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Cassie
It was cool and sunny, so I opened the windows to the apartment and put on David Bowie’s “Rock and Roll Suicide,” turning it up as high as it would go. I’d decided to wait until my mother’s schedule matched mine so I could tell her the band’s news in person, and I had a good feeling about today. Luke had been standing on his own for a few days in a row, and was now outside with Rita, making laps around the yard.
I was nine days and a thirty-minute show away from being signed for a record deal. I couldn’t wait to tell her: I was a musician, and I had proof.
When she pulled up outside, I watched her step out of her Camry wearing drugstore sunglasses, a Rosario Ferré book under her arm. I smiled, and turned down the music as she climbed the stairs.
“Who’s mowing your lawn?” she was saying as I opened the door. “It’s a jungle out there.”
“Oh, Rita’s supposed to take care of that,” I said, reaching over to kiss her on the cheek.
“And you’re wearing a dirty T-shirt. Same jeans for days. Estas flaca.”
I pursed my lips, resisting a retort, reminding myself that today was supposed to be good. To fix things between us. Still, sometimes I thought I could tell her that I won a Nobel Prize and she’d say, Make sure they aren’t using that photo of you from your goth days.
But that was about to change.
“Anyway, Mom, I—”
“And where am I supposed to sit?” She was looking at the couch, which held Luke’s pillow and blanket, crumpled and probably smelling like sweat.
My face burned.
She picked up the blanket and began to fold. “Does a nurse come?”
“Rita comes. From downstairs, on nights when I have to bartend or when I need to practice.”
She set down the squared blanket, and picked up the pillow, beginning to fluff it. “Hm. And how long will you have to do that without figuring out how to pay her for real?”
I watched her work, trying to find the right words. “Well, yeah, but hopefully Luke will be better soon. And, Mom, I have something to tell you.”
“Go on,” she said, tossing down the pillow, a smile growing on her face.
My stomach dropped. My heart started to beat, hard. She would be proud of me. Right? “I don’t think it’s exactly what you want to hear, but it’s good.”
She pulled a strand of hair out of my mouth. “Oh, does this have something to do with your piano playing?”
A punch to the gut. “Piano playing? Mom, it kills me that you call it that. It kills me.”
“What would you rather I call it?”
“My career.”
“Your career.” When I looked back at her, she was rubbing her temples, as if my lack of comprehension were giving her a headache. “All I’ve told you, all I’ve given you, out the window.”
“All right, forget it. Forget it.” I fought back tears, heading toward the kitchen. “You want some lunch? I’m done talking to you about this.”
“Why?”
I stopped, shaking my head.
She continued, “Because you don’t like what I say?”
I turned back to face her. “No, because I invited you here to tell you the best news I’ve ever received in my life, and I know you’re not going to care because it doesn’t fit into your idea of what my life should look like.”
She got quiet. “So I guess you’re not going to tell me you’re going to law school?”
I let out a harsh breath, barely a laugh. “No. Fuck no.”
