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Cassie
The next morning, I stopped the Subaru outside my mother’s house, and got out, standing on my old street. I knocked on the screen door. When there was no answer, I let myself in.
“Mom,” I called into the dim light that shone through the east windows, almost tinted green from her plants.
She came out into the living room, her reading glasses dangling around her neck. I didn’t say anything. Instead, I wrapped her in my arms and squeezed.
“Will you comb my hair?” I asked into her shoulder, too relieved to see her to feel embarrassed about making a request I hadn’t made since I was a teenager. “Once before I go?”
“Of course,” she said.
I sat in the kitchen, staring at the cactus clock, her fingers on my scalp giving me shivers of warmth. “I’m leaving behind a mess.”
“Oh? You mean your apartment?”
I laughed. My laughter stopped at the first yank of the comb. Automatic pain tears gathered in the corners of my eyes.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “Just getting out this big one.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “No, not just the apartment.” She yanked again. The tears flowed freely. I took a deep breath. “So. About this marriage thing.”
I told her what I’d realized about Luke. About sleeping with him, and immediately meeting and falling for Toby. About the injury, Frankie’s death, and about how hard it was to fake that we loved each other. Until it wasn’t.
By the end, she had made my hair into a sleek, damp curtain. Every time she’d paused the comb as I spoke, I wondered if she was going to throw it down and smack me on the back of the head. She didn’t, though.
“And now I’m confused, Mom. I know I made mistakes, but I’ve learned so much. And I haven’t lost sight of my goals. And Luke and I, I don’t even know what that’s supposed to look like, but we have something very deep, you know, and— Will you say something?”
She was quiet. I turned around in the chair to face her, looking up at her dimpled face, her eyes traveling my face.
She put her hand on my chin. “Ay, mija. If you’re asking me for advice, this is the first time I have nothing for you.”
“Nothing?” I felt a smile grow, despite a jump in my gut. “From the judge of all judges?”
“No. This is a rotten pickle.” We laughed. “And you know what? After our fight, it feels pretty good to say, okay, Cassie, you’re the woman now. Take care of your own pickle.”
She was right. If I wanted my independence, I’d have to take it. The good and the bad.
“All I have for you is sorry,” she continued. “And I know you think you had a fake marriage and did it for the money, and I know I’ve been hard on you, but hearing you talk just now, well, it sure sounds like something real to me.”
Something real.Even to Mom. I smiled at her. “Really?”
“Of course. You took care of him. He took care of you. Even though you both had it harder than most. You’ve grown up.”
“But next time...,” I began, wondering what I meant. Next time I would mess this up royally? I didn’t like putting it that way. I didn’t want there to be a next time. “Next time we’re in any trouble we’ve got to help each other out, first and foremost.”
“I like that idea.”
I got up. I had to get on the phone with “Young at Heart” again, figure out how to finally get that state-sponsored health insurance, and then it was time for my last practice before we went on tour.
“Call me from the road.”
“I love you, Mom.”
“Te amo, Cass. Play well.”
•••
An hour later, it was time for Fleetwood Friday. A very special Fleetwood Friday, Nora and I had decided, full of good-luck rituals and silver confetti and candles. We draped the concrete walls of her basement in a gauzy fabric we found in the bargain bin at Goodwill on North Lamar. We hung strings of beads from the pipes. Before we signed the contracts we had printed out and set in the middle of the floor, before we rented the U-Haul to load up, before we started our new lives as professional musicians, we’d play whatever we wanted, for the hell of it, for hours on end. We’d play Rumours all the way through, in whatever wonky, champagne-soaked way we felt like.
