Chapter 87
My cab pulls up to the curb and Mom’s car is out front.
I rush inside, dragging my suitcase behind me, and head down the hallway toward her bedroom, ready to surprise her, to make good on that elusive promise of a road trip to Seward.
I’ve already got my bag packed, why not.
Let’s pitch a tent, catch a fish, stay up until three in the morning swapping memories while sharing a sleeve of Nutter Butters, swearing with each cookie that “this is our last one” while secretly knowing we’re gonna polish off the whole sleeve.
Her bedroom door is cracked so I push it open all the way. Mom’s lying in her bed. And so is Tony, going down on her with his blackened tobacco tongue.
“Ohmygod,” Mom says, pushing Tony off her and pulling up the covers.
“Jesus Christ, ever heard of knocking?” Tony asks.
“God, sorry,” I say. “Sorry…”
“Honey, hi,” Mom says, brushing her hair off her sweaty cheeks. “I, um…I…”
“Hi, Tony,” I say plainly.
“Hi, Wanda,” he says plainly.
“Look, sweetheart, I, um…Tony and I worked through our…differences and—”
I want the rage to boil in me. To make me throw her jewelry tray at the wall and interrogate her.
Ask how long she’s been lying to me. To herself.
Ask when she stopped going to SLAA. Or if she’s still going, Jekyll and Hyde-ing it.
I want to scream. Or cry. But instead I just stare at her as an immaculate wave washes over me.
A wave of recognition. Of peace. Of freedom.
The peace and freedom that can only come from lowering your expectations of someone.
From letting go of that person you wanted them to be, needed them to be, and in the letting go of that version, letting go, too, of all the resentments that came from them not being that version.
I don’t say a word as I head out, shutting the door softly behind me.