What Happens to Goodbye(22)

“You always say that, no matter what time I call,” she replied. “Surely you can spare a moment or two.”
“I’m at school,” I said. “My next class starts in five minutes.”
“Then give me four.” I rolled my eyes, annoyed, and as if she could see this, she added, “Please, Mclean. I miss you.”
And there it was, the tiniest twinge, like that tickle in your throat right before the tears begin. It was amazing to me that she could always find my tender spot, the one I was never even able to pinpoint myself. It was like she’d had it built into me somehow, the way scientists in sci-fi movies always put a secret button to deactivate the robot if it goes crazy and turns on them. Because you just never know.
“Mom,” I said, ducking out of the main hall and down a side alcove, where I was pretty sure my locker was supposed to be, “I told you. I just need a little time.”
“It’s been two weeks!” she protested. “How long are you planning to stay upset with me?”
“I’m not planning anything. I just . . .” I sighed, so sick of trying to explain why I needed space from her. It was constantly under negotiation, her trying to yank me closer, me straining to pull back. Even with hundreds of miles between us I still felt under her thumb. “I need a break.”
“From me,” she said, clarifying.
“From all this. I’m in a new place, and new school. . . .”
“Only because you want to be,” she reminded me. “If it was up to me, you’d still be here, enjoying all the perks of your senior year with the friends you’ve known forever.”
“Yes,” I said, “but it’s not up to you.”

She exhaled loudly, the sound like a wave breaking into my ear. This was the bottom line, the main issue, the thing we always came back to, no matter how much circling we did before or after. My mother wanted control over me and I wouldn’t give it to her. It made her crazy, so she in turn made me crazy. And repeat.
It reminded me of when I was little, and my grandparents had a cat named Louis Armstrong. My parents were too busy with the restaurant to deal with pets, and as a result I was crazy for any animal I could get my hands on. Louis, however, was old and mean and had absolutely no interest in children, diving under the couch the minute he heard me coming. Undaunted, I’d sit on the carpet under the side table and try to get him to emerge: calling his name, offering treats, once even reaching under and attempting to pull him out, only to receive full-arm scratches in return.
After that, I pretty much gave up, electing to spending my time at my grandparents’ watching TV on their old set, which got only three channels. Then, one day, the weirdest thing happened. I was sitting there, watching some cloudy, old movie while the adults talked in the next room, and I felt something brush against my leg. Looking down, I was shocked to see Louis Armstrong, elusive no more, passing by and giving me a little flick of his tail. Sure, it wasn’t the all-out adoration I’d craved. But it was something. And I never would have gotten it—or the slow build to almost-affection that followed in the next few months—if I hadn’t just left him alone.
I had tried to explain this to my mother. I’d even referred to the cat. But she just didn’t get it, or chose not to. Forget cats and couches. I was her daughter, I belonged to her. I was supposed to cooperate.
This latest standoff, only a couple of weeks old, had a familiar impetus. She’d called a day or two before we’d left Westcott, as I was busy packing things up. I made the mistake of telling her this, and she went ballistic.
“Again?” she demanded. “What is your father thinking? How can he possibly think this is good for you?”
“Mom, it’s a consulting job,” I told her for the umpteenth time. “The work doesn’t come to you. You go to the work.”
“He goes to the work,” she replied. “You should be here, in the same school, until you graduate. It’s ludicrous that we’re allowing you do to otherwise.”
“It’s my choice,” I said, repeating what I considered my mantra.
“You’re a teenager,” she told me. “I’m sorry, Mclean, but by definition, you don’t know how to make the right choices!”
“But if I stayed with you,” I said, trying to keep my voice level, “that would be the right choice?”
“Yes!” Then, realizing my point, she exhaled, annoyed. “Honey, anyone would tell you that living in a stable home with two responsible parents and a well-established support system is infinitely better than—”
“Mom,” I said. She kept talking, so I repeated, louder, “Mom.”
Finally, silence. Then she said, “I just don’t understand why you want to hurt me like this.”
It’s not about you, I thought, but then she was crying, which always took the fight out of me.
If we’d just left it at that, it probably would have blown over. Instead, though, she’d gone back to her lawyer, who in turn called my dad making all kinds of subtle threats about “filing paperwork” and “revisiting our current agreement in light of recent events.” In the end, nothing happened, but the whole thing made me decide to cut her off until I felt calm enough to talk. And I didn’t, not yet.
This entire issue, our issue, had been further exacerbated for the last few months by my college applications. When I’d just started junior year, she’d sent It package in Petree via FedEx containing a stack of books with chapters with titles like “Hot Ink: How to Write a Power Essay”; “The Wow Factor: Reaching Admissions Officers”; “Play Your Strengths: Presenting Yourself in the Best Possible Light.” It wasn’t until I called to thank her—we were on decent terms at the time—that I began to understand her sudden, passionate interest in my collegiate future.