Chapter Three
Olivia
It takes up an entire day when I visit my mom, a day that could be spent in the library working on my dissertation. A day lost. She lives an hour outside of LA, which makes no sense to me. When I got a scholarship to attend UCLA’s PhD program, Mom insisted on moving from the east coast to the west coast along with me, but she refused to live in the city. She tried to get me to move in with her, but that wasn’t happening.
I fiddle with the radio, trying not to think about how much work I have to do, and trying not to feel the valuable time slipping through my fingers. These regular visits to Mom are the cost of doing business. If I miss one, she gets worried, more worried than usual. She’ll text and call constantly, distracting me from my studies. It’s better to show up once a week so she can see for herself that I’m alive and well than to deal with the bombardment of texts.
I have to admit, it also makes me feel better. Mom is so paranoid, she often neglects simple things like grocery shopping or housecleaning. She’s always been that way, but it’s gotten much worse since we moved to California. That’s why I didn’t put up much of a fight when she wanted to move out here. She needs my help. I need to be close.
The two bedroom house she rents is nestled on a quiet road that’s shrouded by old trees. When I pull up, I see her furtively checking out of the window to see who’s here. I’ve asked her many times before what she’s afraid of, and she never has a good answer. My theory is that she has an anxiety disorder, or PTSD triggered by my father’s sudden death when I was three years old.
Mom greets me at the door. She looks visibly relieved to see me breathing.
“Hey, M,” Mom says, hugging me warmly.
She’s been calling me ‘M’ again since we changed coasts. It’s an old childhood nickname that she hasn’t used for years. The story of how I got it is that as a kid, I loved M&M’s, and for a while it’s all I would eat. It seems strange to me now, since I don’t much care for the candies, and don’t recall a time when I did.
I kiss her lightly on the forehead and walk into the kitchen where I set the bags of groceries on the counter. Mom leans against the cabinets, scrutinizing every inch of me.
“How are you?” she asks.
“Fine,” I say absentmindedly as I unpack the groceries.
Mom squints at me. That response isn’t enough for her. It never is.
“You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?” she asks.
“Of course. You know I would.”
Mom watches as I stack cans of green beans into her cabinet. Her stare starts to make me nervous, so I decide to turn the conversation to her.
“How’s it going with the new counselor?” I ask.
Mom crosses her arms over her chest. “Him? I don’t like him. He asks too many questions.”
I scoff. “That’s kind of his job.”
Mom shakes her head, stubbornly. I walk over and gently lay my hand on her arm.
“If you open up to him, it might make you feel better,” I say.
Mom looks at me. Her eyes are slightly moist. When I look at her, it’s like looking into a mirror. We share the same dark, almost black hair that lies thick and straight down to our shoulders, the same deep brown eyes, though mine are rounder than hers, and the same button nose. She’s giving me that look again, like she has something to tell me, but can’t bring herself to say it. She forces it away with a smile.
“Would you like some tea?” she asks.
“I’d love some.”
We sit in her sunny breakfast nook sipping green tea. Now that her fears about my wellbeing are somewhat relieved, we can talk about other things. She asks me about school and work. We gossip about the people we know back home. I fill her in on everyone who’s getting married or expecting new babies, but I don’t tell her I learn that stuff from Facebook. She hates social media, and insists I stay off of it. I tell her I’m still in touch with old friends from high school and they keep me in the loop.
I ask her about her job as a receptionist at a veterinary office. She scrunches her nose. Everyone she works with is a suspicious person. They watch her. They ask her, gasp, questions about her life! As I listen to her talk, I wish more than ever that she’d open up to her counselor. It won’t be long before she fires him, and it could take months of convincing to get her to find a new one.
After what feels like a sufficient amount of time, I stand up from my chair.
“I have to go,” I say. I gather our tea cups and carry them to the sink.
“Going straight home?” Mom asks, hopefully.
“I have a shift at the campus gym.”
Mom’s shoulders tense so hard I can almost feel it.
“I wish you wouldn’t work at night.”
I shrug. “I don’t have any say over the schedule. And I have to work to keep my scholarship.”
That’s not entirely true. My friend, Erin, is my shift supervisor. She’d give me whatever hours I wanted. But I don’t tell Mom that. I’ve learned long ago not to let her anxiety dictate how I run my life. I don’t like lying either, but at least I feel a sense of control.
We say goodbye at the door. Mom takes my hand.
“Remember our signal,” she reminds me.
I nod. Of course I remember the signal. Mom came up with it when I was a teenager, and reminds me of it every time I see her. If I’m ever in trouble, and for some reason, can’t say anything, I’m to squeeze her hand three times. I bring her hand up to my mouth and kiss it.
“Everything’s okay,” I say. I wish she would believe me.