“My hair was almost down to my waist. But I pulled it up in double scrunchies for practices and games. I color-coordinated the scrunchies to my blue-and-gold uniform. It was a short skirt and vest.”
It helps. But not enough.
My mother is watching me as carefully now as I was studying her only moment ago. “Want to see my routine?”
I know exactly what she’s doing. When I was a kid, I used to beg my mother to dance like J.Lo and the Fly Girls. She was as good as any of them, but the fluid, sexy moves juxtaposed with her waitress uniform or pajamas always made me double over in laughter.
She gets up now, in gray sweatpants and one of my old college T-shirts, and launches into her choreographed dance, high kicking and singing along with the Backstreet Boys.
It’s wonderful and ridiculous and magical. I can see her on the football field, shaking her shiny blue-and-gold poms, moving to the music in front of a cheering crowd.
My tears have completely dried up. I’m with the young and the old versions of my mother now, seeing them fit together like shells of a Russian nesting doll.
“You’re a terrible singer!” I yell.
She grins and sings louder. Then I notice it.
She doesn’t seem to be singing the exact lyrics to the song. Her words have the same tempo, but they’re different:
Are we original?
Are we the champions?
Are we the Panthers?
I see the knowledge hit her eyes a second later.
She swishes her imaginary pom-poms once more, then slides back into her seat, even though the song hasn’t quite ended.
“I’ve got to stretch before I ever do that again.” She laughs, but it sounds forced. “I probably pulled a hamstring.”
She’s avoiding my eyes.
“Mom.”
“Hey, do you have any laundry? I may throw in a load before bed.”
“No, I’m good. But I—”
My mother gasps. I look down to see bright red blood oozing out from her index finger. She’s holding the long, sharp knife. I hadn’t even noticed she was cutting herself another square.
“Crap!”
“Don’t move!” I leap up and run to the roll of paper towels, ripping off a few sheets. I’m back at her side a second later, pressing them into the wound.
“I need to look at it.”
She nods and averts her gaze while I briefly pull back the wad of paper towels.
“It’s not deep. You don’t need a stitch. Hang on, let me get Neosporin and a Band-Aid.”
I grab both from the bathroom medicine cabinet and hurry back to her side. Within a few minutes, the bleeding has stopped and her cut is cleaned and covered.
My mom gets up and begins to clear the table.
The Backstreet Boys song has ended.
The moment has passed.
But I’ve collected two new details about my mother’s past, and they’re enough to pull my mind away from the question that hit me like a hammer as I bandaged my mother’s finger: Did she actually cut herself to derail the conversation?
Here’s the detail she freely offered up: Her high school colors were blue and gold.
Here’s the one she didn’t intend for me to know: The mascot was a panther.
CHAPTER TEN
RUTH
I set my alarm for 5 a.m. since I’m the early bird who is opening Sam’s tomorrow. By the time the first customer comes through the door, I’ll have four pots of coffee brewed—three regular and one decaf—and settled on the warming burners while the cook fries bacon and preps pancake batter.
I’ll lose myself in the busyness of the morning.
The words reverberate through my mind: I’ll lose myself.
I push them away and take a long sip from the second bottle of Michelob I’ve brought with me into my bedroom.
I let my guard down for a moment tonight. I slipped. But knowing the name of my high school mascot doesn’t mean Catherine will come any closer to my family or old friends or James.
I could see it in her eyes, the moment she nabbed that flyaway detail and clutched it like a triumphant baseball outfielder.
She is voraciously hungry for more of my story.
I may have to dole out a few more details, but I need to be more careful than I’ve ever been before. I really don’t want to have to slice open another finger to divert her attention again.
I reach for the bottle of lotion on my nightstand and rub some into my forearm, my fingertips lightly brushing over the old, slightly shiny patch of scar tissue between my left wrist and elbow.
Just as I start to pull down my covers, there’s a knock on my door.
For a moment I consider jumping into bed and pretending to be asleep. But Catherine knows I don’t sleep much. It was one of the things I taught myself to do without as a single mom. Catherine knocks again and cracks the door. “Mom?”
“Come on in.”
“Didn’t you say you were going to do laundry tonight?”
“Oops. I forgot.”
Those last two words hang heavily between us for a moment.
“I wanted to talk to you about scheduling an MRI and a PET scan.”
MRIs can rule out things like brain tumors, and PET scans can help diagnose Alzheimer’s. Dr. Chen suggested I get both, but I figured Catherine and I were on the same page: We didn’t need more tests.
I take another sip of beer before I answer.
“What good would that do?”
“What if it is something else? Something that can be cured?”
I knew these conversations with Catherine would be the hardest things I’ve ever done.
“My blood tests were clean. I had a mammogram two months ago and a full checkup two weeks ago. Dr. Chen believes it’s Alzheimer’s. My family history is diagnosis enough.”
“But—”
You know how you can heat water slowly in a pan on the stove, or how there’s an instant hot tap in some fancy kitchens?
My temper is of the instant hot variety.
“Do not push me, Catherine Sterling. Those scans will cost us thousands of dollars. Money we don’t have! You think I want to battle our insurance company like I did when you were hospitalized with mono, then have to work double shifts for months to pay off the bill? You think I want more doctors picking at me and telling me there’s nothing they can do?”
She’s retreating, backing toward the door.
Sometimes anger has its uses.
The thing is, I’m not really angry at Catherine right now. I’m filled with rage at myself.
Rotten genes are programming me. I inherited them from my mother and she from hers. Fury seems to be the legacy passed down to the women in our family.
“I’m sorry.” I exhale, long and slow. “It’s been a day.”
She nods. “Understatement.”
“Let’s give this a little time before we make any decisions, okay?”
Catherine hesitates, then nods again. “Good night, Mama.”
She hasn’t called me that in years. I’m glad she closes the door quickly because I can’t hold back my tears any longer.
Beer alone isn’t going to do it for me tonight. I put down my bottle and walk over to my dresser and pull out the top drawer. The bottle of Xanax with its bitter white pills is lodged in the back. I swallow one, grimacing at the aftertaste.