both in bed, lying on our backs, with the TV off, Dolores asks, “How was your Mother’s Day?”
When I just shrug, she pushes herself up on her elbows and gives me a look that does something funny to those knots in my stomach—I can’t decipher whether they uncoil or grow tighter.
“You still don’t want to talk about it?” Dolores asks.
“It’s Mother’s Day, Dolores.” When I bought the flowers for my mother I wondered whether I should get a bouquet for Dolores as well, but I concluded it would be too weird. Now I regret not having given her something.
“So?” She shifts onto her side, supporting her head on an upturned palm. When she exhales, her breath tickles my cheek.
“It’s hard to say things about my mother to someone who is also a mother. It seems so disrespectful.”
“Like it’s a you versus us-mothers situation? I’m not naive, Sophie. And I don’t even know your mother, though she did send me a friend request on Facebook a couple of days ago.”
“Please don’t accept it.” At the thought of the string of grief-stricken messages my mother has posted since Ian’s death, trying to garner empty, social media sympathy, a cold shiver runs down my spine.
“I won’t if you don’t want me to.” Dolores puts her free hand on my shoulder.
“I know it’s not… conventional for you and my parents to not be better acquainted, but I’ve always wanted to keep Ian’s family separate from mine.”
“Good thing I’m not big on conventions then.” Dolores smiles and pats my shoulder.
Her touch has a relaxing effect on me. “It’s just so hard sometimes to dislike someone you’re meant to love without question. Or maybe dislike is the wrong word.” This is beginning to feel like a conversation Ian and I used to have. One of those talks where he just let me go on and on, get it all off my chest after festering for too long, and just listened patiently. His dark glance calmed me, his hand often on my shoulder the way Dolores’ is now.
Dolores nods thoughtfully.
“My mother likes to pretend we have a close relationship, while I think we don’t have that much of a relationship at all. She was never there. When Tyler and I were growing up, she always had something better to do than spend time with us. Her company always seemed so much more important than anything we ever did. Then, when she was fifty, she had this big moment of enlightenment, after she crashed from too much stress and work and not treating her body right. Her body shut down and we were meant to feel very sorry for her, and I did, a little, but it wasn’t suddenly going to change our relationship. As far as I’m concerned, she’s still the same woman who left the house before I woke up in the morning and came home long after I’d gone to bed at night. I barely know her. And now she acts all hurt about us not being close, while she was the one who was always absent.”
“What did Ian say when you told him about this?” Dolores’ question surprises me.
“I didn’t so much tell him as take him to my parents’ house a few times, after which he got the picture.” I don’t tell Dolores that it took me years to fully disclose the relationship with my parents to Ian because I didn’t want to be the brat with two parents who whined to her boyfriend about them when he’d just lost his own mother. “Though, of course, the topic came up after every visit. Every birthday or anniversary party we were invited to, or rather, meant to attend. I always gave him the option to stay home. They’re my family, after all. But he always came with me, which made it a lot easier for me.”
Dolores’ fingers dig a little deeper into my flesh. I’m interpreting it as her way of saying she understands too. “I’ve seen you change over the years. You’ve become so much more comfortable in your skin. You’ve blossomed.”
I chuckle. “That’s only because when Ian first introduced us you intimidated the hell out of
When I just shrug, she pushes herself up on her elbows and gives me a look that does something funny to those knots in my stomach—I can’t decipher whether they uncoil or grow tighter.
“You still don’t want to talk about it?” Dolores asks.
“It’s Mother’s Day, Dolores.” When I bought the flowers for my mother I wondered whether I should get a bouquet for Dolores as well, but I concluded it would be too weird. Now I regret not having given her something.
“So?” She shifts onto her side, supporting her head on an upturned palm. When she exhales, her breath tickles my cheek.
“It’s hard to say things about my mother to someone who is also a mother. It seems so disrespectful.”
“Like it’s a you versus us-mothers situation? I’m not naive, Sophie. And I don’t even know your mother, though she did send me a friend request on Facebook a couple of days ago.”
“Please don’t accept it.” At the thought of the string of grief-stricken messages my mother has posted since Ian’s death, trying to garner empty, social media sympathy, a cold shiver runs down my spine.
“I won’t if you don’t want me to.” Dolores puts her free hand on my shoulder.
“I know it’s not… conventional for you and my parents to not be better acquainted, but I’ve always wanted to keep Ian’s family separate from mine.”
“Good thing I’m not big on conventions then.” Dolores smiles and pats my shoulder.
Her touch has a relaxing effect on me. “It’s just so hard sometimes to dislike someone you’re meant to love without question. Or maybe dislike is the wrong word.” This is beginning to feel like a conversation Ian and I used to have. One of those talks where he just let me go on and on, get it all off my chest after festering for too long, and just listened patiently. His dark glance calmed me, his hand often on my shoulder the way Dolores’ is now.
Dolores nods thoughtfully.
“My mother likes to pretend we have a close relationship, while I think we don’t have that much of a relationship at all. She was never there. When Tyler and I were growing up, she always had something better to do than spend time with us. Her company always seemed so much more important than anything we ever did. Then, when she was fifty, she had this big moment of enlightenment, after she crashed from too much stress and work and not treating her body right. Her body shut down and we were meant to feel very sorry for her, and I did, a little, but it wasn’t suddenly going to change our relationship. As far as I’m concerned, she’s still the same woman who left the house before I woke up in the morning and came home long after I’d gone to bed at night. I barely know her. And now she acts all hurt about us not being close, while she was the one who was always absent.”
“What did Ian say when you told him about this?” Dolores’ question surprises me.
“I didn’t so much tell him as take him to my parents’ house a few times, after which he got the picture.” I don’t tell Dolores that it took me years to fully disclose the relationship with my parents to Ian because I didn’t want to be the brat with two parents who whined to her boyfriend about them when he’d just lost his own mother. “Though, of course, the topic came up after every visit. Every birthday or anniversary party we were invited to, or rather, meant to attend. I always gave him the option to stay home. They’re my family, after all. But he always came with me, which made it a lot easier for me.”
Dolores’ fingers dig a little deeper into my flesh. I’m interpreting it as her way of saying she understands too. “I’ve seen you change over the years. You’ve become so much more comfortable in your skin. You’ve blossomed.”
I chuckle. “That’s only because when Ian first introduced us you intimidated the hell out of
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