I watched her walk off, knowing she wasn't being honest with me.
After basketball practice, I arrived home to find my mother at the kitchen table writing down a list of what we needed―which was practically everything from the looks of it.
"Hi," she greeted. "I think I have some ideas for meals. Is there anything you don't like?”
"I'm pretty open to trying anything... except for meatballs," I told her with an inadvertent shiver. "But you don't have to do anything crazy. Besides, I usually come home late because of basketball."
"We'll pick out some easy things. How's that?" she offered, scanning her list again. "That way you can throw something together for yourself if you come home late or if I have to stay at work."
The thought of preparing anything beyond a sandwich was intimidating. "What?" she questioned anxiously, when she saw my scrunched face.
"Um, I'm not exactly adept in the kitchen," I confessed sheepishly.
"You can't cook?" she clarified in shock.
"Does oatmeal count?" I shrugged in embarrassment.
My mother laughed. "Well... I guess we'll be shopping in the frozen food section, too."
We got in her car and drove to the grocery store in the next town over. She spent the ride reviewing the list and asking for my input. I'd never really had a say before, so I didn't contribute much. When I lived with Carol and George, I would write the basics of what I needed on the grocery list―cereal, granola bars, and the like―since I wasn't allowed to eat it unless I'd asked for it. But for the most part, I ate what was put in front of me, no questions asked―even when it made me violently ill.
We ultimately decided to make up the list as we went along. Which was pretty much our approach to everything―including our relationship.
"You know I'm not exactly very good at this mother thing, right?" my mother said, picking through a pile of apples and putting a few that met her approval in a produce bag.
I didn't know how to respond. It was the start of a conversation I never expected to have in a grocery store.
"I mean, I don't want you to think that I'm expecting to walk back into your life and take charge or anything," she continued, her voice laced with apprehension. "I just want... I think it would be nice if we were... friends. You know, instead of..." She looked at me with her lips pressed together. "I just want to get to know you. Does that make sense?"
My shoulders eased in relief. I had no idea where the conversation was headed, but this was a welcome surprise. I wasn't exactly sure how to be her daughter any more than I expected her to be my mother.
"Yes," I agreed with a smile. "I'd like that."
"So, would you be okay with calling me Rachel then?" she asked cautiously. "Mom feels a little weird to be honest."
I let out an uncomfortable laugh, slightly surprised by the request. "I can try."
She smiled softly and released her nervousness with a quick breath. "Great. Now, what do you eat for lunch?"
I continued behind her, pushing the grocery cart around as she held up items and waited for me to nod or shake my head before placing them in the cart or putting them back. By the time we were done, there was more food in the cart than two people could eat in a month. Thankfully, a good portion of it was frozen.
"Do you want to learn how to cook?" my mother asked as she set the items on the belt. "I could teach you."
I smiled warmly at her offer. "Uh, sure," I replied, not having the heart to tell her that Evan had already made several attempts to teach me, and each had ended disastrously. She seemed eager to be able to do something with me―I would at least try.
"So, how long have you and Evan been together?" she asked after we had loaded the groceries in the car and were driving home.
"Officially," I calculated, "about ten months."
"What does officially mean?"
"Well," I fumbled, not sure how to explain how we felt for each other from pretty much day one, and how due to misunderstandings and hurt feelings, it had taken forever before we finally ended up together. "I guess I don't know how to answer that. Let's just say we started dating last March."
"Okay," she accepted with a confused nod. "He seems really nice."
"Yes," I agreed. My face glowed. "He is."
"I'm still looking," she said with a sigh. "I'll never find anyone like Derek again."
My heart faltered. I knew we had agreed to be friends, but she was still my mother. And having her talk so casually about finding the next best thing to my dead father knocked me back a bit.
"Do you want to help me with dinner tonight?"
"Huh?" I stumbled, still trying to get over her comment.
"Want to start your cooking lessons?" she clarified.
"Can I take a pass on tonight?" I begged. "I think I want to wait a bit before revealing how terrible I am.”
She laughed. "You can't be that bad."
"You have no idea," I grumbled, making her laugh again.
"Okay. Maybe another night."
I sat in the kitchen with her while she explained what she was doing as she filled the pork chops with stuffing. I just nodded like I was paying attention, knowing it was useless. I could figure out the most complex math equations, or understand the internal workings of the nervous system, but to ask me to baste or julienne anything caused anxiety beyond explanation.
My mother set the plates down on the table I’d set for two, the one thing I could do.
"Thank you," I said, sitting down with a glass of water.
"Sure," she responded, sitting across from me.
When I looked up from my plate to praise her for the meal, I found her watching me. It was like she was examining every inch of my face, so intently that it made me want to sink under the table.
"I forgot how much you look like him." Her eyes were glassy and distant―she was looking at me but not at the same time. I bowed my head to escape her sorrowful gaze.
"So, Sara seems like she's an amazing friend," my mother said, her voice suddenly back to normal. I glanced up as she pierced the cut pork chop with her fork.
"Uh, yeah," I responded, shaking off the haunted look in her eye. "She's my best friend."
"I have one of those," my mother smiled. "Sharon." She let out a laugh just thinking about her. "We've done everything together. She usually gets me into trouble, but I have the best stories because of her."
I nodded, trying to remember this woman that seemed to be such a huge part of her life―but came up blank. I realized there wasn't much about my mother that I knew, even from the twelve years she was technically in my life.
It wasn't the howling of the wind or the boards groaning that drew me from my bed that night. Yes, they were the reasons I was still awake, but I was brought to my feet by the clatter of metal crashing outside my door. I found my mother kneeling on the floor with her back to me, trying to stack the framed photographs that were scattered across the hallway.
As I got closer, I could hear her mumbling to herself, clumsily setting one frame on top of the other. When I bent down to help her pick them up, I realized that she was crying.
"Are you okay?" I asked tentatively.
"Huh?" her head shot up. “Oh, Emily, I'm sorry." She sniffled and wiped her red cheeks with her sleeve. "I woke you up."
She blinked heavily, and I sank to the floor with the realization... she was drunk. I spotted the bottle of vodka resting next to the top step and swallowed hard against the disappointment that rose in my throat.
"I was... I was just remembering," she stuttered. She was crouching, trying to balance the stack of frames, when she clumsily plopped down to sit.
"Fuck," she muttered, blowing a stray hair from her eye, her arm still wrapped around the frames as she reached for the bottle. It was just out of her reach, so she scooted over to grab it and repositioned herself so her feet rested on the top steps. She took a swig and ran her arm across her forehead, frustrated with the floating hairs that kept falling in her face. She looked like she'd just traveled through a tunnel of blankets.
I held the remaining frames that she couldn't quite manage and settled next to her. That's when I realized what they were―pictures of my father.
My mother shuffled through the stack that teetered on her lap and sent one slipping and sliding down the stairs. "Fuck."
Big, wet tears streamed down her face as she held a photo up. It was of her and my father sitting on a sailboat.
"I know you were looking for these," she blubbered, swiping the back of her hand across her nose. "I had to dig them out of the back of the closet. But I can't..."
She couldn't continue. Her eyes were smeared with mascara, bloodshot and half-open. Behind her inebriation was a sadness that was consuming her, and my heart ached at the sight of it.
"You remind me of him."
"I'm sorry," I whispered, not knowing how to comfort her.
"I forgot how much I missed him," she slurred, slouching against the banister. Another frame slid from her lap and crashed down the stairs.
"Fuck!" she screamed. In one sudden motion, she picked up her pile and threw the pictures down the stairs. I jumped at her outburst. Glass splintered along the staircase as the frames collided with each step.
"Why? Why? Why?" she bellowed in agony, crumbling to the floor. I remained paralyzed beside her, my back tense. I took in the destruction at the bottom of the stairs, and then the woman who was disintegrating before my eyes.
"It's okay," I whispered, my heart beating frantically. I doubted she could hear me.
She pushed herself up to sit and reached for the bottle to take another swig. She flopped back against the post, barely able to keep her eyes open. The bottle tilted in her hand as she attempted to rest it on the floor. I grabbed for it, setting it down next to me before it joined the carnage at the bottom of the stairs.
"Let me help you to bed," I offered softly. Releasing the stack of frames that I still gripped tightly and setting them on the floor, I slid closer to her so I could put her arm around my shoulder.
"Huh?" my mother groaned, unable to hold her head up.
"There you go," I encouraged, slowly getting her to her feet. "Easy." She wobbled under my support. I focused on the bedroom door and hoped we'd make it inside before she toppled over. I had a good five inches on her, but if she fell, we'd both go down.
I guided her to her bed, and she collapsed face first. She drew in heavy breaths with a slight snore as I pulled the blanket over her. Leaving her in her induced peace, I shut the door behind me.
I stood on the top step and surveyed the mess below, exhaling deeply and shaking my head. Picking up the bottle that had instigated this disaster, my jaw tightened. I blinked away the tears, not wanting to feel anything. With a weight in my chest, I drudged down the stairs and dumped the bottle’s contents down the kitchen sink. I blew out an exhausted sigh before slowly picking up the shattered pieces.
I wasn't exactly waiting for it, but I knew. I wasn't convinced after seeing her sober one night a year ago in front of my school that sobriety was going to take. She may not have had a drink that night, but it didn't mean she didn't every night after. I knew. I knew this was coming... I just hoped it wouldn't.