Page 9 of Falling Slowly
Celia had just finished her dinner when Mom appeared at my door.
“I’ve been looking at pictures of that retreat and the little town. I’m so excited for you!” She removed her floral scarf and leather gloves to show me a picture on her phone: A mountain range bathing in bright red autumn colors.
“Photoshopped.”
“You and your Photoshop. This is real. Look at the catering!” She swiped to a picture of a long buffet featuring the entire color wheel of fruit and vegetables. “And the bed. Oh… I’d give my kidney for this bedroom.”
I stared at the enormous bed, laden with cushions, with the pine-covered hill rising behind the window.
“Okay. That is a beautiful room,” I admitted. “Expensive.”
“I know! Take some photos for your dream board.”
I hadn’t looked at my old Pinterest boards in years, but I found myself smiling at her enthusiasm. After everything she’dgone through in life, Mom was still a dreamer. She continued ‘ooh’ing and ‘aah’ing her way into our tiny apartment.
“And here’s the building.” Mom swiped to a photo of a huge, Victorian-style mansion nestled in the mountains. “Can you believe you get to stay in this place?”
Celia pushed closer to see the screen. “Can I come, Mom? I won’t make any noise, I promise.” She was already in her bunny pajamas, blond curly hair somewhat tamed into two sloppy braids.
“I’m sorry, babe.” I crouched down to give her a hug. “I was only given one ticket. But I promise we’ll take a vacation as soon as I can afford it.”
After we put Celia to bed, Mom gathered our dinner plates and ate Celia’s leftover vegetables. “I’ll come over on Sunday after church. That way you have plenty of time to drive there before it gets dark. Do you need gas money?”
I tried to shake off my discomfort. She was on a tight budget, working as a virtual assistant, yet paid to keep my car on the road. Without her support, I would have been forced to sell it. “I should be okay.”
Her eyes sharpened with concern. “Why aren’t you more excited? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s just very sudden. I haven’t wrapped my head around?—”
“Well, start wrapping that head. Look!” She showed me another photo of a ridiculously cute mountain town.
“That can’t be real.”
“It’s like a screensaver, isn’t it?” She scooped the rest of the grated carrot into her mouth and began washing the dishes. “Your dad took me to the mountains once, in Northern California,” she said after swallowing. “We were both quite clueless. It got so cold at night we packed up the tent and drove down at 3.a.m.” She tucked a strand of blond hair behind herear, blue veins popping on her delicate hand. Translucent skin, always cold. Thank goodness I’d inherited a slightly thicker skin from my father, despite him being Irish.
“Did dad have Italian blood? He once said.”
Mom huffed. “He said a lot of things. I don’t know if I’d believe it all. He loved a good story.”
“You talk about him like he’s dead.”
“When you move to another continent and make no effort to stay in touch, you might as well be.”
Technically, Mom had moved back to the States and Dad had stayed in his home country. But I didn’t feel like correcting her, seeing she was still washing my dishes.
“He sent me an email on my birthday.” It had been six months since that birthday and that email had contained one poem—one he’d written about the 5-year-old me, a child he believed was destined for greatness. That was his excuse for the hands-off parenting. I was so self-sufficient. Terrifyingly capable. Basically a ‘wunderkind’ who didn’t need parents at all.
Mom scoffed. “Knowing your situation, I told him to send money or shut up, but he would have left every penny on the racetrack or self-published another poetry book no one’s ever going to buy.” Mom shelved the last cup and hung the dish towel. “There, all done. I’ll see you on Sunday.”
I saw her to the door, feeling grateful and exhausted. “Thank you.”
Two nights ago, I’d dreamed about having a dishwasher. How lame was that?
When Mom left and silence fell, I looked around my cramped apartment. My world had become so small. I spent my days in concrete buildings surrounded by other concrete buildings, mostly staring at a screen. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe I needed this trip. And maybe it didn’t matter how I’d come acrossthis opportunity. I had to take it. Besides, declining could offend George, which was a much bigger risk. I had no choice.
I took a deep breath, picking up toys as I walked across the floor into the bedroom. Celia had graduated from the toddler bed and moved into mine—an old memory foam mattress that still remembered the weight of Jack, gently sloping to his side.
The room didn’t fit another bed. Every inch of the apartment was filled with things from our old life, worthless things I couldn’t part with, yet, even if they sometimes made me feel like the walls were caving in. That’s when I took Celia to the nearby park—a little square of grass and a rusty swing set.
