“Except for our middle names,” I interject. “Mine’s Topper, after my sainted uncle.”
I want to add a lot more to that statement, but not in front of George. Lucky Mom. Little blisters of rage bubble up all over my body.
My mom gives me this uncertain look. “Yes, well . . . It’s so good to see you, Sophie. I’ve missed you.”
Right. Sure you have. I focus on a spot somewhere over her head.
She adds, “Can I speak with you? Alone?”
I’m about to refuse her when George steps in again. “Of course you can! I’ll go ahead and get out of your way. Sophie here was just saying how much she wanted a cup of joe.”
I ball my hands into fists. I hadn’t said any such thing, and the interfering geezer knows it.
My mother takes a tentative step in the direction of the cafeteria. George rolls his chair close to me and gives me an encouraging smile, but his voice is iron rebar. “Go on, now. It’s just coffee, kid.”
He knows my mother walked out on us. I’ve told him that much. I can’t believe how pushy he’s being. “George—”
“You’re in control here. Be nice.”
It would be easy to pretend I don’t know what he means. But George isn’t the type to let me off the hook. I throw another glance at my mother. She’s staring at us. It’s painful to see her so vulnerable, filled with such open hope and wanting. I could walk away. I already did it once at the café. Again, George’s presence stops me. He believes in me. Believes I’m better than everyone in town’s made me out to be. Damn it.
“Fine,” I bite off. I stalk past him and smack the elevator button. My mother follows me when the doors open. Before they close, George mouths Be nice and I almost flip him off.
“The canteen’s on the first floor,” I toss into the awkward silence.
“I know,” she answers.
Thank God for elevator music. I’d have to slit my wrists if there wasn’t something to study besides her. On the first floor, she trails after me, and it strikes me how different this is. When I was little, she charged everywhere, blazing a trail I couldn’t keep up with.
We order our cappuccinos and I realize I left my purse in George’s room. It kills me that she buys my $1.50 cup of crappy coffee. I don’t want to owe her anything. I grab a table by the window, and she sits across from me. Outside, it’s started to rain.
“Thanks for coming,” she says.
“Thank George,” I answer, and I can see the words cut her.
She gathers herself and tries to smile. It’s a dismal failure. “Edward said you were angry.”
I hate that she says his name. In my head, “Edward” stole her. But when she says his name, there is tenderness. It feels . . . apart from me and the life we had. Like there is more to her than I remembered or imagined.
“He mentioned you saw me before in the lobby. I wish you’d said something.”
I sip my coffee and it scalds my tongue.
“Are you not going to talk to me?”
I sigh. “What do you want me to say? Do you want me to forgive you for walking away?”
Bingo. That’s exactly what she wants. I can see it in her eyes.
“Fine. You’re forgiven.”
Abandoning my coffee, I rise to leave. She reaches for me and I flinch. She’s left with her hand hanging in midair.
“Please, Sophie. Don’t go.”
I pause. I sink back into my seat, slouching with my hands in my sweatshirt pockets. I feel manipulated and pissed off and so freaking hurt I can’t breathe. Against my will, I begin to cry. “You have no right to come here. I’ve done okay without you.”
“I didn’t,” she says, her voice breaking. “I didn’t do well at all.”
“Didn’t you?” I ask with venom. “You had no problem leaving me at Grandma’s. You walked away like I was crap you couldn’t get off your shoes fast enough.”
“No! It wasn’t like that at all.”
“What was it like, then?” My raised voice draws eyes to our table, but for once, I don’t care. Let them look.
My mother tucks her hair behind her ear in a gesture I don’t remember. Her hair was too short to do that when I knew her. She must have a thousand habits I don’t know about. Her choice, not mine.
“It’s complicated,” she says.
I laugh. “Seriously? That’s what you’re going with?” I strike a fist on the table and she jumps. “Thank goodness you explained yourself. I feel so much better now.”
She folds her hands and stares at them.
“That’s all you have to say?” I ask incredulously. “I’m not eleven anymore, in case you haven’t noticed.”
She takes a deep breath. “You’re right, of course. I don’t know where to start.”
I plant both elbows on the table. “How about you begin with how you could leave me behind?”
I’ve thought about this for so long. Obsessed over it. Fantasized about reasons important enough to make her give me up. In my imaginings her reason always came down to life or death. If not for something so huge, she would never have considered leaving me. That’s what I told myself anyway.
Perhaps some of my heartbreak seeps through the cracks in my voice because she reaches for me again. This time I let her hand rest on my arm.
“It wasn’t about you, Sophie. I had to leave for myself. I was dying in that house, always waiting for your father to return. It was me or him, and I chose me.”
I want to add a lot more to that statement, but not in front of George. Lucky Mom. Little blisters of rage bubble up all over my body.
My mom gives me this uncertain look. “Yes, well . . . It’s so good to see you, Sophie. I’ve missed you.”
Right. Sure you have. I focus on a spot somewhere over her head.
She adds, “Can I speak with you? Alone?”
I’m about to refuse her when George steps in again. “Of course you can! I’ll go ahead and get out of your way. Sophie here was just saying how much she wanted a cup of joe.”
I ball my hands into fists. I hadn’t said any such thing, and the interfering geezer knows it.
My mother takes a tentative step in the direction of the cafeteria. George rolls his chair close to me and gives me an encouraging smile, but his voice is iron rebar. “Go on, now. It’s just coffee, kid.”
He knows my mother walked out on us. I’ve told him that much. I can’t believe how pushy he’s being. “George—”
“You’re in control here. Be nice.”
It would be easy to pretend I don’t know what he means. But George isn’t the type to let me off the hook. I throw another glance at my mother. She’s staring at us. It’s painful to see her so vulnerable, filled with such open hope and wanting. I could walk away. I already did it once at the café. Again, George’s presence stops me. He believes in me. Believes I’m better than everyone in town’s made me out to be. Damn it.
“Fine,” I bite off. I stalk past him and smack the elevator button. My mother follows me when the doors open. Before they close, George mouths Be nice and I almost flip him off.
“The canteen’s on the first floor,” I toss into the awkward silence.
“I know,” she answers.
Thank God for elevator music. I’d have to slit my wrists if there wasn’t something to study besides her. On the first floor, she trails after me, and it strikes me how different this is. When I was little, she charged everywhere, blazing a trail I couldn’t keep up with.
We order our cappuccinos and I realize I left my purse in George’s room. It kills me that she buys my $1.50 cup of crappy coffee. I don’t want to owe her anything. I grab a table by the window, and she sits across from me. Outside, it’s started to rain.
“Thanks for coming,” she says.
“Thank George,” I answer, and I can see the words cut her.
She gathers herself and tries to smile. It’s a dismal failure. “Edward said you were angry.”
I hate that she says his name. In my head, “Edward” stole her. But when she says his name, there is tenderness. It feels . . . apart from me and the life we had. Like there is more to her than I remembered or imagined.
“He mentioned you saw me before in the lobby. I wish you’d said something.”
I sip my coffee and it scalds my tongue.
“Are you not going to talk to me?”
I sigh. “What do you want me to say? Do you want me to forgive you for walking away?”
Bingo. That’s exactly what she wants. I can see it in her eyes.
“Fine. You’re forgiven.”
Abandoning my coffee, I rise to leave. She reaches for me and I flinch. She’s left with her hand hanging in midair.
“Please, Sophie. Don’t go.”
I pause. I sink back into my seat, slouching with my hands in my sweatshirt pockets. I feel manipulated and pissed off and so freaking hurt I can’t breathe. Against my will, I begin to cry. “You have no right to come here. I’ve done okay without you.”
“I didn’t,” she says, her voice breaking. “I didn’t do well at all.”
“Didn’t you?” I ask with venom. “You had no problem leaving me at Grandma’s. You walked away like I was crap you couldn’t get off your shoes fast enough.”
“No! It wasn’t like that at all.”
“What was it like, then?” My raised voice draws eyes to our table, but for once, I don’t care. Let them look.
My mother tucks her hair behind her ear in a gesture I don’t remember. Her hair was too short to do that when I knew her. She must have a thousand habits I don’t know about. Her choice, not mine.
“It’s complicated,” she says.
I laugh. “Seriously? That’s what you’re going with?” I strike a fist on the table and she jumps. “Thank goodness you explained yourself. I feel so much better now.”
She folds her hands and stares at them.
“That’s all you have to say?” I ask incredulously. “I’m not eleven anymore, in case you haven’t noticed.”
She takes a deep breath. “You’re right, of course. I don’t know where to start.”
I plant both elbows on the table. “How about you begin with how you could leave me behind?”
I’ve thought about this for so long. Obsessed over it. Fantasized about reasons important enough to make her give me up. In my imaginings her reason always came down to life or death. If not for something so huge, she would never have considered leaving me. That’s what I told myself anyway.
Perhaps some of my heartbreak seeps through the cracks in my voice because she reaches for me again. This time I let her hand rest on my arm.
“It wasn’t about you, Sophie. I had to leave for myself. I was dying in that house, always waiting for your father to return. It was me or him, and I chose me.”
