Like, on one page is a woman’s face and breasts and belly, perfectly realistic, then just a brown chalk squiggle where her spine should be. In another, flat blocks of all colors make up a man’s body, and at the end of two straight stalk arms, two beautifully detailed and shaded hands. Here is an older woman’s finely drawn head perched on a simple pear-shaped outline of a body. There, two feet stick out from a long cloud of blue chalk.

“Do you draw?” she asks me.

I close the pad and shove it away from me. “No. I write. Like Dad.” Not exactly true, but I’m going for the wound here.

She nods. “I bet. That’s good. I read his books, you know? A couple of them. You look like him, too.” She stares across the table at me and I know what she sees: the dark, flat hair, the Asian stamp of my features, the downward curve of my lips, like his. She sighs and folds her hands in front of her. They’re small, but not delicate or anything. The fingers are slim, but the knuckles are round like bolts, the skin chapped and callused. They’re the oldest-looking part of her. “Whatever you came to say to me, I deserve.”

“You have no idea what I came for.”

If she’s stung by my words, she doesn’t show it. “I’m guessing it wasn’t to give me a World’s Best Mom mug.” She laughs, and it’s an empty sound. “I know Todd filled you in on my story, but I’m guessing it doesn’t help much. I wasn’t there with you. I should’ve been, but I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t well. I know that now. I wanted to be better for you.”