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CHAPTER 10
Isabella
“Are you sure this is okay?” I asked, lighting the candles that sat on the outdoor table. Mrs. B had decided to hold tonight’s game out on the back patio, which was something she reserved for special occasions.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. B assured me.
She’d regaled me with many tales of her friends’ weekly mahjong games. They were sacred. Almost like the female version of the Masons, or at least that was the impression I’d gotten. No outsiders were ever permitted.
They’d started playing when they were teenagers because they thought it was a mature game. They also used to sneak alcohol from their parents’ liquor cabinets and drink. As I watched Mrs. B shake up a beverage that had a lot more alcohol in it than spritzer, I saw that some things hadn’t changed.
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“Intrude? Pshh. The girls have to meet my girl.” Mrs. B set down the shaker and cupped my cheek. “I’ve told them all about you, my special girl.”
It was strange to admit as a twenty-five-year-old, but I’d never felt like I was special to anyone except Mrs. B. My mother had been so depressed, I never felt like I was special to her. And I honestly didn’t think my father even liked me.
“Really?” I felt myself tearing up.
“Of course I did!” She pulled me into her arms and when tears began to fall down my cheek, she rubbed my back like she used to when I was little. “Oh sweetie, it’s okay. I know.”
I hugged her tightly for a moment, but then pulled away and wiped my eyes. I didn’t want to be crying when the mahjong ladies arrived. How could I explain to them that I was crying because the only person I’d ever been special to was a woman who’d been paid to take care of me?
Mrs. B handed me a tissue that she’d magically had in her pocket. I used to think that her pockets were like Mary Poppins’ purse, holding endless possibilities and all sorts of wonders.
“What are these tears about?” She gave me “the look,” the one that told me she meant business.
“Nothing.” I shook my head.
“Sit down.”
I did as she instructed, lowering down onto one of the patio chairs. She took a seat across from me, reached out, and cradled my hands in hers.
“Listen here. Your momma loved you. She did. She just didn’t know how to deal with the cards she’d been dealt. She was a young woman who had a young child and she was terrified. She was scared of getting too close to you. She thought it would be better, for you, if you didn’t get too attached.”
I’d never discussed how my mother felt about me with anyone except a therapist—ironically, another person who’d been paid to care for me. But I took what he’d said with a grain of salt because, never having met my mother, he could obviously only hypothesize on what may have caused her emotional absence. It was strange, talking about her with someone who’d actually known her. “She said that?”
“She did.” Mrs. B’s chin dipped in a nod. “I did my best to get her to see things differently, but I think her heart condition wasn’t the only battle she was fighting.”
“You mean the depression?”
“Well, now, I don’t know if she was ever formally diagnosed, but I don’t see how it could’ve been anything else.”
It was liberating being able to speak openly with someone who had firsthand knowledge of what I’d been through with my mother. But before I could ask anything more, though, voices came from inside the boarding house.
“Yoo-hoo!”
“Hello!”
“Anyone home?”
“Out here!” Mrs. B shouted as she stood and began filling drinks again.
Within seconds there was a flurry of activity—colorful scarves flying, people hugging, and lots of very loud talking. Apparently, the mahjong crowd was not a quiet one.
Mrs. B introduced me to Caroline Shaw, Anna May Birch, and Sonja Rojas as, “her girl.”
“Isabella,” I clarified with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you.” I offered my hand but was pulled into a four-way hug.
