I was in the backyard watering my little garden, dirt dampening the knees of my jeans, when I heard her car door slam out front. Her silver sedan. My stomach tightened on instinct, but it was a smaller feeling than it used to be. More irritation than fear.
She was standing on my porch when I came around the side of the house, arms crossed, purse tucked under one elbow like a prop in a courtroom drama. She wore sunglasses too large for her face and a blouse the color of cream. The kind of outfit she chose when she wanted to look like the reasonable party.
“This has gone on long enough,” she said before I reached the steps.
Water dripped from the hose onto my shoe. The front yard smelled like wet grass and sun-heated brick. Somewhere nearby a lawn mower buzzed.
“Then you probably shouldn’t have started it,” I said.
Her jaw flexed. “Don’t get smart with me.”
I shut off the hose and set it down carefully. “Why are you here, Mom?”
“Because you are ignoring your family over one little misunderstanding.”
I nearly laughed at the size of that lie.
“One little misunderstanding?”
“Yes. Colette is pregnant, everybody’s under stress, feelings got hurt. Then you leave like that and won’t answer anybody. You’ve got people talking.”
That last sentence told on her more than anything else. Not Martha, are you all right? Not I’m sorry about the police. People are talking.
“Mom,” I said, “you called the police and told them I was unstable.”
She lifted one shoulder. “I was worried.”
“No,” I said. “You were angry.”
For a second something flashed across her face. Something sharp and involuntary. Not shame. Recognition. Then it was gone.
“I am your mother,” she said, each word clipped. “I will not have you speaking to me like this.”
My whole life, that line had worked like a key in a lock. It was supposed to open obedience. Instead I felt myself go still.
“Then you should go home.”
Her chin jerked back slightly, as if I had slapped her.
“What did you say?”
“I said you should go home.”
We stared at each other in the thick heat, cicadas whining in the oak tree by the curb. I could smell her perfume from halfway up the walk. White florals and powder and memory. She had worn that same scent at my high school graduation, when she spent most of the party talking about how pretty Colette looked in photographs. She had worn it at Grandma Odessa’s funeral too.
