Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [69]
“Why don’t you call her yourself?” he says. “I know that she wants to get closer to you.” I realize that he’s trying to offer a remedy, but coupled with the weight of my anxiety over my lunch the next day, mostly, I want to throttle him.
“Because,” I spit out, and a sliver of broccoli flies out of my mouth, “I have bigger things to deal with than unleashing all of my various family issues and insecurities with your mother right now!”
“She might surprise you,” Jack says, completely unaware of my mounting panic. “She’s pretty good at stuff like this.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Jack!” I slam down my chopsticks, and one skips right off the table, like a cartwheel in gymnastics class. “I know that your mother is your personal shrink, but I’m not looking for her to be mine. I just don’t want to explain to her why I can’t go goddamn bridesmaid dress shopping tomorrow.”
His face clouds. “Suit yourself. Just trying to help,” he says, with no malice behind it.
He probably was, I think today, as I push myself up the subway stairs and head eastward toward the tea shop. He probably seriously thought that his mother could fix this, just like she fixes all of his shit. I snort out loud, unsure of whom to feel sorry for: me, Jack, or Vivian.
Soon, too soon, I’m in front of the quaint bakery that I chose on the phone—neutral ground, I remember thinking, as if the tea emporium were Switzerland and my mother and I were lords of war.
The scent of baked butter floats through the air, and classical music that I can’t quite place but that I should know because I played every goddamn famous composer for Katie when she was a baby, lilts in the background. The brunch crowd has descended, so while I’d envisioned recognizing my mother in an instant, I find myself scanning the tables, my stomach nearly rising up through my throat, partially hoping that she didn’t show, partially hoping that she wouldn’t let me down yet again.
My eyes are darting from table to table, booth to booth, when I see a hand wave toward the back. I turn toward it, and there she is. I’d know her anywhere, even though it’s been two decades and even though I’d convinced myself that I’d bleached her from my memory. Her black hair spills over her shoulders, her skin is unlined and lightly tanned, and her face, though tight from the unavoidable tension of the situation, seems calmer than I remember, as if she’s softened over the years.
My first instinct upon seeing her is to flee. My foot rotates and I can feel my legs spinning around, propelling my body in any direction other than toward my mother, but I clamp down. No. We’ve done that before. We know how that version ends. Besides, remember Katie.
So I push out my breath, swallow deeply, and forge my way through.
“Jillian,” my mother says, her voice welling, as she rises to greet me.
We flank each other, each unsure what to do. I extend my right hand, but she pulls me in for a nearly claustrophobic hug. I inhale and search for soil, for the scent that for so long reminded me of her, but there are no notes that smell familiar.
“I took the liberty of ordering some tea and sandwiches,” my mom says once we sit. She pauses, as awkward as I am. “You look beautiful. And thank you for calling.”
I nod and avert her eyes.
“I have a lot to explain.”
I nod again but say nothing. Mostly, I am trying not to cry.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know where to begin, really. It’s a lot of years . . . there’s so much . . . I just . . .” She stops and composes herself. “I should start by apologizing. What I did then . . . well, I see now, for reasons I’ll explain, what that must have done to you and your brother.”
“Thank you,” I offer quietly, just as a tear spills down from my left eye. I want to be bitter, angry, furious, but I’m also tired of carrying around the weight of that rage, and now, seeing her, in this moment, nervous as a cowering mouse, and terrified and repentant,