Ice floods my veins. I’ve never heard myself being referred to by her affectionally, and it’s unsettling.
It’s sad it’s unsettling. But here we are.
“She’s already gone, Caroline,” my dad says in a clipped tone. “And trying to control what she’s eating here and questioning her life decisions isn’t helping if you want to change that. I don’t know how many times we have to have this discussion.”
My father’s argumentative tone takes me by surprise. While my mother and I had a tumultuous relationship growing up, the one with my father was nonexistent. His eyes were always glued to some sporting event on TV. He didn’t enable my mother’s antics as much as he ignored them and left me to fend for myself.
“I just wanted to make sure she had someone to take care of her so I wouldn’t have to worry about her ending up like Aunt Norma. I didn’t want him running off to Paris and keeping her there too.” My mother’s voice breaks as it carries through the hallway.
“If you’d just paused, you’d have seen she’s doing fine, Caroline. On her own.”
I step forward on my toes, inching closer to confrontation. My fists ball to my side, and my hand shakes with a tremor.Not now.I don’t know who the hell Aunt Norma is or why my mother is using her existence as an excuse to control my life, but I know I promised Caleb peace, and I can’t imagine busting in on this private conversation will give him that. So instead, I swing the door open to the restroom, wet a paper towel, and try desperately to eradicate a stain that doesn’t seem inclined to budge.
At least the scrubbing takes the edge off my nervous energy.
The door swings open again and my mother freezes, blinking at me. In my childhood, I can only think of one occasion when my mother appeared disheveled. It was a stomach flu that turned her oddly human for twenty-four hours. She watched movies on the couch, hair a mess, and even split a grilled cheese with me when she felt a little better.
That moment has nothing on how she looks now in the harsh florescent lighting of this bathroom. Thick black mascara coats heavy bags under her eyes, her skin is red and blotchy, and her blonde hair hangs in a frizzy tousled mess.
“Oh, hi, sweetheart—” She smiles tight, wiping under her eyes and frowning at my wine stain.
“Clumsy me.” I awkwardly laugh.
“I have one of those pens in my purse. Hold on.” She rummages through, motioning for me to turn to her when she pulls it out. Sniffling, she dabs at my stain with extreme concentration.
“Can’t take me anywhere—” Again, I offer a self-deprecating joke. I’m a fish out of water with the whole Caroline-has-emotions news bomb. Hell, she didn’t even cry at Nana’s funeral.
“Yes, well, I’d rather have you here and making stains than not at all.”
I paste a smile on to match her own as we settle into an unnatural silence.
One of the hardest things I’ve had to learn as a supposed adult is how to adjust my ever-evolving lens to see the world more clearly, especially when something challenges the neat little boxes I have in my head. I can’t just look at Caroline and think “evil,” but I also can’t give her shitty actions a pass.
“Mom, what’s going on? Who’s Aunt Norma?”
“Ah, you heard that, did you?”
“I mean, I didn’t mean to—I was just . . . here.” Creepily waiting outside the door and listening to every word of your conversation.
I really should stop doing that. Nothing good comes out of listening to this stuff.
“She was my great-aunt.” My mom keeps dotting my tunic. “She had endometriosis, too, you know.”
“She did?”
“At least I think she did. It was never confirmed.”
Someone else in my family having the disease shouldn’t be surprising; there’s plenty of research to suggest that it’s genetic in some capacity, and people with family members with it are more likely to have it. Still, I’m twenty-seven and this is the first I’m hearing about Aunt Norma or the fact that she probably had endometriosis.
“What makes you think she had it, then?”
“Just some things in her life. People in the family would tell stories about how Aunt Norma always seemed to have a pain that ailed her, said she was probably a hypochondriac. She was married at one point, too, but they divorced without having any kids. Her husband didn’t leave her with much. He didn’t have to because the court found her at fault, something about alienation of affection because she wasn’t intimate.” My mother lowers her voice and blushes at the last few words. “She had a hard time taking care of herself financially after that, lived with my grandmother and grandfather for most of her life. I didn’t think anything of it until you were diagnosed, and I started digging a bit.”
“Is that what you’re worried will happen to me?”
“No, honey. I know Liam would love you no matter what. Don’t worry about it. I’m just being my overdramatic self.” She presses a kiss to my forehead, and a small tear leaks from her shut eyes.
Unless I don’t live up to the fantasy in his head, sure.
