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“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say as she stands.
“Okay,” she says in that same emotionless tone.
Yet, when the door closes behind her, I think she might have started to cry again. My gut twists painfully, and for a moment, I debate going after her as she disappears inside her apartment building. But I don’t. Instead, I grind my teeth and throw my car into gear once more, peeling away from the entrance before I do or say something else I might regret.
31
WHITNEY
My bus ride down to Englewood reminds me of the good old days–when public transportation was my only way of getting to and from Rosehill College and back home. The familiar stench of gas fumes linger in the back of the bus as I watch out the window, taking in the views of Chicago. I’m lost. I’ve realized too late that I’ve fallen for Ilya–something I never wanted or intended to do. And now, distraught and confused, I’m going home. I have no one in my peer group to turn to who could possibly understand my pain right now, so I’m on my way to visit my mother.
I close my eyes and swallow hard as my mind circles Ilya, reliving last night with him over and over. All this time, I thought I had my emotions under control, but those weeks of not hearing from him were absolute torture. I was constantly in my head, doubting myself, wondering if I pushed things too far and had become unattractive to him, more of a burden than a pleasure. But I’d locked those thoughts away, beaten back my feelings because I wasn’t supposed to care. Our relationship is a contract, one I took out of convenience so I could follow my dream of becoming a ballerina. I couldn’t go blaming him for my own weakness at the final hour.
And then seeing him there, in the doorway of the studio, had brought those emotions crashing down on me uncontrollably. All the anxiety and rejection I’d been bottling up. And when he took me so fervently, demanding I confirm my loyalty, my faithfulness, it absolutely destroyed me. I’ve never been with anyone but Ilya, and suddenly, to hear him question that afterhe’sthe one who abandonedme, ignoredme–it was just too much.
It hurt more deeply than I ever could have imagined. And still, though his words struck harder than any physical blow he could have delivered, I wanted him. I needed him so desperately I could barely breathe, and when he touched me, I suddenly felt right and whole. The way he grabbed me and kissed me, it felt like the world might end if he didn’t. For one glorious moment, I thought we were on the same page.
And that just proves how weak I am.“You don’t get to fall for anyone else, not until I’ve made it perfectly clear that our contract is over, and I have you until the end of the year.”I don’t believe in love, and yet here I am, heartbroken that this older man–who’s said it outright from the start that ours is a professional transaction–will be ready to cut me loose at the end of the semester. It wasn’t the kiss of passion I had thought. It was Ilya marking his territory, reminding me that I sold my body to him, and he can do with it as he pleases, emotions be damned.
I feel like such an idiot. After all those years of watching my mom suffer, torn apart by my father’s abandonment, I was so confident I could rise above that weakness. I could just will away my emotions and never love someone. That way, I wouldn’t get hurt. And yet here I am, on my way home to her to talk. Because she’s the only one who might understand the backbreaking weight of the pain I’m in.
In the two and a half years since I stopped living with my mom and Ilya started paying my tuition and living expenses–along with enough generous spending money on top that I’ve been able to pay my mom back for all she’s contributed to my education–she’s actually managed to move out of our apartment and put a down payment on a house. It’s a cute little redbrick two-bedroom place, still in Englewood, but a big step up from our little apartment we rented.
The bus drops me off two blocks away, and I make the short trek to her front door with the cold winter wind at my back. She knows I’m coming, and when I ring the doorbell, she answers just a moment later.
A broad smile stretches across her face. “My baby girl. Look at you!” Her calloused hands cup my face as she studies me with a deep warmth, as though she hasn’t seen me in years. It has been too long.
I step into her arms as she folds me in a hug, and it feels so good to be there. I’ve always prided myself on being independent and carving my own path in life. But right now, it’s wonderful to be wrapped in my mom’s arms.
“Come on inside,” she encourages, keeping her arm around my shoulder as she guides me across the threshold and closes the door behind her. “How are you? You look tired. Have you been burning the candle at both ends again?” she demands as she leads me into the kitchen.
I settle into a chair and rub my face with my hands before resting my chin on my interlaced fingers. “Yeah. I’ve been practicing a lot. But I think you’ll be proud of my senior showcase. My partner and I have put everything into it, and it’s shaping up nicely.”
“That’s wonderful, honey.” My mom beams as she bustles around her new kitchen, grabbing mugs and cream and sugar as the coffee brews.
She doesn’t even bother asking as she falls into our typical weekend morning routine, and the familiarity of it makes my chest ache with a sudden sense of nostalgia. I’ve missed my mom, and I haven’t been coming to see her as often as I should.
“How’s the new house?” I ask, looking around at the sweet decor she’s added to make the space her own.
Macrame plant holders hang from the ceiling above her kitchen sink, striped, purple, and green variations oftradescantia zebrinacascading over the sides in a vibrant waterfall of color. A soft pink African violet sits on the delicate doily at the center of the kitchen table.
“It’s wonderful. I’ve really gotten into plants now that I have the windows and lighting for them,” she says, gesturing to the pots I’d been admiring.
“And the Stickney Stop?”
“You’ll be proud to hear I finally got promoted to day manager,” my mom says with a joking curtsey. “So no more late-night shifts. Starting last week, my hours changed. I’m working six a.m. to three p.m., five days a week.” Bringing our coffee mugs to the table, Mom slides mine across to me, creamer already added.
“Thanks, Mom.” I take the steaming brew and raise it in a toast. “Congratulations on your promotion. You more than deserve it.”
“Thanks, honey.”
Her smile is almost radiant, and I’m struck suddenly by how happy and healthy my mom looks. Her gray-streaked blond hair is shiny and healthy as it falls around her face in waves. The bags under her eyes are far less prominent than I remember them being before, and the color in her cheeks is vibrant and youthful. She looks great. I open my mouth to say as much, but my mom’s too quick for me.
“Tell me, what’s going on for you. You sounded troubled on the phone this morning,” she says, her eyebrows pressing together in motherly concern.
A knot tightens in my throat as her question launches me back into my troubles, and I swallow hard, fighting the sudden urge to cry. I don’t exactly know how to talk about what’s going on for me with my mom. I’ve never told her about my arrangement with Ilya. She thinks I’m paying my tuition and living expenses with a scholarship. She knows I’ve been seeing someone, but I haven’t even dared introduce her to Ilya because I know she won’t approve of me dating someone so much older. Still, I need to talk to someone before the conflict building inside me makes me implode.
“Mom, I…” I look down at my coffee mug, rotating it slowly between my palms as I struggled with where to start. “Do you believe in love?” I ask finally, looking up to meet her eyes.
