for a long time, but she knew better than to take an elevator in an old building.
Once upstairs, she took a deep breath and knocked on her mother’s door. For a moment, she thought no one was home, and an odd mix of disappointment and relief swept through her. Then the door opened.
Her mother stared at her in shock. “Oh, my Lord,” she muttered, putting a hand to her heart.
Carole squared her shoulders, trying not to feel shocked as well. But it was difficult. She hadn’t seen her mom in more than a decade, and time had taken its toll. The woman standing before her was a shell of her former vibrant self. Her hair was still red, but it was streaked with gray, and while her mother had always been skinny, a product of her cigarette-smoking habit, she was now so thin her cheeks were hollow and the shadows under her eyes were very pronounced. She was only sixty-three years old, but she looked at least ten years older. Probably the alcohol, Carole thought cynically. The last time she’d seen her mother, Nora had been falling-down drunk.
“Hello, Mom,” she said, finally finding her voice.
“I can’t say I ever expected to see you here, Carly," Nora said, shaking her head in bemusement.
“I never expected to be here.”
“Is something wrong – your children–”
“No, she said, cutting her off. “My kids are fine, and so is my husband.”
“Then…”
“It’s my birthday.”
“I know what day it is. I was there when you were born. I would have sent a card, but after the last few came back, I figured it was pointless. You’ve made it pretty clear that you don’t want anything to do with me.” A bright pain filled Nora’s eyes.
“Can you blame me? The last time I invited you to a birthday party, my thirtieth, you showed up drunk. You insulted Blake. You called my daughter by the wrong name and made her cry, and you humiliated me.” The words flew out of her mouth, fueled by some of the whiskey she’d drunk in the limo.
“And you’ve waited ten years to tell me that?” her mother asked wearily. She stepped away from the door and walked back into the apartment.
Carole followed her inside, closing the door behind her.
As she glanced around the small living room, she was struck by how much it looked like the home she’d grown up in. The coffee table was the same one she’d colored on. During one of her craft periods, her aunt had crocheted the afghan that hung over the back of the couch. And the pictures on the table were all from her childhood. Some were school pictures, others taken with kids in the neighborhood, a few of her mom and aunt with some of their friends. They were all from another lifetime.
She moved across the room and picked up the photo of the scene that had flashed through her mind only hours earlier. It had been taken on her eighth birthday, the candles blazing, just before Alex had shoved Peter into her cake. She put down the photo and turned around.
Her mother sat on the couch and reached for her cigarettes.
“I’d rather you didn’t smoke,” Carole said quickly. “I can barely breathe in here as it is.”
Her mother reluctantly set down the pack. “Why don’t you say your piece and then you can go.”
She wanted to do exactly that, but now that she was here, she couldn’t find the words.
“You look pretty, Carly,” her mother said, a sad, wistful note in her voice. “That’s a beautiful dress. And you’re so tan. Have you been on vacation?”
“It's a spray tan.”
“Well, you look good. Were you at a party?”
She nodded. “My party.”
“It’s over early.”
“It’s not over; I left.”
“Why?” Nora tilted her head, giving her a questioning look. The familiar gesture reminded her of all the times her mother had tried to figure her out. But as close as they’d been, they’d also been very different.
She sat down on the edge of a chair and clasped her hands together. “I’m forty.”
“It’s hard to believe,” her mother
Once upstairs, she took a deep breath and knocked on her mother’s door. For a moment, she thought no one was home, and an odd mix of disappointment and relief swept through her. Then the door opened.
Her mother stared at her in shock. “Oh, my Lord,” she muttered, putting a hand to her heart.
Carole squared her shoulders, trying not to feel shocked as well. But it was difficult. She hadn’t seen her mom in more than a decade, and time had taken its toll. The woman standing before her was a shell of her former vibrant self. Her hair was still red, but it was streaked with gray, and while her mother had always been skinny, a product of her cigarette-smoking habit, she was now so thin her cheeks were hollow and the shadows under her eyes were very pronounced. She was only sixty-three years old, but she looked at least ten years older. Probably the alcohol, Carole thought cynically. The last time she’d seen her mother, Nora had been falling-down drunk.
“Hello, Mom,” she said, finally finding her voice.
“I can’t say I ever expected to see you here, Carly," Nora said, shaking her head in bemusement.
“I never expected to be here.”
“Is something wrong – your children–”
“No, she said, cutting her off. “My kids are fine, and so is my husband.”
“Then…”
“It’s my birthday.”
“I know what day it is. I was there when you were born. I would have sent a card, but after the last few came back, I figured it was pointless. You’ve made it pretty clear that you don’t want anything to do with me.” A bright pain filled Nora’s eyes.
“Can you blame me? The last time I invited you to a birthday party, my thirtieth, you showed up drunk. You insulted Blake. You called my daughter by the wrong name and made her cry, and you humiliated me.” The words flew out of her mouth, fueled by some of the whiskey she’d drunk in the limo.
“And you’ve waited ten years to tell me that?” her mother asked wearily. She stepped away from the door and walked back into the apartment.
Carole followed her inside, closing the door behind her.
As she glanced around the small living room, she was struck by how much it looked like the home she’d grown up in. The coffee table was the same one she’d colored on. During one of her craft periods, her aunt had crocheted the afghan that hung over the back of the couch. And the pictures on the table were all from her childhood. Some were school pictures, others taken with kids in the neighborhood, a few of her mom and aunt with some of their friends. They were all from another lifetime.
She moved across the room and picked up the photo of the scene that had flashed through her mind only hours earlier. It had been taken on her eighth birthday, the candles blazing, just before Alex had shoved Peter into her cake. She put down the photo and turned around.
Her mother sat on the couch and reached for her cigarettes.
“I’d rather you didn’t smoke,” Carole said quickly. “I can barely breathe in here as it is.”
Her mother reluctantly set down the pack. “Why don’t you say your piece and then you can go.”
She wanted to do exactly that, but now that she was here, she couldn’t find the words.
“You look pretty, Carly,” her mother said, a sad, wistful note in her voice. “That’s a beautiful dress. And you’re so tan. Have you been on vacation?”
“It's a spray tan.”
“Well, you look good. Were you at a party?”
She nodded. “My party.”
“It’s over early.”
“It’s not over; I left.”
“Why?” Nora tilted her head, giving her a questioning look. The familiar gesture reminded her of all the times her mother had tried to figure her out. But as close as they’d been, they’d also been very different.
She sat down on the edge of a chair and clasped her hands together. “I’m forty.”
“It’s hard to believe,” her mother
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