Page 119 of Dirty Like Dylan

But keeping your home a shrine to your ex-husband, who’d walked out on you two decades ago—complete with his recliner in the same spot and his ashtray next to it, even though you’d never smoked? That, I could not understand.

And it wasn’t like Liv and I hadn’t taken Mom to see doctors. Repeatedly. They all said there was nothing wrong with her, medically.

Her sanity was intact.

Of course, they’d never been inside her home.

“How’ve you been?” I asked her, after a brief hug, as she shuffled us into the kitchen. I watched her putter around, preparing to make tea. She was overweight, too much bulk on her previously thin frame, weighting down her delicate bone structure, and she seemed listless, tired. But she’d been this way for years. Combination of a poor diet, comfort eating and a sedentary lifestyle.

And too much time spent living in the past.

I used to tell her if she took better care of herself, she might attract a new man.

I was a teenager. I didn’t know that was the wrong thing to say, for so many reasons.

I didn’t say shit like that anymore.

“Oh, I’m good,” she told me as she put the kettle on to boil. “Do you still like chamomile tea?”

I’d never really liked chamomile tea. Tasted like soap to me. For some reason, she could never remember that.

“Sure,” I said.

“Your father prefers Earl Grey,” she said. Because that, she remembered perfectly.

It made my skin fucking crawl the way she said prefers. In the present tense. Like he came over for tea every Sunday or something, when in truth, he hadn’t spoken to her in years. I didn’t even want to look in the cupboard when she pulled out the tea, afraid she might have Earl Grey stocked up for him, just in case.

Who was I kidding? Of course she did.

“Have you been getting out?” I asked her, gently. She never got out as much as I wanted her to, but I always hoped. Then maybe she’d make a new friend at the park, or join a yoga class, or something. Take up knitting. Bake something for a community bake sale. Whatever it took to get her more of a life.

But I wasn’t going to push. Ever since Ashley had told me I should go see her, try to make amends with her, salvage whatever relationship we might still have, it had been weighing heavily on me.

I did not want to wake up one day, days or years from now, to find out I’d missed my chance. That she was gone, and I’d never tried.

“I’ve been doing walks, every Saturday,” she informed me, sounding proud of herself. “I drive up to Queen Elizabeth Park and walk all the way around.”

“That’s great, Mom.” It was great. However, a walk once a week was hardly enough. “How’s work?”

“I’m still doing three shifts a week at the greenhouse,” she said. “It keeps me busy.”

Right. Busy.

We both knew she spent many more hours a week obsessing over her lost love than anything else.

“Could you pick up a few more shifts? They seem to like you there.”

“Oh, they do. They always ask. But three is enough for me.”

I left it at that.

“Enough about me,” she said. “Tell me about your trip.” She poured the boiling water into the pot and set the tea to steep, and joined me at the table. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yes. Brazil was amazing. I got a ton of photos. I don’t even know what I’ll do with them all. You know, I always shoot way too much, but it was so gorgeous. And so moving… I think I’ll have to go back one day. I still haven’t fully processed it all. But I managed to sell some images, and even picked up a few assignments along the away.”

“That’s wonderful, Amber.” My mom’s hazel eyes softened as she gazed at me, and she laid her hand on mine, giving it a squeeze. Her hand was soft and doughy, and she had long, beautiful fingernails that she’d painted a meticulous pink. That had never changed.

She’d always been proud of me; that had never changed, either.

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