Devanne, and Lacey do really cool things, too. They go on all these neat trips with their families—”
“We went to the Yukon this summer.”
“The Yukon! The
Klondike.
” She makes a big whoopee motion with her hands. “And guess what? Everybody thought I was a big fat geek.”
“You’re not fat.”
She ignores my feeble joke. “I want to be like the others, I want to go to neat places—”
“Maui is not that neat.”
“Maybe not to you, but it is to me. And it is to the people that go every Christmas with their families.”
“And what does one do in Maui, Eva, that’s so cool? Sit on a beach? Go swimming? Get a tan?”
“Yes. Sit on a beach, swim, play in the pool, get a tan, wear cute clothes. That sounds really fun to me.”
“I think it sounds dumb,” I mutter.
“Well, I think you’re dumb,” Eva flashes furiously.
“
That’s enough.
”
“It is enough. I’ve had enough.” Eva grabs the handle and flings open the car door. “You don’t look like a mom. Not like a real mom. Not like the moms here. And you don’t even try to act like a real mom—”
“Eva, you’re my daughter. That makes me a real mom.”
She jumps out of the truck and slams the door shut, but with the windows open I can hear her quite clearly when she yells at me. “Real moms don’t have motorcycles!”
“Real moms do,” I retort, leaning out the window, “and I don’t ride it around town anymore. I stopped riding it because you asked me to.”
Her cheeks burn red. “I asked you to sell it, not stop riding it.”
“Eva—”
“You just love to be different. You wear your hair too long, and you don’t even wear normal clothes, just jeans and boots and guys’ army jackets.” Her voice cracks. Tears fill her eyes. “I know you’re an artist, but this is Bellevue, Mom, not New York.”
I know. Oh, do I know. I barely survived growing up here, took off first chance I got, and if my mom hadn’t gotten sick, I wouldn’t have come back.
“That was unkind and unnecessary,” I say huskily, more deeply hurt than she knows. “You owe me an apology.”
She just shakes her head and knocks away tears with the back of her hand. “Do you know what I ask God every night? I ask about my father, and then I pray that God will make you more like everybody else.” And then without another word she stomps back to our house, which is less than a block away.
I would cry if I knew how to.
I haven’t cried in so many years that I think my tear ducts have forgotten how.
But Eva has hurt me in a way I didn’t know I could be hurt. I love her and fear for her. I lie awake at night worrying about her. My nearly every thought revolves around Eva and helping Eva, yet apparently it’s not enough.
I’m not enough. Not good enough. Not right.
I press two fingers against my eyes, try to block the picture of her storming out of my truck, turning on her heel, and marching away.
I try to stop her angry, hurtful words that are echoing in my head.
The problem when you’re a small family, when you’re a family of two, is that there is no one else to give space, distance, perspective. There is no one else to go to, to lean on, to reach for.
As a single mom, one becomes strangely adept at the concept of self-comforting.
I’m still sitting in my truck on the side of the road attempting to self-comfort when my cell phone rings.
I reach for the phone on my dash, and it’s Shey.
I haven’t talked to Shey in weeks, and her call couldn’t have come at a better time.
“Hey,” I greet her, my voice pitched low. “So you finally return my call.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately, knowing me so well.
Shey’s one of my two best friends, and she’s still in New York. I’ve missed her more than I imagined. Even though we didn’t see each other in New York more than every week or two, I always knew she was nearby and knew I could grab her for lunch if I really needed her. Now I wait for a phone call,
“We went to the Yukon this summer.”
“The Yukon! The
Klondike.
” She makes a big whoopee motion with her hands. “And guess what? Everybody thought I was a big fat geek.”
“You’re not fat.”
She ignores my feeble joke. “I want to be like the others, I want to go to neat places—”
“Maui is not that neat.”
“Maybe not to you, but it is to me. And it is to the people that go every Christmas with their families.”
“And what does one do in Maui, Eva, that’s so cool? Sit on a beach? Go swimming? Get a tan?”
“Yes. Sit on a beach, swim, play in the pool, get a tan, wear cute clothes. That sounds really fun to me.”
“I think it sounds dumb,” I mutter.
“Well, I think you’re dumb,” Eva flashes furiously.
“
That’s enough.
”
“It is enough. I’ve had enough.” Eva grabs the handle and flings open the car door. “You don’t look like a mom. Not like a real mom. Not like the moms here. And you don’t even try to act like a real mom—”
“Eva, you’re my daughter. That makes me a real mom.”
She jumps out of the truck and slams the door shut, but with the windows open I can hear her quite clearly when she yells at me. “Real moms don’t have motorcycles!”
“Real moms do,” I retort, leaning out the window, “and I don’t ride it around town anymore. I stopped riding it because you asked me to.”
Her cheeks burn red. “I asked you to sell it, not stop riding it.”
“Eva—”
“You just love to be different. You wear your hair too long, and you don’t even wear normal clothes, just jeans and boots and guys’ army jackets.” Her voice cracks. Tears fill her eyes. “I know you’re an artist, but this is Bellevue, Mom, not New York.”
I know. Oh, do I know. I barely survived growing up here, took off first chance I got, and if my mom hadn’t gotten sick, I wouldn’t have come back.
“That was unkind and unnecessary,” I say huskily, more deeply hurt than she knows. “You owe me an apology.”
She just shakes her head and knocks away tears with the back of her hand. “Do you know what I ask God every night? I ask about my father, and then I pray that God will make you more like everybody else.” And then without another word she stomps back to our house, which is less than a block away.
I would cry if I knew how to.
I haven’t cried in so many years that I think my tear ducts have forgotten how.
But Eva has hurt me in a way I didn’t know I could be hurt. I love her and fear for her. I lie awake at night worrying about her. My nearly every thought revolves around Eva and helping Eva, yet apparently it’s not enough.
I’m not enough. Not good enough. Not right.
I press two fingers against my eyes, try to block the picture of her storming out of my truck, turning on her heel, and marching away.
I try to stop her angry, hurtful words that are echoing in my head.
The problem when you’re a small family, when you’re a family of two, is that there is no one else to give space, distance, perspective. There is no one else to go to, to lean on, to reach for.
As a single mom, one becomes strangely adept at the concept of self-comforting.
I’m still sitting in my truck on the side of the road attempting to self-comfort when my cell phone rings.
I reach for the phone on my dash, and it’s Shey.
I haven’t talked to Shey in weeks, and her call couldn’t have come at a better time.
“Hey,” I greet her, my voice pitched low. “So you finally return my call.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately, knowing me so well.
Shey’s one of my two best friends, and she’s still in New York. I’ve missed her more than I imagined. Even though we didn’t see each other in New York more than every week or two, I always knew she was nearby and knew I could grab her for lunch if I really needed her. Now I wait for a phone call,
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