Chapter Seven
Mila
Friday morning, my mother enters the spare room twice while I’m teaching classes, despite the fact that I reminded her about them multiple times over breakfast.
“I’m sorry, I forgot,” she says when I come out of the room just before noon. She’s looking at an old photo album on the couch. “I’m used to being able to come and go in my house as I please. I didn’t realize my studio would be off-limits while you’re here.”
“It’s only off-limits while I’m teaching, Mom.”
“Well, how often is that going to be?”
“Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings from ten to twelve.”
“What about this Monday? That’s my surgery,” she says pointedly, like I might have forgotten.
“I canceled classes that day.”
“Oh.” She turns a page in the album. “I guess that’s fine.”
“What are you looking at?” I ask, moving closer.
“Photos of your ballet career. I put the album together after you left for school. It helped me deal with the loneliness.” She flips another page. “And then when you quit, it helped me cope.”
Swallowing the reply I want to make, I sit down next to her. “Can I look?”
“Sure.” She shifts the album so I can see too. Many of them are from the Youth America Grand Prix competition. “Remember this variation? From Sleeping Beauty?”
I smile at the pink platter tutu and sparkling tiara. “I do. That tiara weighed a ton.”
“I still have it.”
“You do?”
“Sure. It’s right there above the fireplace.”
I glance at the mantel, and sure enough, there’s the tiara, sitting between multiple photos of me from my ballet days.
“Ooh, look at this one from Swan Lake,” she says, pointing at a picture of me mid-fouetté, wearing black and gold. “Simply stunning.”
Turning the page, I point out a photo where I’m barefoot, wearing a simple emerald-green leotard, executing an attitude turn. “I loved that piece.”
My mother scoffs, but it’s gentle. “You always did like the contemporary. I preferred the classical.”
“I liked both, Mom.”
She sighs heavily. “It still breaks my heart, you know. I think about it all the time, how different it would have been if you’d gotten into Juilliard.”
“It wouldn’t have been any different,” I say gently. “I was burned out.”
“You would have found new inspiration there.” She shakes her head, like she won’t hear differently. “I’m sure of it.”
I close the album. “How about some lunch?”
That afternoon, I shop for items on the list the surgeon’s office provided: a raised toilet seat with handles, a shower chair, some grab bars. I bring everything into the house.
From her spot on the couch, my mother frowns at the growing collection of items on the living room floor. “I don’t want any of those things, Mila. They’re for old people.”
“They’re on the list.”
“Well, I won’t use them. And I don’t want to look at them.” With some difficulty, she rises from the couch, walks into her bedroom, and shuts the door.
I stand there for a moment, fighting the urge to hop on the first flight back to JFK.
I will not let her get to me, I tell myself as I do a few rounds of box breathing. I will remember that she is in pain. I will be understanding and empathetic. She is my mother. She gave me life.
But goddamn, she’s difficult.
After tucking the equipment I purchased into the hall closet, I clean out the bathroom drawers and cabinet. I check expiration dates, throw away old pills and products, and move a few things to a shelf so she won’t have to bend down to reach them.
Next, I focus on eliminating trip hazards. I move all the first-floor furniture aside, roll up the area rugs, and drag them into the basement. While I’m down there, I poke around in some of the storage boxes labeled with my name—things I packed up before moving out but didn’t take to New York.
That’s where I see them: the three framed drawings of orchids I gave to my mother last Christmas.
I lift one out and study it, my throat growing tight. Orchids are her favorite flowers, and I worked on these for months, desperately hoping she’d fall in love with them. Display them where she’d see them every day. Show them off.
Instead, that infernal tiara sits on the mantel, and these drawings are gathering dust in a cardboard box in the basement.
My gaze wanders over the painstakingly drawn blossoms and stems and leaves, down to the bottom corner where I signed my name. The lump in my throat thickens.
Swallowing it down, I replace the drawing in the box and tell myself it isn’t a big deal. Maybe she forgot they were down here. Maybe she doesn’t like them—art is subjective. Maybe it isn’t personal.
But it feels personal.
When I turn around, I spy a walker shoved into a corner next to the ironing board. Guessing the doctor or maybe even a neighbor provided it to practice with, I yank it free and haul it upstairs. I put it right where she’ll see it.
Boundaries are hard.
I’m better at small acts of rebellion.
Around six o’clock, my stomach begins to growl, so I start dinner. While the rice simmers, I sauté chicken breasts with more tomatoes from the garden and some garlic. My mother finally comes out of her room, entering the kitchen as she inhales deeply.
“Mmm. That smells good,” she says.
I smile. “Thank you.”
“It’s nice to have you home again. I appreciate you taking care of me.”
“Of course, Mom.” My heart warms with pleasure, and I feel a little guilty about the walker.
But the evening goes downhill from there.
She’s mad I removed all the area rugs. “Why did you get rid of the one under the coffee table? It makes that room work. Put it back.”
She claims she can’t find anything in the bathroom since I reorganized the cabinet. “Did you throw away my Vitamin C serum? I know there was some left, and it’s very pricey!”
And when she sees the walker, she pitches a fit. “What’s that doing up here? I put it out of sight for a reason, Mila. I don’t want to be reminded that I won’t even be able to walk on my own. It’s very insensitive of you to put that contraption right under my nose.”
By eight o’clock, the dishes are done, the kitchen is clean, and my empathy gauge is on E.
Originally, I’d planned to spend the evening working on sketches for Ivy & Stone—a homewares giant that tapped me to design textiles for a new collection—but if I have to spend another hour in this house, I’ll scream.
“Mom?” I call, coming down the stairs from my room. “I’m heading out for a bit. Okay to take your car?”
“Where are you going?” She looks over at me from the couch, where she’s watching a dating show for people over forty and making critical remarks about all the female contestants.
“Just into town.”
“Dressed like that?”
I look down at my white tee, denim cutoffs, and comfy sneakers. On my head sits a plain black baseball cap, my ponytail trailing through the opening in the back. “Yes. I’m comfortable.”
“Comfort is well and good, but you’re not doing your figure any favors with your wardrobe choices. Do you want to be single forever?”
“I won’t be late,” I say, moving through the living room before I lose my mind.
“But what if I need something?”
“Call me.”
“What if I have an emergency?”
“Call 911.” I snatch her car keys off the kitchen counter and leave through the back door, yanking it shut behind me.
Outside, I pause for breath.
One night down.
Forty-one to go.