“What was that all about?” he finally asks.
“No clue,” I tell him honestly.
∞
I was half tempted to find an excuse to swing by the building, just to get eyes on Elsie again and make sure the contractor isn’t asking her out on any more dates. But Sean already showed me the latest progress on a video call last night, and with him headed back to Portland for his afternoon appointments, it would have been obvious as fuck if I showed up on my own for no good reason.
I might be half-obsessed with Elsie already, but there’s no need forherto know that.
Instead, I hop on my bike and make the trek that’s starting to become more familiar. After so many years of wanting to be anywhere on the planet other than my mother’s place in Portland, I find myself knocking on the wooden door with the peeling red paint more and more often. She lives on the first floor of a two-storyhouse that was converted into apartments, a place my grandfather helped her find about four or five years ago. It’s only been a month or so since I was here last, which is damn near a miracle compared to the once or twice a year I’d been averaging for so long.
I’d texted her to let her know I was going to stop by. I didn’t ask if she was home; I knew she would be. She’s become the kind of person who thrives on stability and routine, and I know that she spends every Saturday afternoon at home, cleaning and watching Hallmark movies until it’s time for an early dinner and then church.
Fuckingchurch. And Hallmark movies. The same woman who once left me home alone for forty-two hours when I was just six years old. When she finally returned, strung out on god knows what and hanging off the arm of whatever guy she was dating at the time, she’d just looked at me and said, “Hi, baby,” as if she’d only stepped out for a few minutes to run to the store. Which, for the record, is exactly what she told me she was doing.
There was no god around to help me then, but good for her for finding him, I guess.
The camera mounted outside her door must have alerted her to my arrival because she opens the door before I have a chance to knock. Like every other time I see her, I find myself doing a quick once-over. She’s been clean for nine years now, since I was twenty-two, and I know that at some point, I have to start giving her the benefit of the doubt. But I see her so infrequently that it’s still a little jarring to be greeted bythisversion of my mother. The one with clear skin and bright eyes, her black hair – the only obvious feature I inherited from her – clean and neatly styled so the waves rest on her shoulders. She’s wearing faded jeans and a light pink T-shirt, with bare feet and toenails painted a bright red.
She looks good. Healthy. Not for the first time, I wonder why I couldn’t have hadthisversion of her growing up. But I know thatline of thinking isn’t helpful to the progress that I’ve made, and she doesn’t deserve it after all the work she’s put in to get to this point. I’ve made my peace with the past – or at least as much as I can – and even if I would have liked to have this mom as a kid, I’m still thankful that I get to have her now, as a thirty-one-year-old who’s still figuring his shit out.
“Declan!” She sounds shocked to see me, and I can’t decide if I should feel bad about it or not. Deja would tell me that I don’thaveto feel anything. Whatever I feel is normal and okay.
“Hey, Sasha.” I’d stopped calling her Mom when I was thirteen, a couple years before I moved in with my grandparents and cut ties with her for good – or so I’d thought at the time. Sure as hell didn’t think I’d be here all these years later, willingly stopping by on a Saturday afternoon just to visit.
My therapist has had her work cut out with me, and she’s done a damn good of job helping me sort through my shit. We still have a ways to go – she likes to remind me that nobody is ever reallydonewith therapy – but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little proud of where I’m at compared to where I started.
“Come in, come in.” Sasha ushers me inside and shuts the door, immediately locking it behind us. She lives in a decent neighborhood now, but old habits die hard.
“What a nice surprise,” she says, squeezing my arm. “Can I get you anything? I was just about to heat up some leftovers for lunch.”
My stomach responds for me, growling loudly. Sasha laughs and I follow her into the kitchen, where she immediately sets to work pulling containers out of the fridge and plates out of the cabinet.
“I’ve got homemade mac and cheese, pulled pork and potato salad,” she calls over her shoulder while I take a seat at the tiny round table in the corner of her kitchen. Her apartment is small, but it’s neat and tidy. A bit dated. I always feel like I’m stepping back intothe nineties when I visit. The blue and white ruffled curtains over the windows remind me of the ones my grandparents had at their house when I was growing up, and that little white goose with the blue ribbon around its neck is plastered on nearly every decorative item in here. The dishes she pulls out of the cabinet with a blue floral pattern are part of an old Corelle set that she found at a thrift store years ago.
I brought up Sasha’s apartment in one of my therapy sessions. For some reason, it kept nagging at me that she decorates her apartment like she’s living twenty or thirty years in the past. Because I was there, and it was a shitty time. We certainly didn’t have cute little geese on our countertops when I was a kid.
My therapist helped me understand that my mother might be trying to get back those years she lost to booze and drugs, in her own way. Might even be trying to emulate my grandparents’ house at the time, because no matter what kind of shit she put them through, they were always waiting with open arms when she needed it. They didn’t put up with her shit and they kept firm boundaries with her, but they never cut ties and left her to her own devices like so many loved ones of addicts are forced to do. There were a lot of times over the years when I wished that they would, but as an adult with a bit more perspective now, I can respect the decisions that they made where Sasha was concerned, even if I didn’t always understand them at the time.
“We had our annual spring picnic at work yesterday,” she explains, pulling one container out of the microwave and popping another in. “I ended up making half the food there because nobody else wanted to. It was my first time making pulled pork, but I think it turned out okay.” She prattles on about the food and her work, overly chatty to compensate for my lack of conversation skills.
When she finally sets a plate in front of me, piled high with food, I don’t waste any time before digging in.
“It’s good,” I tell her through a mouthful. “Really good.”
She looks pleased as she busies herself with fixing her own plate. “So, what brings you to Portland on a Saturday? Aren’t Saturdays usually your busiest day at work?”
“They are, but Sean and I had a meeting with the Chamber of Commerce about some competition they’re running for new businesses. I’ve been cutting back on my appointments since I don’t have much time left in Boston anyway. Planning on being fully moved into my new apartment in two weeks.”
Sasha doesn’t respond, just finishes heating up her leftovers and takes the seat across from me. I watch as she picks at her food, pushing it around her plate and taking the smallest of bites. I wait for her to be ready to say whatever is on her mind.
We eat in silence for another minute or two before she finally speaks up. “So you’re really going to be living in Port Myles? That’s what, thirty minutes or so away?”
“Yup.”
She nods, looking down into her plate of food. Then, “Do you think maybe we could get together a bit more often? Nothing crazy,” she hurries to explain. “I was thinking once a month or so? Maybe we can get together for dinner, if you’d like. Not that I wouldn’t like to see you more, I just figured –”
“Once a month is good,” I cut in. “You know, to start, or whatever.”
