Mothered (2)

“Grace?” her mother squawked in her ear. After barely talking once a month for decades, Jackie had been calling every other day for weeks; her life had been upended—first by her husband Robert’s mysterious illness and death, and then by her own health scare. Now she was waiting for an answer to a simple question: What’s wrong?

It wasn’t just the loss of her job; it was the loss of her livelihood. Grace had just found out, and she should be talking—crying, freaking out—with Miguel, not her mother. She spun the chair in a circle. The dizziness felt better than her regret for answering the phone.

“Barbara’s not reopening the salon,” Grace said. “She decided to retire.” After two months of chaos and confusion (and lies), Barbara had seen the writing on the wall: this wasn’t going to end well, and no one wanted to risk their life for a haircut. And now Grace couldn’t keep saying—to Jackie or herself—that she’d be back at work soon. She knew what was coming next.

“Oh dear. I’m sorry. Well . . . have you thought anymore about my coming to live with you?”

Were the lies to blame for the predicament Grace now found herself in? She’d said no, swiftly, to this same question two times over the last six days. It was still true that she didn’t want Jackie to move in with her. But what she wanted was becoming less relevant as the reality of the situation nibbled away at her bank account.

If her mother moved in, Grace would lose her home office but save her house.

Buying a house, even a small one in an uninspiring neighborhood, was expensive. She’d lived in a cramped apartment and saved for a down payment for years. The world wasn’t supposed to grind to a halt six weeks after she’d signed the mortgage. The original “two-week” lockdown hadn’t been so bad: she’d been able to pack and move without taking time off from work. She was ready for the pandemic to be over now, but the authorities weren’t even guessing anymore. Two weeks, two months, two years—who the fuck knew?

“Grace.” Her mother sounded gentler now. “I know it’s not what you really want. I know you’ve been on your own for a long time. I also know how proud you are to finally be a homeowner”—did she overemphasize finally?—“and I know you don’t want to lose your house.”

All true things.

“Mom . . .” Now what? Offer her mother the unfinished basement? Perhaps she could sleep in a coffin like a vampire.

It was just too weird to picture the two of them cohabitating again. They hadn’t lived under the same roof since Grace was eighteen—half a lifetime ago. Jackie moved to Fort Myers and found a husband (two, technically) while Grace stayed in Pittsburgh to attend beauty school and become a hairstylist.

“I appreciate that you want to help me—”

“Most of Robert’s things went to his kids,” Jackie said, eagerly butting in, “but he left me enough. And with my Social Security—I’m not affected by all of this the same way you are. I can pay half of everything. And if you’re ever short—the mortgage will always get paid. But it’s not just that. They’re telling me I can leave the hospital soon . . . but they won’t let me go home if I’m alone.”

Her voice turned squeaky and desperate. Was she about to cry? For the first time Jackie needed her, but Grace wasn’t sure she was ready to be needed.

Of course having a roommate would provide more financial stability in uncertain times. But if Grace had really wanted a roommate, she would’ve asked Miguel. She rolled her wheelie chair to the nearest window. There was a postage-stamp yard in the front and a mailing label yard (ha ha) in the back.

“Isn’t there, like, a senior place there? Some sort of senior community or assisted living?”

“I don’t need assisted living—I’m getting my strength back. I’ll be good as new soon.” She spoke quickly, preempting Grace’s ability to jump in and argue. Just as Grace hadn’t understood the precise nature of Robert’s illness, she didn’t exactly understand her mother’s. Not the virus was the only explanation she ever got. “Believe me, you’ll never have to wipe my ass—I don’t want that any more than you do. If it got to that point, I’d check myself into a nursing home.”

Grace didn’t think it worked that way, but she was glad for her mother’s blessing to seek other arrangements if necessary.

“We’d have to establish boundaries,” Grace heard herself say. Her alter egos reared up in protest, Stop! Don’t you realize what’s about to happen? Without explicitly saying it, Grace had opened the door.

“Of course, I understand it’s your house.” Jackie sounded relieved now, and excited. As a child Grace had known her mother to have one mood—cranky. Grace wasn’t sure she was prepared for this more mercurial, less predictable phase of Jackie’s life. “This will be good for us—it’s been a long time, and we’re both adults now.”

Grace wasn’t sure how to take that. She always heard rebukes in her mother’s words, and in the silent spaces too. Could Jackie possibly be implying that the problems they’d had while Grace was growing up were due to her age? Some inexcusable lack of maturity that ignored the reality of her having been an honest-to-god child? Jackie had always hated being a mother, at least that’s how Grace remembered it.