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I make a noise that’s neither assent nor disagreement.
On the one hand, even if my relationship with Mum has been non-existent for most of my life and tedious for the last couple of years, having her there to comfort me while my world fell apart was exactly what I needed.
But there’s also the fact that my mum coming to pick me up makes me feel even more like I’ve beensent home from school like some unruly child, adding to my embarrassment.
‘What …’ My voice is raspy, throat sore from all the crying. My tongue feels thick and awkward in my mouth. I swallow, and try again. I can’t quite meet Mum’s eyes. ‘What did he tell you?’
‘Enough.’
Now I do cut her a look, not in the mood for this vague, misguided attempt at being the protective parent. It doesn’t suit her, and it’s not helping me right now either.
She sighs slightly, but says, ‘That you’ve obviously grown very close with his son and some rather personal emails you’d written him had been distributed to the office, along with a, er, somewhat intimate photograph of the two of you.Andpaper copies had been taped up everywhere this morning, so obviously it was a nasty little prank and not some silly accident. Although honestly, Anna, using a professional email for that sort of thing – Ireallythought you would know better …’
‘Yeah, alright, thanks, Mum. That’s not helping.’ I scowl, turning back to the window. That feeling of safety and comfort she’d provided not ten whole minutes ago, hugging me in that little room at Arrowmile, is suddenly long gone.
‘Well,’ she says, more lightly. ‘Let’s just count ourselves lucky you weren’t using your email to sext him, or send anything naughty.’
‘Ohmigod, Mum.’
And to think I thought this whole thing couldn’t get more humiliating. My cheeks burn – though I’m not sure if it’s more to do with the fact my mum just said the word ‘sext’ or the mere idea that I might’ve written that kind of thing to Lloyd at all. I sink a bit lower in the seat, smothering my face with my hands.
‘I didn’t realize the two of you were an item,’ she says after a few moments. Her statement is curious, open.
‘We’re not.’
I wonder, if things had been different, if I would’ve gossiped with her about boys. Would I have been FaceTiming her throughout my internship like I had been Dad and Gina, but instead of telling her about friends or the work, gushing about the cute boy I’d met? Would I have confided in her about whether I should give Lloyd a chance or focus solely on the internship?
Would it have seemed less black and white, if things with Mum had been different?
Several beats pass; Mum looks like she wants to askme more, but is clearly biting her tongue, conflicted. Like she’s afraid that pushing me too hard, trying too much to be my mum or my friend or whatever, will burn whatever bridges I have tentatively agreed to start building.
She looks hurt. Hopeful. Scared.
I’ve never seen Mum look like that before. When I was little, I remember her being exasperated and exhausted from time to time. Mostly, I remember the fire in her eyes – that look of barely contained excitement she’d get when she was particularly driven about something, which was most of the time. In all the photos and videos of her online in more recent years, she’s always been so composed. A funny little half-smile, like she knows the secret to having it all, a confidence in her posture.
But right now, there are lines pinched around the edges of her mouth, ageing her. Her hair isn’t as smooth as it normally would be and there’s some eyeliner smudged beneath one of her eyes, like whatever time she would’ve normally taken to fix it wasn’t worth it in her rush over to Arrowmile after Topher’s call. Her eyes are downcast; there’s a deep furrow between her professionally maintained eyebrows. Uncertainty threads through her made-up face, cloying in the air around her.
She didn’t even look like this either time I asked her to leave me alone and stormed out on her.
Realizing that, something softens in the hard angles that have spiked up around my heart. The ache in my chest eases.
And I break the silence by telling Mum, ‘We might have been an item, if … It’s complicated. Or, it didn’t have to be, I suppose, but I made it messy. I kept making it messy.’
‘Do you – do you want to tell me about it?’
I expect a sharp retort ready on my tongue, out of habit if nothing else –No. Don’t pretend like you care. Don’t think that being here for me now, just because someone else involved you and you had to save face by showing up, makes up for anything.
But it never comes.
I just hunch smaller into the corner of the car and take a deep breath.
‘It started months ago, the weekend before the internship …’
The taxi takes us to Mum’s hotel suite. Asuite, I notice, not merely a room. It has its own designated sitting area. The bathroom must be bigger than my entire bedroom back home at Dad and Gina’s, I think, measuring it up mentally before I splash some coldwater on my face, using one of the luxurious white facecloths branded with the hotel’s logo, and some of Mum’s expensive-looking products, to scrub my mangled makeup off my face. I borrow her hairbrush to tidy up my hair, too.
In the harsh spotlights of the bathroom, in the humongous mirror above the double sinks, I can’t help but stare at the girl in the reflection. She looks like she just had her whole life ripped out from under her; she’s strung-out. Wrung-out. Exhausted. Her white blouse is a remnant of her school days, the pencil skirt awkward and frumpy. Her pale face is hollowed, ashen – young. She looks like a kid playing dress-up.
Who have I been kidding all summer?
