Chapter 8 #2
“Okay.” She looks skeptical, but I’m saved from further questioning when Sean joins us. I hadn’t noticed everyone else from the meeting filtering down the hallway around us.
“Everything good?” he asks, eyes bouncing between us.
“Of course,” Elsie answers quickly. “Just talking about opening day. I’ll see you guys around, I’ve got to get over to the shop to meet Matt. Bye!”
With one last glance my way, she takes off, hurrying out into the sunny afternoon. Sean and I both stare at the glass doors that slam closed behind her.
“What was that all about?” he finally asks.
“No clue,” I tell him honestly.
∞
I was half tempted to find an excuse to swing by the building, just to get eyes on Elsie again and make sure the contractor isn’t asking her out on any more dates.
But Sean already showed me the latest progress on a video call last night, and with him headed back to Portland for his afternoon appointments, it would have been obvious as fuck if I showed up on my own for no good reason.
I might be half-obsessed with Elsie already, but there’s no need for her to know that.
Instead, I hop on my bike and make the trek that’s starting to become more familiar.
After so many years of wanting to be anywhere on the planet other than my mother’s place in Portland, I find myself knocking on the wooden door with the peeling red paint more and more often.
She lives on the first floor of a two-story house that was converted into apartments, a place my grandfather helped her find about four or five years ago.
It’s only been a month or so since I was here last, which is damn near a miracle compared to the once or twice a year I’d been averaging for so long.
I’d texted her to let her know I was going to stop by.
I didn’t ask if she was home; I knew she would be.
She’s become the kind of person who thrives on stability and routine, and I know that she spends every Saturday afternoon at home, cleaning and watching Hallmark movies until it’s time for an early dinner and then church.
Fucking church. And Hallmark movies. The same woman who once left me home alone for forty-two hours when I was just six years old.
When she finally returned, strung out on god knows what and hanging off the arm of whatever guy she was dating at the time, she’d just looked at me and said, “Hi, baby,” as if she’d only stepped out for a few minutes to run to the store.
Which, for the record, is exactly what she told me she was doing.
There was no god around to help me then, but good for her for finding him, I guess.
The camera mounted outside her door must have alerted her to my arrival because she opens the door before I have a chance to knock.
Like every other time I see her, I find myself doing a quick once-over.
She’s been clean for nine years now, since I was twenty-two, and I know that at some point, I have to start giving her the benefit of the doubt.
But I see her so infrequently that it’s still a little jarring to be greeted by this version of my mother.
The one with clear skin and bright eyes, her black hair – the only obvious feature I inherited from her – clean and neatly styled so the waves rest on her shoulders.
She’s wearing faded jeans and a light pink T-shirt, with bare feet and toenails painted a bright red.
She looks good. Healthy. Not for the first time, I wonder why I couldn’t have had this version of her growing up.
But I know that line of thinking isn’t helpful to the progress that I’ve made, and she doesn’t deserve it after all the work she’s put in to get to this point.
I’ve made my peace with the past – or at least as much as I can – and even if I would have liked to have this mom as a kid, I’m still thankful that I get to have her now, as a thirty-one-year-old who’s still figuring his shit out.
“Declan!” She sounds shocked to see me, and I can’t decide if I should feel bad about it or not. Deja would tell me that I don’t have to feel anything. Whatever I feel is normal and okay.
“Hey, Sasha.” I’d stopped calling her Mom when I was thirteen, a couple years before I moved in with my grandparents and cut ties with her for good – or so I’d thought at the time.
Sure as hell didn’t think I’d be here all these years later, willingly stopping by on a Saturday afternoon just to visit.
My therapist has had her work cut out with me, and she’s done a damn good of job helping me sort through my shit.
We still have a ways to go – she likes to remind me that nobody is ever really done with therapy – but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little proud of where I’m at compared to where I started.
“Come in, come in.” Sasha ushers me inside and shuts the door, immediately locking it behind us. She lives in a decent neighborhood now, but old habits die hard.
“What a nice surprise,” she says, squeezing my arm. “Can I get you anything? I was just about to heat up some leftovers for lunch.”
My stomach responds for me, growling loudly. Sasha laughs and I follow her into the kitchen, where she immediately sets to work pulling containers out of the fridge and plates out of the cabinet.