Lies You Never Told Me(44)

When I get home a few hours later, Mom is in the kitchen, smoking into the exhaust fan. When she sees me she puts out the cigarette and straightens up.

“Hi,” she says. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” I say. Then I look around and see that the island is set with plates and cutlery and serving ware. My eyes widen. “What’s . . . all this?”

“I thought we could eat dinner together.” She smiles shyly. “If you wanted to, I mean.”

I stare at the spread. She hasn’t cooked in about five years. I’m sort of impressed she still remembers how. It’s a simple meal—baked chicken breasts, steamed broccoli, Pillsbury biscuits—but it smells good. My stomach rumbles.

“Sure,” I say, putting down my backpack and swinging myself up into one of the barstools at the island. “It looks great. Thanks.”

She sits down across from me, and silently we start to load our plates. She still looks a little sickly; her skin is pasty-pale, her hands a little shaky. But she looks worlds better than she did last week.

“So. Uh, when is opening night for that play?” she asks, spreading butter over a biscuit.

I blink. “What play?”

She gives a nervous laugh. “Your play, dummy. You know, the one you’re in?”

Somehow I never imagined Mom coming to the performance. She hasn’t set foot in my school at all since freshman year, much less come to any plays or concerts. It’s hard to picture her in the auditorium, surrounded by the other parents. What will she wear? Will she fidget through the whole thing, all her nervous tics out on display?

Will she want to meet Aiden?

I’m taking too long to answer. Mom’s face falls. She sets down the biscuit and looks away. “I mean . . . if you want me to come.”

“Of course I want you to come,” I blurt out. “I just . . . I didn’t know you’d want to. It’s the Thursday before Thanksgiving.”

She gives me a slightly surprised look. “You’re the lead, Elyse. Of course I want to see it.”

It’s no use pointing out that until last week, she didn’t even know I was in a play. It’d just hurt her feelings. And while there are moments I want to yell at her, moments I want to hold her accountable for all the ways she’s hurt me, I also know from experience that there’s no faster way to send her spiraling back into despair.

And at least she’s trying.

“Okay. I’ll get you on the list.” I decide to let myself be excited. Finally, my mom’s going to see me in the spotlight.

We eat in silence a little longer. The chicken is a tiny bit dry, but the seasoning’s good. The broccoli is crisp and bright. It’s the best meal I’ve had in ages.

“Elyse?”

I look up. Mom’s biting the corner of her thumbnail, looking nervous. I hold my breath, waiting for some confession to come. Did she get more pills? Did she fall off the wagon? If so, we’ll have to find an NA meeting tonight. Which will mean, once again, no homework. Though that would be the least of my worries.

“I just wanted to say . . . to say thank you. For last week. For helping me. I know it’s been hard.” She rubs her face a little, and I can see how exhausted she is. “I know it’s been hard for a long time.”

I look down at my plate. “It’s okay, Mom.”

“No, it’s not. I know I can’t really make things up to you. And Jesus, I’m really dreading that ninth step.” She takes a deep breath and laughs nervously. We both know the Twelve Steps by heart by now; nine is making amends to people you’ve hurt. “Because you and I will have a lot of shit to talk about. But this time I . . . I’m going to do it. This time I’m going to be better.”

Usually, I try not to think too much about the past. The memories of my mother drifting in and out of consciousness, or selling my things when she needed cash, or disappearing for days at a time are painful. But even more painful are the happy memories. I usually stave those off. I have to, if I’m going to stay realistic, if I’m going to keep from false hope. But now for some reason they play across my mind, projected like a film reel. Mom taking me to the zoo when I was two or three, marveling at how many of the animals I could name from memory. Mom holding me in her lap at the movies. Mom making me bologna sandwiches with the gross plasticky edge of the meat peeled off. Mom lying in bed next to me, rubbing my back until I fell asleep.

I put down my fork and take her hand. It’s chilled, almost scaly-dry. I make a mental note to buy her some lotion next time I get paid—something that smells good, that feels like silk. Not to reward her—she doesn’t deserve a reward just for staying sober. But because that’s the sort of gift you give your mom, when you want her to know you love her.

“Remember the rules,” I say. “One day at a time, right?”

We both smile. We’ve both made fun of NA’s cheesy sayings over the years. But the fact of the matter is, there’s no other way for us to figure this relationship out. One day at a time. Because even though I want to hope and I want to believe in her, we both know how fragile the future can be.

“Okay,” she says. She squeezes my hand. “One day at a time.”





TWENTY-THREE


    Gabe