If You're Out There(14)

As Mom and I walked down the block, pushing Harr in the stroller, I remember thinking I had no interest in having someone thrust upon me. But I could feel how important the night was to Mom. She needed to know these people. She needed to help her friend.

So I was polite as I handed Ben a bottle of wine and some sparkling cider when we walked in the door. Mom doled out armless hugs as she held the wooden salad bowl, with Harr on her hip. I trailed behind as Ben began the Tour, and Priya fell into step with me, appearing moderately embarrassed by Ben’s enthusiasm for fixtures and new fancy cooking appliances.

As Ben led us onto the back deck, all strung up with lights, it struck me that Priya and I may as well have never met at all. She was someone new.

Over dinner at a glass patio table in the yard, Priya smiled each time Harr stood to reach his plate and smash a banana chunk into his face. Ben grilled enough swordfish, filet mignon, and veggie burgers for a party of ten, proudly donning a manly apron and refilling Mom’s wine whenever it got low. He moved his hands a lot when he talked, I noticed—as if everything and anything was exciting.

Mom was doing that rapid-fire-question thing she always does when she’s anxious for things to go well.

Priya was quiet through most of it. So was I.

Mom described her therapy practice—the parts she could divulge—and Ben bobbed his head with fascination. Ben told us about his new job, a step down from the Wall Street fast lane. After his old firm had gone belly-up, he felt lucky to have landed on his feet, and he could still help out at GRETA remotely. He and Priya liked the new house. They were getting their first family car—a Prius. They hadn’t needed one in New York.

Midway through the meal, the conversation began to slow. You could feel it—a hole. Mom and Ben had one person in common. And that person was dead. After a long pause, Mom leaned across the table and squeezed Priya’s arm. “God, you’ve grown up.” She pulled back. “I’m sorry. You probably barely even remember me.”

“No, I do,” said Priya. “A little.”

For a moment, Ben looked sad. Then Mom said, “Hey. I hear you’re going to Zan’s middle school. How awesome is that? Do you know which homeroom?”

Priya spoke into her plate. “Um. Ms. Haggerty’s?”

Mom tapped my arm excitedly. “Did you hear that, Boop? Same one!”

Priya stole a glance at me from across the table, her expression confirming our shared mortification. I smiled. “That’s great, Mom.” And to Priya, I said, “I hear she’s okay.”

I startle at the sound of a knock and return to my room—to the movie on my computer.

Another knock.

“Boop?”

It’s Mom. I hadn’t heard anyone come home.

I hit the space bar and sit up in my bed. “Yeah.”

She pokes her head inside, quizzical. “Did I hear Bette Midler?”

I close the laptop and cover it with a pillow. “Nope.”

Mom blows a wavy strand of hair from her face, taking in the chaos of my room. “You okay?”

I shrug.

“You know,” she says, weaving through piles of clothes on the floor to reach my window. She pulls the curtains apart and zips up the blind. “It’s a really nice day out there. If you get out now, you could still catch a couple hours of sunlight.”

“True,” I say, unmoving.

Mom purses her lips. “Well, if you change your mind I’m here.” Her eyes zero in on the bucket of cookies. “I think I’ll confiscate these now.”

“Fair,” I say.

“Hey.” Mom stands above me and takes hold of my chin.

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“I’m sorry, but in my experience, fine is never fine. Trust me, I’m an expert.”

“That’ll be a hundred and fifty dollars,” I say, but she doesn’t laugh.

And then she gets that look of hers—that overwhelming optimism pouring out like a light so bright it makes you want to squint. “Let’s go do something. Anything, you name it. Spa treatment? Fancy desserts?” She grabs my laundry basket and starts filling it with clothes from the floor. “Or maybe I’m not what you need right now. Want me to leave for a few hours so you can throw a kegger? I’m not even completely kidding.” She hoists the basket on her hip. “I really think I’d prefer a healthy dose of rebellion to the look on your face right now.”

I crawl out of bed and take the laundry from her. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mom, but I don’t think I could draw much of a crowd.” I set the basket on my dresser, my back to her.

After a moment, I feel Mom’s chin on my shoulder. I glance down at the floor. She’s popped up on her tiptoes to reach. Sometime during my colossal ninth-grade growth spurt, my mother became my mini-me. I’m over three inches taller than her, and her skin is not as fair or freckly, but we have the same blue-gray eyes and brownish-reddish hair. Nothing on us is a clear-cut color. People tell us we could be twins, but I think Mom’s face is rounder, sweeter. She’s got this glow that makes people fall in love.

I soften, giving her my weight.

“I miss her too,” she says into my hair. It’s easy to forget I’m not the only one who’s lost her. “I think . . . How do I say this? Maybe it all got to be . . . too much. It’s a tough time of life to go through without a mom. Add the stress of college applications, moving to a new place, not to mention all those psycho teenager hormones.”