Mom lives in a two-bed house without another house for half a mile around it. It’s built with old planks, planks that haven’t been painted in a long time; beaten at by dust and wind. The windows are cloudy, and the front door is bare of paint, with only chipped pieces here and there. It’s the kind of house you’d expect to see in an old Western eighties film: the house of an old spinster.
When I pull into the driveway, the sun is setting, and I see the face of an old woman peering out from the front window.
Mom. How long has it been? A year?
Perhaps the worst part about that is that we didn’t part over anything serious. We had an argument, a fairly typical argument, and Mom threw a dish, and I screamed at her, “Don’t be such a bitch just because Dad left!” And Mom shoved me in the chest, and I fell back and slammed into the wall. She growled at me that I was a mistake, and I growled back that she’s an old haggard bitch who nobody wants. I wanted to call, and I’m sure she did, too, but neither of us did and a year whooshed by.
I climb out of the car, and Mom opens the front door. She’s wearing a bathrobe tied tightly around her thin hips. Her hair is gray-red, and her face is like mine, only with more wrinkles and sharper features. She’s thin, like me, but her thinness has turned to jaggedness over the years. Her knuckles poke out of her skin as she grips the edge of the doorframe. Her eyes are the only things untouched by her age. They are bright red-brown, just like mine. She leans out of the front door, showing bare leg, looking at me with an expression I have no clue how to read.
I walk right up to the step with my bag slung over my shoulder.
We stare at each other for perhaps a minute, the slow-setting sun throwing orange rays over the top of the house into my face.
Then her face crumples in upon itself. “Eden!” she cries.
“Mom,” I say, stepping up on the front step.
She takes one step forward, and then another. It’s like she’s falling on her feet, not walking. When she’s within touching distance, she drops the rest of the way. I catch her and prop her up, holding her close to me. Tears stream down her wrinkled cheeks, and she lets out a series of moans, crying into my chest. I stroke her hair, holding her.
When the crying is done, she looks up into my face. “Shall we go inside?” she says. “I’ll fix some tea and some sandwiches. You should’ve called!” She steps back, and suddenly she’s the mother I remember from childhood. A housewife, sure, but a no-nonsense housewife, a housewife with teeth. “Come on!” she snaps.
I’m herded into the house, and the door is closed behind me.
***
We sit in the front room, both clasping mugs of steaming coffee. The shabby front of the house is deceiving; the inside of the house is immaculate. Not a single particle of dust rests on anything. The front room is like a staging area: two armchairs and a couch, the cushions fluffed up, clean; a bookshelf with a neatly-arranged series of romance novels, historical novels, and non-fiction on various topics; and a small TV in the corner, with a VHS—a VHS! On the walls hang photographs of Mom and me but none of Dad. Can’t blame her. He did leave, after all.
“So,” she says. “What have you been up to?”
Where do I start?
I launch into the past year, starting with my dissertation and ending with Maddox. But I leave out the part where a psychotic ex-girlfriend accused him of rape, and just tell her that I’ve met a man, a biker, and I think I’m falling for him. Even that’s an understatement because I’ve already fallen for him.
Mom sips her tea, and then lays it on the coffee table, which sits between the chairs, the couch, and the TV. She takes a neat stack of coasters and places the mug on top of one of them. “A boyfriend?” she muses. “A boyfriend,” she repeats. “I thought you lot didn’t go in for all that boyfriend stuff? I remember you saying to me you never wanted a boyfriend, ever.”
“I was nine, Mom,” I sigh. “People say all sorts of stuff when they’re nine.”
“I suppose so,” Mom says. “But a biker? A tattooed biker? I thought your type would be more of the fedora-wearing, scarf-wearing sort? You know, the sort of man you see sitting in a coffee shop working on a novel, which he’s never going to finish because the only reason he’s sitting there is so he can be seen writing a novel?”
I roll my eyes. “I forgot how witty you were, Mother,” I mutter.
“I’m sorry,” Mom says. “I’m glad, really. There’s nothing wrong with having a strong man. But make sure—” She flinches, and I know she’s thinking about Dad. “Make sure he’s in it for real, Eden. Make sure he’s in all the way before you put yourself in all the way, or one day you’ll find out he’s fallen out of love with you, and he’s on his way to Malta.”
I reach across the table and place my hand on Mom’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I say. “About Dad, about the argument, about everything.”
Mom shakes her head and waves a hand at me. “That’s okay,” she says. “No need to say sorry to me. I just get on with it.”
“Still.” I rub her shoulder. “If it means anything, I am sorry.”
She murmurs: “Thank you.” She reaches up and squeezes my hand. I’m shocked all over again by how knobby her hands are. “I was just angry, dear. He left me. That’s all. He left me when he said he was going to be with me forever. And he’s in Malta and—” She lets go of my hand and smiles bravely at me. I can see the pain beneath the smile, but I know she doesn’t want me to. She’s pulled down a mask. And so I smile back.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “You can stay as long as you want.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “That means a lot.”
She smiles again, and without thinking about it, I lean across and kiss her wrinkled cheek. When I lean back, she touches her cheek as though in shock.
“Anyway,” I say, making my voice high-pitched to lighten the mood. “Where’s your boyfriend, Mother? I think it’s time we found you some hunky man to keep you busy. You must go crazy sitting around here all day.”
“Oh, no,” Mom muttered. “I don’t need much, you know. Not me—I can survive on very little.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing, and we sit for a while in silence.