Mothered (4)

“Gray?”

And speaking of emotionally abusive mothers . . . Maybe that wasn’t fair. More than anything, Grace was annoyed. It hadn’t occurred to her when she accepted her mother’s proposal that she’d hear that short form of her name—Gray—barked every ten minutes, each time beckoning her away from whatever she was doing. Do you have more hangers? Can you carry this down to the basement? Can you move the dresser over a few inches? Do you have a pair of scissors? Can you hang these pictures?

She closed out her apps and left the phone facedown on her desk—now in the corner of her own bedroom. Her plan had been for LuckyJamison, Malcolm, Blaine, Preston, Travis, Phoenix, and all the rest of her alter egos to be confined to her home office. Confinement, she believed, would help her become more disciplined, and she’d try to stop thumbing through messages as she brushed her teeth or watched TV or halfheartedly stirred a pot on the stove. She was still determined to cut down on the time she spent online; it would be healthier for all involved. A part of her recognized it was a questionable hobby.

With her mother’s invasion of the second bedroom, her new plan was that the desk would define the square footage where Grace could pursue her avocation. Perhaps Jackie’s presence would actually prove to be helpful: Grace muted her notifications when other people were around. She was embarrassed for anyone to witness the flurry of messaging that went on for hours every morning and evening. Not even Miguel knew about her secret hobby (though she’d admitted to catfishing someone once, eons ago). Maybe now, with the desk and a housemate, she’d finally cut down.

“Gray?”

“Coming!”

A long-lost image started to emerge—a distorted artifact that drifted up from deep waters, growing clearer as it neared the surface. For a moment Grace wasn’t sure if she was in the past or the present. Her mother had summoned her a lot, back in the day; Grace had forgotten about that during the years in which they’d lived apart. She saw herself now, a girl, running into the kitchen to fetch something for her mom—really, to fetch something for her sister. Hope needed a lot, and Grace had often been the go-between, the runner, doing all the small tasks so their mom could focus her efforts on other things.

No amount of dashing around or doing chores could alleviate the guilt Grace had carried (Guilt should have been her name) that she was able bodied and healthy, while her uber-bright twin had been severely disabled and frequently sick. Now, responding as an adult to her bellowed name, it didn’t make Grace feel as purposeful as it once had. She told herself that once her mother was unpacked and settled, she’d be less needy. Jackie had just arrived the day before; they hadn’t had time yet to develop any sort of routine.

To reach “Jackie’s” room all Grace had to do was open her door and take three strides. Between their two equal-size bedrooms was the tiny upstairs hallway and the bathroom. Her mother’s door was wide open. Grace leaned on the doorjamb, waiting for instructions.





3


“What’re you so grumpy about?” Jackie sat perched on the bed, smoothing out pieces of Bubble Wrap.

“What? I didn’t even say anything.” She stared at her mother, still struck by how much smaller she seemed. A result of the illness, Grace supposed. The mom from her childhood was forceful and energetic, not shrunken and bony like a winter tree.

“The way you’re standing. Arms crossed. The peevish look on your face.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. But Grace uncrossed her arms and tried to arrange a more pleasant expression. “Did you need something?”

“I’m done with the boxes, if you want to break them down and store them in the basement.”

“I’ll just put them out for recycling.” Grace started stacking the boxes.

“We might need them.”

“For what?” She didn’t bother reminding her mother that she, also, had only just moved—two and a half months prior—and had no intention of packing again for a couple of decades or more. Unless she lost her house (which wasn’t supposed to happen now). Unless . . . “Are you planning to move again?”

Was this a more temporary arrangement than Grace had realized?

Perhaps she shouldn’t have sounded so hopeful. Her mother shot her that old look—the angry, nearly insulted expression that would cloud her face when she was befuddled, as if Jackie’s confusion were the other person’s fault, an attempt to mess with her. “I just got here.”

Grace scolded herself with the kind of esteem-slaughtering invective that so damaged her damsels. Stupid stupid how could you be so stupid. She really hadn’t given much thought to what it would be like living with her mother again. They’d never communicated well, which hadn’t mattered when it was easy to hang up the phone.

Over the years, they’d only visited IRL for important events. Grace had attended both of her mother’s weddings and her first husband’s funeral. (She liked her mom’s second husband, Robert, better; he died during a nationwide stay-at-home order, so Grace hadn’t been able to go to his funeral.) It had been relatively easy for Grace to suppress any grudges or grievances and maintain an even-keeled demeanor for a few hours at a time. But now, after only two half days and one night, Grace already hated how she felt in her mother’s presence.

She’s taking over my precious home.