“I’ve been saying it for the past year, Mom,” Callie said. “Nothing has changed. You are more than welcome to move to Dayton. I don’t want you staying in New Jersey for me. I’ll be fine on my own.”
“Alright, alright,” her mother said, shutting down the conversation. Again. “Now is not the time, Calandria.”
“When will it be the time, Mom? First you said not until I was making more money. I was promoted last year. I’m making more than enough to support myself.”
“Nonprofits are such a risky venture. It’s right there in the name.”
“I work for the town. It’s a public library.”
“With the number of hours you’re working, you’re going to send yourself right into a flare up.”
Callie clenched her teeth and watched as her mother busily buttered her scone for the second time— anything to not look her daughter in the eye as she invoked Callie’s pain for her own purposes.
“And then you said you wanted to see me in a committed relationship—which, by the way, is the most insulting requirement—”
“I’m not trying to insult you.”
“I am in a committed relationship. With Noah.”
“We’ll see.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m sure you’re having lots of fun together. But that boy has never committed to a relationship in his life. I wouldn’t count your chickens.”
Callie wanted to scream at how unfair that was, how cruel her mother was being to say that to her…but he’s not committed. It’s not real.Her mother didn’t know that.
“That’s an awful thing to say.”
“I hope I’m wrong,” her mother said, squeezing a second lemon wedge into her tea. “But you’re still in the early blush of puppy love. When there’s a ring on your finger and a date on the calendar—”
“You’d rather stay in Jersey and be miserable than admit I’ll be alright on my own,” Callie said, leaning back in her chair as the realization rocketed through her. Nothing would ever be enough for her mother. No job or boyfriend would ever convince her that Callie would be alright on her own.
Her mother met her gaze, her lips tightly pursed. When had she started to look so old?
“It is my responsibility to take care of you, Calandria.”
“I’m twenty-seven years old.”
“You came into this world as my responsibility and you will be my responsibility until the day I die. If you had children of your own, you would understand.” Her eyes softened and she reached across the table to squeeze Callie’s hand. “I will not leave you without knowing you are going to be taken care of.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Oh, can you, now?” Her mother pulled her hand back, her gaze turning hard. “Is that what you were doing when I went away for the weekend only to come home and find you’d been sleeping on the couch for three days because you could not climb the stairs to your bedroom? Three days that you hardly ate because you couldn’t stand long enough to prepare yourself a decent meal? You were so dehydrated that you wound up in the hospital.”
As if Callie didn’t remember every second of that weekend in excruciating detail—including the parts her mother still didn’t know after all these years.
Like the fact that Callie couldn’t feel her legs for most of that weekend, but she’d convinced herself it was just because she’d overdone it with her new exercise routine. At least until the numbness had turned to burning pain, like millions of tiny paper cuts over every inch of her skin.
That she’d woken the day after her twenty-first birthday party hungover and with the sinking feeling that something waswrongso she’d taken the train home, some naïve part of her thinking that if she could sleep in her childhood bed everything would be alright.
That Noah had called, repeatedly, and she’d ignored every call even though she could feel herself losing him with each unanswered ring. What would she have said?Hey, Noah, so much fun making out with you the other night but now I can’t feel my legs and, I know you didn’t sign on for this, but I think something is seriously wrong with me.
Her mother sucked her teeth and shook her head, returning her attention to her breakfast. “If that’s what you call taking care of yourself, Calandria, then clearly you’re not as independent as you think you are.”
Her face was hot, her hands shaking as she struggled to calm the anger and shame rising within her. The nerve of her mother to call up the memory of that weekend, of that first horrible flare up before Callie even had a diagnosis.
“That was six years ago.” She hated the way her voice trembled, the stinging in her nose that warned of frustrated tears to come. “I know how to deal with the fibro now and it never gets that bad anymore.”
