Chapter 8 #3
“I’ve got homemade mac and cheese, pulled pork and potato salad,” she calls over her shoulder while I take a seat at the tiny round table in the corner of her kitchen.
Her apartment is small, but it’s neat and tidy.
A bit dated. I always feel like I’m stepping back into the nineties when I visit.
The blue and white ruffled curtains over the windows remind me of the ones my grandparents had at their house when I was growing up, and that little white goose with the blue ribbon around its neck is plastered on nearly every decorative item in here.
The dishes she pulls out of the cabinet with a blue floral pattern are part of an old Corelle set that she found at a thrift store years ago.
I brought up Sasha’s apartment in one of my therapy sessions.
For some reason, it kept nagging at me that she decorates her apartment like she’s living twenty or thirty years in the past. Because I was there, and it was a shitty time.
We certainly didn’t have cute little geese on our countertops when I was a kid.
My therapist helped me understand that my mother might be trying to get back those years she lost to booze and drugs, in her own way.
Might even be trying to emulate my grandparents’ house at the time, because no matter what kind of shit she put them through, they were always waiting with open arms when she needed it.
They didn’t put up with her shit and they kept firm boundaries with her, but they never cut ties and left her to her own devices like so many loved ones of addicts are forced to do.
There were a lot of times over the years when I wished that they would, but as an adult with a bit more perspective now, I can respect the decisions that they made where Sasha was concerned, even if I didn’t always understand them at the time.
“We had our annual spring picnic at work yesterday,” she explains, pulling one container out of the microwave and popping another in.
“I ended up making half the food there because nobody else wanted to. It was my first time making pulled pork, but I think it turned out okay.” She prattles on about the food and her work, overly chatty to compensate for my lack of conversation skills.
When she finally sets a plate in front of me, piled high with food, I don’t waste any time before digging in.
“It’s good,” I tell her through a mouthful. “Really good.”
She looks pleased as she busies herself with fixing her own plate. “So, what brings you to Portland on a Saturday? Aren’t Saturdays usually your busiest day at work?”
“They are, but Sean and I had a meeting with the Chamber of Commerce about some competition they’re running for new businesses. I’ve been cutting back on my appointments since I don’t have much time left in Boston anyway. Planning on being fully moved into my new apartment in two weeks.”
Sasha doesn’t respond, just finishes heating up her leftovers and takes the seat across from me. I watch as she picks at her food, pushing it around her plate and taking the smallest of bites. I wait for her to be ready to say whatever is on her mind.
We eat in silence for another minute or two before she finally speaks up. “So you’re really going to be living in Port Myles? That’s what, thirty minutes or so away?”
“Yup.”
She nods, looking down into her plate of food.
Then, “Do you think maybe we could get together a bit more often? Nothing crazy,” she hurries to explain.
“I was thinking once a month or so? Maybe we can get together for dinner, if you’d like.
Not that I wouldn’t like to see you more, I just figured –”
“Once a month is good,” I cut in. “You know, to start, or whatever.”
“Okay.” She smiles, and it’s a small, tentative one, like she’s afraid she’ll scare me off if she acts too happy to be spending time with me. To be fair, that probably would have sent me running a few years ago.
But it’s time to start rebuilding the bridges that were burned.
The foundation is there – it just needs some manual labor and more time.
I knew that moving back to Maine meant finally letting my mother back in, really letting her back in, in a way that opens me up to potentially being hurt and disappointed again.
I’ve kept her at arms’ length for long enough, though.
“Second Thursday of the month work for you?” I ask, picking a day at random. I need something concrete to hold me to this new plan of ours.
“Thursdays are my meeting nights,” she reminds me, and fuck, I feel like an asshole for forgetting about the weekly meetings she credits to keeping her sobriety on track for so many years. She seems unfazed, though. “How about the second Wednesday instead?”
“Works for me. It would be a bit late, though. I think our shop hours will be until seven.”
“That’s perfect,” she says, beaming at me this time. “Should we do dinner here, or would you like to meet somewhere? Or go to your place?”
“Here is fine.” I don’t think I’m ready to have her in Port Myles. Not yet, anyway.
“It’s a date.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my arm, then digs into her food and picks back up chatting about work and her book club and whatever else comes to mind. She’s content just to have me here, eating at her table, even if I don’t offer much by way of conversation.
Our relationship will never be perfect. I don’t know if I’ll ever call her Mom again, or if she’ll ever be able to answer the door without me scanning her for the telltale signs that she’s using again.
But I’m here, and I’m trying. And for now, I think that’s got to be enough.