“Aimee, what a pleasant surprise,” Sally says, smiling brightly as she opens the door, but looking a little guilty all the same.
“Jake called you, didn’t he?” I ask, knowing how bad Sal is at keeping secrets.
“He just said that you might be stopping by,” she assures me. Although the look she gives me says she’s guessed that Jake and I probably aren’t on best of terms at the moment.
“I know it’s late,” I start, only now realizing that it’s a little dark out to be arriving unannounced at someone’s door. But the Summers household wasn’t just “someone’s” door—they were family.
“Nonsense.” Sally waves away my concern. “Have you eaten? I can heat up some leftovers if you’re hungry?” she asks, already making her way towards the kitchen as I follow behind. As usual, she’s making it her mission to feed me up. There’s comfort in routine, in knowing exactly what to expect.
“No thanks, Sal, I’m fine,” I assure her.
I can tell she’s dubious, but she doesn’t challenge me. Instead she nods towards the decking outside. “Bea’s out there,” she explains softly. “I was about to go get her ready for her bath when Jake called.”
The idea of Sally, who had been and I suppose still is my mother’s best friend, bathing the tiny frame like she would a child, makes me feel so sad it’s almost hard to breathe.
“You’re amazing Sal,” I tell her, not for the first time. “I won’t be long. I don’t want to keep you up,” I add, stepping out onto the deck.
“Take your time.” Sally waves in my direction as she heads out of the kitchen to give us some privacy. “I know she’ll be pleased to see you,” she says softly. There’s no judgment in her words—just an assessment of the situation. Nothing more than that.
I take a deep breath as my feet hit the wooden deck. My mother is in the swing seat that Jake and I used to pretend was a boat when we were little kids. She doesn’t make any move to show that she’s heard me or that she’s even aware of me. So I sit down slowly, careful not to disturb the gentle rhythm of the swing.
The air is starting to cool as night falls. We’re heading towards Fall and I’m grateful for the change in the weather. The heat has become less overwhelming in recent days. It helps with the panic attacks. The warmer it is, the more claustrophobic I tend to feel and the more anxious I get. It’s amazing how much good the occasional cool breeze can do.
We sit in silence, swinging on the seat, and eventually I take my mother’s hands clasped in her lap and hold onto her. The simple touch seems to awaken her from whatever it was that she has been dreaming about. Perhaps she had been dreaming, or maybe just remembering. I was never sure if she was sifting through memories of the past or just imagining a different present for herself. A present that included my father.
“Hi momma,” I say softly as our eyes meet.
“Aimee,” she breathes out contentedly and, with that one word, I feel like a terrible daughter all over again for not coming to visit her more often.
“How you doing?” I ask, smiling and squeezing her hand gently.
I’m not really expecting any kind of response from her, bearing in mind the last time I’d seen her, a conversation didn’t seem like something that we could hope to aspire to just yet.
“Better,” she says as the silence stretches out between us. She breathes out the word, as if it took all her strength just to say it out loud.
I feel my heart hammering against my chest in excitement. Not only has my mother understood that I was talking to her, but she’s also been able to respond. I’m not sure if one question and one answer counts as a conversation, but it’s more than we’ve had for a while.
“Good momma, good,” I say softly. “That’s great.” I nod as we both go back to looking out at the horizon. Perhaps this was the trick of it—not expecting anything more than she was able to give. Taking every step as a positive move in the right direction, not being angry over what’s missing, not carrying around this anger with me all the time.
It’s restful, just to sit in the silence of the desert night with my mother, holding hands and each thinking our separate thoughts. The crippling loneliness that I’d associated with being around her doesn’t reach me—not tonight. Once I feel ready, I say what I came here for. I tell her the story of everything that’s happened since we were forced out of our home that night. I tell her about Jake and me, how we just keep getting closer and closer, tonight’s argument notwithstanding. I tell her about Big George giving me my job back at the diner and how good it is to know I have a friend like him. I tell her about the night of the explosion and the army truck and how it might be the best chance that Jake and I are going to get.
“But he thinks it’s too dangerous. That there’s too much at stake for me to make it my business to tell the Feds what they need to know,” I explain, struggling to keep my voice calm so that I don’t spook her. “I can’t just sit by and do nothing, especially when this may be the only real chance we have to get away from the Angels for good.” I sigh at the thought of how good it would feel to know they were behind us. To know that they couldn’t hurt anyone else.
“I keep thinking about what dad would do in my position. I know that he would do everything that he could that would make anything better,” I say. “I can’t give up yet, Mom.” I shift slightly in my seat to look at her. “I’ve been angry at you for so long, for giving up when dad left,” I admit, and I wonder if I’m only imagining the movement of her hand when I mention my father. “I still am.”
I search my mother’s face for some kind of signal that she’s listening to what I’m saying, or at least registering it in some way. But her expression remains blank. Regardless, I continue—now that I’ve opened the floodgates, there’s no stopping everything that I have to say to her from coming out.
“It’s been so hard doing all of this without you,” I tell her. “There has been so much that I’ve wanted to talk to you about, to share with you. But you weren’t here. Not really,” I say, motioning towards her semi-present state.
“I know that I should have come and visited you earlier. I know that I haven’t been the best daughter since all this started. But it’s been hard.” I feel the tears coming to my eyes as I come to terms with the reality of how much I’ve missed having my mother to help me. For all intents and purposes, I’ve been on my own—with a dead father and a mother that wasn’t much use to anyone. I feel guilty blaming her for the way that she’s had to cope with the passing of my dad. But at the same time, I can’t stop myself from feeling that way. I can’t just turn it off. “I’ve needed you in so many ways, for such a long time,” I tell her, my voice threatening to break. “But you weren’t here.” I trail off, not knowing what was left to say.
We sit in silence as the seconds stretch out into minutes and the minutes stretch out into the night. After a while, I become aware of a pressure on my hand and I look down to see that my mother is squeezing it. There’s no mistaking it. I look up into her face and she’s staring at me like she’s struggling to say something. Struggling to make herself heard or understood.
“Is there something you’re trying to tell me, momma?” I ask, searching her face.
“So… so… sorry,” she says eventually, straining to get the words out. She stutters, as if the formation of the words themselves are foreign to her. I notice that she sounds a little less cracked, as if she’s been speaking more recently, exercising her vocal chords. Her expression is stricken as she says the words, but in the space of a split-second her face goes back to the mask of confusion that’s been her standard countenance in recent years.
“It’s alright, mom,” I assure her, squeezing her hand in the same way she had mine. “It’s not your fault.” There’s no response, and she keeps looking out into the distance. But, as I have said the words, it’s as if a weight has been lifted from me. It’s been a light bulb moment. The realization—and I suppose the acceptance—that what happened to her wasn’t her fault. Rationally, it’s something that I’ve known for years. For as long as I’ve been able to understand what her illness meant. But understanding something rationally and absorbing it emotionally are two different things. Now, sitting on this swing chair together, is the first time that I’ve said the words out loud. It’s also the first time I’ve really felt as if they were true. As if I really mean them.
We sit like that for a little while longer, as I absorb and process what’s just happened. I feel closer to my mother than I have in a long time. I feel like things are at peace between us. We’ve both said what we needed to. It’s enough, for now.