I lie beneath a willow tree on the bank of the canal, watching sunlight thread through twisted green branches. Mother dangles her feet at the water’s edge, swaying like a reed and so, so thin. Her hair is a cloud of platinum blonde, frayed from decades of ten-dollar dye jobs. Her shirt is loose and it barely skims her back except for where the sharp triangles of her shoulder blades jut out beneath the fabric like two shark fins. I want to wrap her in my arms but I know better than to touch her while she’s looking away.
Across the park another woman plays with her daughter, the child just old enough to run, her weight shifting clumsily from side to side with each step. She screams when she’s captured, laughs loudly as she’s scooped up. We were like that, once. I wish I had known how fleeting that joy would be. I might have guarded the memories more carefully.
My phone rings. When I read the name on the caller ID I smooth my hair back, even though I know he can’t see me.
“Hi Phillip,” I say.
“Hey, gorgeous. Are we still on for dinner tonight?”
“Tonight?” I ask, slowly remembering. My head falls back. “I’m sorry,” I groan. “You know what? We’ll reschedule.”
“I had a feeling,” he says. I can hear through the phone that he’s still smiling, but I know he isn’t happy.
“I should have called you, not the other way round,” I say. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I’m with Mother today, and you know how things can get. Sometimes it’s hard—”
“It’s hard to get away,” he interrupts, finishing my sentence. “I don’t know what to say, Miranda.”
“I’m sorry, Phillip,” I say again.
He isn’t smiling anymore, and the air between us is rife with words he’s holding back. I hope he can manage to keep holding back, but eventually he says, “Miranda, you’re too good a person and it’s killing you. You have a right to live your own life.”
I nod, even though I know he can’t see me. I’m not sure how else to respond. After a few seconds all I can think of is, “Bye, Phillip.”
“Bye, Miranda.”
*
By now Mother is strolling barefoot along the bank, headed back in my direction. “Sorry I had to take that,” I say as she sits down next to me.
“Oh I know you have your life. No use pretending there aren’t plenty of things more important than me.” She says it with exaggerated self-pity. Now I’m supposed to reassure her that in fact nothing in the world is more important to me than she is. I indulge her and she looks down bashfully.
“Yeah, sure,” she says, but when she looks up again her amber eyes seem brighter and I’m filled with a beautiful, rare optimism. She rubs my arm and hugs me for a long time. I close my eyes and for a second, I feel the way I did as a child.
*
Eventually we wander away from the park and end up on busy Mel Castor Boulevard where the shops stretch on for miles and the sidewalks are crowded with pedestrians. I think all the activity won’t be good for Mother and I try to coax her down a milder street, but she insists on Mel Castor and I wonder if she’s brought me here on purpose. It would be just like her to have a plan, and just like me to wander into it blindly.
“We could have lunch on the next street. I know a nice place,” I say.
She brushes off my suggestion.
“It’s pretty expensive though. Probably best for us to keep walking after all,” I say.
Now she pauses. “Let’s go there after,” she says. “First I want to do some shopping.”
“Do you have money?” I ask.
“Yes, of course,” she answers irritably. “You think your mother is some kind of pauper?”
I shake my head.
We stop at a popular boutique. It takes us a moment to attract the attention of a young salesgirl in a pastel green dress and an oxford-print cardigan. Mother says she’s looking for a particular necklace—the Jacqueline in rose gold. The salesgirl smiles and directs us to a display case from which she removes the necklace—a golden anchor strung on a delicate chain. I glance at the price and wonder how Mother can afford to spend four hundred dollars on a necklace. The salesgirl hands Mother a mirror and helps her clasp the necklace in the back.
“It looks amazing on you!” says the salesgirl.
“I look totally transformed,” Mother says, her smile so wide I can see her once prominent dimples, even in her sunken cheeks. “Don’t you love it, Miranda?” she asks.
I smile. “You look beautiful. But then that’s always the case.”
She dismisses the compliment, swatting at me with her free hand like a kitten after a feather. “You know,” she says, “my therapist and I were recently discussing the transformative power of objects—how when you need to change your life, it helps to have a physical token as a constant reminder of your goals.”
I think her therapist meant gratitude rocks, memory string, a fifteen-dollar charm bracelet. No one has to spend hundreds of dollars to remember her goals. I can see where this is heading, but I don’t say anything.
“I’ll take it!” Mother exclaims. The salesgirl rings up the necklace and places it in a burgundy jewelry box with two brass hinges on the back. Mother fumbles through her purse.
“Oh damn it!” she says. “I must have left my wallet at home.” She looks at me with sad eyes and says, “Will you get this, baby?”
“You know I can’t afford it, Mother,” I say quietly. It’s true. I have a steady job and good credit, but I don’t earn much. Mother doesn’t understand.
“I sacrificed everything for you,” she says tensely. “And for what? You don’t even care about me!” She isn’t screaming, but her voice is sharp. Though I’m used to these sorts of escalations, this has been unusually rapid, even for her. The salesgirl’s cheeks have reddened. Her mouth is slightly agape, her lips pursed in a surprised little ‘o.’
“Miranda!” Mother snaps.
I take a deep breath and consider sending her home, but then I think back to the moment by the canal only an hour earlier. She had been in such good spirits. This could still be a great day. And so I hand my credit card to the salesgirl and pay four hundred dollars to keep that possibility alive. I’m rewarded with a gambler’s rush.
It’s mid-afternoon and the sun is shining brightly. We leave the store, first Mother, then me. “Now how about lunch?” she asks.
*
I take her to an Italian restaurant we frequented when I was a teenager. I’m no longer in a position to splurge, but I am feeling nostalgic.
“Mario’s Pizzeria isn’t expensive,” she says as we walk in.
“Did I say expensive? I just meant really nice.”
She nods and I’m grateful that she’s satisfied.
I haven’t been here in years. It’s different than I remember. When I was a teenager the walls were covered in drawings of large cheesy pizzas, with oversized cartoon renderings of broccoli flowers and tomatoes. Now the restaurant takes itself more seriously. The walls are painted an airy peach, punctuated by framed canvases depicting Tuscan landscapes. Mother doesn’t notice the changes. She’s holding up a compact mirror, admiring her necklace.
Mario is the one thing that hasn’t changed about this place. “Look who’s here!” he exclaims, making a beeline for our table. Mother doesn’t notice until he’s just behind her. He claps his hands to her shoulders and I see her whole body turn rigid. “Two of my favorite girls, back for old times sake!” he says in his thick Italian accent.
Mother relaxes a little when she recognizes him but I can see that some light inside her has been extinguished by the unexpected contact. Mario doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. He second-guesses his hands, still on Mother’s shoulders, wondering if he’s got the wrong woman. He frowns as he tries to discern her beneath the layers of wrinkles and suffering she’s accumulated over the years. Sometimes I worry all that remains of her are those bottomless amber eyes.
“Mother and I are happy to be back,” I say. I smile reassuringly. Mother looks down at her fork.
The last time we were here, she was only just beginning to change. I was sixteen and I thought she was doing it on purpose. I know better now. If I could, I would be her interpreter. I would ready the world for her fits. I’d make sure people knew how to handle her: delicately, like a butterfly in their palm. But in the end I’m just her daughter.
The pizza comes and I devour half of mine in the first five minutes before I realize Mother hasn’t touched hers. “What’s wrong?” I ask carefully. “Is there a problem with your pizza?”
“Only if you consider poison problematic,” she says.
“Why do you think your pizza is poisoned?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice steady, non-judgmental.
“Did you see the way Mario looked at me?” she says in a loud whisper, leaning across the table, her eyes darting around the restaurant.
“I thought he looked like he was happy to see you, Mother.”
“Happy to see me? Yeah, sure,” she snorts. Her arms are crossed and she hugs herself anxiously.
“Would you like to eat from my plate?”
“Would I like to eat from your plate?” she repeats. “No, I don’t want your leftovers!”
I nod. After a moment I say, as gently as I can, “Were you able to take your medication today before we left home?”
“Oh, that’s rich!” she says, raising her voice very suddenly. Other patrons turn to stare. “Now I’m just crazy! You know I have instincts about these things. How do you think I stayed alive this long?”
“You’re not crazy, Mother. But you need to take your medicine. If you didn’t have time this morning, I can give you some right now.”
She jumps to her feet.
“Please sit down,” I say.
“Don’t tell me what to do! I’m the mother, you’re the child!” she yells, swiping her pizza off the table. The plate cracks. Mother starts to cry and storms out of the shop. I put a fifty on the table to cover the food, the plate, and my embarrassment. I wave my apologies to Mario, who stands dumbfounded in the kitchen doorway. I rush past the other patrons, their faces alternately judgmental and pitying.
*
I find Mother on the street corner, heaving with sobs. I move towards her slowly, and she allows me to put my arm around her shoulders. I walk her home. We arrive just after sunset. She sits on her bed while I check her into the center and tell the nurse about our day. Then I get a text message from Phillip.
“Leslie was at Mario’s today. Told me what happened.”
I don’t respond.
“Why do you put yourself through this?”
When I come back to Mother’s room I find her sleeping. I tuck her in and kiss her forehead like she’s done for me a thousand times before. When I turn to leave she catches my hand. “Stay a while,” she whispers. I take off my shoes and lie down beside her. She strokes my hair and for a second, I feel the way I did as a child. In that moment I know, with strikingly beautiful clarity, exactly why I put myself through this.
–Art by Barbara Florczyk
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