Page 3 of I Can't Even

“In fact, I asked her if she wanted to go to the mall yesterday, and she said no,” Em said.

“No?” I couldn’t imagine my mom turning down a trip to the mall.

A small fission of alarm rippled through my belly, my early warning signal that something was amiss. My mother, Barbara “Babs” Blumer, had to date only missed one sale ever and that was when an El Nino weather system hovered over the county for several days and the store having the sale was flooded to the rafters.

“See?” Soph said. “We’re serious. Something’s not right. You have to come home.”

I frowned. It was easy for her to say, it wasn’t like she lived three thousand miles away and would have to catch a very expensive flight out of New York City to go home to Gull’s Harbor, California, to sit at the bedside of that bitter pill we called Mom. Well, I called her Babs, mostly, but not to her face.

“Jules, she’s...she’s asking for you.” Emily’s soft voice was barely above a whisper.

My heart pounded hard in my chest, and I had a hard time swallowing. I had to take a steadying breath. My mother, the one and only—thank Christ—Babs Blumer, had asked for me. Well, in ten years, that was a first.

“I’ll be on the next flight.” I ended the call.

I arranged for my friend Jessie to watch the furry kids for me and by ten that night, I was on a flight out of JFK International. I spent a brain numbingly long layover in Chicago, which not even a Chicago dog could make better, and landed in San Diego at seven the next morning where Sophie picked me up just outside baggage claim.

Her smile, wide and warm, was the first thing I saw as she parked her SUV at the curb and dashed out of her car to greet me. It hit me then how much I’d missed her. Eight years older than me, I had spent most of my life trying to catch up to Sophie until at nineteen, she’d found herself married to medical student Stan Timmons and the mother of twins, a boy and a girl. Surprise!

At eleven, I had struggled with the abrupt loss of my big sister to her own family. She had always been the buffer between me and Babs and without her, well, things got pretty dicey.

Soph’s honey-colored hair was neatly trimmed and styled, just brushing her shoulders in the perfect mom bob, and her outfit, khaki capris and an aqua knit top, was without a wrinkle or a smudge. So much more grown up than my skinny jeans, black Converse kicks, and baggy hooded sweatshirt. In my defense, I’d been in a rush to leave New York. Yeah, total lie; I dressed like this every day.

Sophie hugged me tight and I noticed she was thinner than the last time I’d seen her. It took my sleep-deprived cabeza a second to do the math. Had it really been over five years since I’d been in Cali? Guilt began to nibble at my edges, leaving me frayed.

“How was your flight, Jules?” Sophie released me, grabbed my carryon and tossed it into the back of her SUV.

“Fabulous,” I said. “I scored a seat next to a teenage boy who smelled like rancid bologna and played his music so loud I now know all the words to Post Malone’s latest album.”

“Sorry,” she said. “You would have preferred Taylor Swift?”

“Hey, step away from the Swift,” I said. “The Eras tour was epic.”

Soph wrapped me in another hug that strangled. “Oh, God, I’ve missed you. Come on, you can power nap on the ride up the I-5.”

“You mean I’m not asleep now?”

Sophie smiled as she opened the passenger door for me. I climbed onto the seat and relaxed, hoping to catch a few Zs before facing Babs.

It’s not that I don’t love my mother—I do. It’s just that loving Mom is sort of like loving a cactus; it’s best done from a distance...of miles.

Of course, having her ask for me, well, that was a game changer. I wondered if, after all these years at odds, she had finally mellowed. Maybe she had come to love me for who I was and maybe this time we would have the tender mother-daughter moment I had always longed for. I barely acknowledged the tiny flickering flame of hope that burned low and deep inside of me for fear it might smother under the weight of my expectations.

I dozed as we made the forty-five-minute drive to Gull’s Harbor, a hilly seaside community nestled on the California coast halfway between San Diego and Los Angeles. It was tucked amidst the uber wealthy towns surrounding it like a sprig of baby’s breath in a bouquet of red roses.

Gull’s Harbor was a bit too blue-collar quirky and off-the-wall artsy to be considered picturesque like its more well-known neighbors, La Jolla and Oceanside; also its beaches were guarded by rocks, temperamental surfers, and pungent barking sea lions so tourists were discouraged.

With a population of less than six thousand, Gull’s Harbor boasted a town square with the requisite gazebo, which held brass band concerts by the local veteran’s group every Friday night in the summer. It had been a long time since I’d been to one, but I vaguely remembered a lot of discordant squeaking culminating in a finish that sounded like someone stepping on a goose. Good times.

Local shops circled the petite town green. The small independent businesses survived here but would expire like road kill if they were to try and make a go of it anywhere else—including Liam’s Coffee Shop.

We were stopped at an intersection. I blinked fully awake to find the enormous coffee cup denoting Liam’s looming over me as if beckoning me to come inside. I averted my gaze, not wanting to confront my past just yet. I had managed to duck and weave for nine years; I did not want to take it on now when I’d had less than four hours of sleep and probably looked like something found growing on the crust of an old loaf of bread.

Sophie glanced at me as she drove on. “How are you doing?”

I sat up straighter. “Good. Great. Terrific.”

“Who are you trying to convince?”

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