Page 47 of Letters From A Stalker

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

My thumb hovers over the keyboard while the apology starts assembling itself automatically.

I’m sorry. Yesterday was awful and I completely forgot...

I stop. Yesterday was awful. Does she know that? No. Did she ask? Also no. Eight of ten times we talk, she never starts the conversation by asking me how I’m doing. It always starts with a monologue about all of the things that are wrong with her, all of the reasons she’s not feeling well, and then she manages to add little comments on how she needs to do everything by herself because there’s no one to help her. No matter how many times I offer or tell her to call me if she needs anything, my mother always chooses to keep quiet about the things she needs but then conveniently manages to shift the blame on me because I’m not helping. It’s a lovely little dance we do and every single time it works like a charm. I end up feeling guilty for failing in my daughterly role and for having a life that is not rainbows and sunshine, despite the fact that my mother seems to think it is.

But then anger flares again, immediately followed by guilt for even being angry, because she’s my mother and she had a doctor’s appointment. Maybe wanting your daughter to remember something important isn’t some massive act of emotional manipulation. But that’s the fucking problem with us. There is always another side. She loves me. I know she loves me. I love her too, but somewhere along the way our relationship became this strange accounting system where every missed call, forgotten appointment or a message becomes evidence that I don’t care enough, while neither of us ever talks about why calling her doesn’t come naturally to me in the first place.

I learned distance from somewhere. Apparently neither of us particularly enjoys discussing where.

“What did she say?” Tessa asks.

I read the message aloud.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She mutters and a laugh escapes me.

“Thank you for that nuanced psychological assessment.”

“You're welcome. My invoice is in the mail. Don't answer her right now.”

“I should at least tell her I’m glad she’s okay.”

“You can tell her later. You're already doing the thing.”

“What thing?” I bite my lip because I am already doing the thing, but obviously I need Tessa to remind me that I am.

“The thing where you're about to spend the next hour writing a three-paragraph apology because you forgot one appointment.”

I glance at the empty reply field. She’s annoyingly accurate.

Tessa exhales, and I hear another door opening on her end. “I have to go before my entire day catches fire. Take a shower, eat something and go to work. Leave your mom’s message alone until you actually know what you want to say instead of apologizing because she made you feel guilty.”

“Fine.”

“Was that a real fine or a Blackwood fine?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

She laughs. “There she is. I’ll check on you later, okay?”

“Go save the world from Rachel.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The call ends, and the kitchen becomes quiet again. I look at Mom’s message, then at the blank reply box beneath it. For once, I lock my phone without typing anything. It shouldn’t feel like an accomplishment. Somehow, it does, but then it also doesn’t and I hate the fact that she makes me feel this way.

In the next thirty minutes, I showered, washed yesterday out of my hair and managed to find enough enthusiasm for life to put on makeup and a pair of black heels. Breakfast happens too, mostly because I can practically hear Tessa bitching at me from wherever she is, although calling a banana and half a piece of toast breakfast feels generous. Still, food entered my body, coffee entered my bloodstream and I left the house with six minutes to spare, which under the circumstances feels like an achievement worthy of some kind of acknowledgment.

Mom’s message stays unanswered. I think about it twice during the drive and once while waiting for the elevator at work, but by the time the doors open on my floor, my brain has already begun rearranging itself around everything waiting for me.

This is the version of my life I know how to handle. The law firm occupies two floors of a glass building downtown. This early in the morning, it’s already operating at the particular level of controlled chaos lawyers consider a healthy working environment. Phones are ringing, someone is arguing with the printer near the reception, and two paralegals are having a whispered conversation beside the copy room that becomes suspiciously silent when one of the partners walks past them.

I know this place. More importantly, I know who I am in it. Nobody here needs me to explain something I barely understand myself. They need schedules coordinated, calls returned, documents prepared, clients handled and deadlines remembered. Those things have edges. Edges that can be put in order. I can do that. I am good at that.