Page 42 of Weather Girl

Those memories aren’t all bad. There were the Shabbat dinners she tried to make special, the prayers she taught us. The year we went as rock, paper, scissors for Halloween, won an elementary school costume contest, and collected more candy than I could ever hope to eat. Until she made us sell it to the dentist the next day because candy caused breakouts and god forbid her preteen daughter have a zit.

Her boyfriends are only in those memories occasionally, the ones who made an effort to get to know Alex and me, the decent ones who gently encouraged her to talk to someone. “You want to medicate me? Turn me into someone different?” she yelled at one of them, a well-meaning accountant named Charlie. I was eleven and wholly unsure what being medicated meant.

I sit up straighter and summon a smile, as though the force of it can banish the grayest parts of the past.

It’s not until we’ve exchanged pleasantries and I shuck off my jacket that she notices my arm. “Ari!” she gasps. “What happened?”

“A couple of viewers disagreed with my forecasts,” I say, then relent and tell her the almost-truth.

Her mouth forms a small O. “I’m so relieved you’re okay.”

Alex catches her up on the kids and his job, getting out his phone to show her a video of the twins dancing to Starship’s “We Built This City,” which he says is, inexplicably and unfortunately, their favorite song. I catch her up on KSEA, and she nods and laughs when she’s supposed to, even if the laughs sound a little foreign. It’s not that she seems happy, exactly—content is maybe closer to the right word.

Still, I can’t help thinking of all the years she refused treatment. Every time Alex and I worried about her, only for her to wake up the next day, pretending nothing was wrong. This hospital is an extreme—she’s only here because her brain took her to the darkest of places. Because she was afraid, and she didn’t know what else to do.

My adult life would be different, I’m sure of it, if she’d gotten help sooner. There are too many what-ifs down that road, and yet I can’t seem to redirect myself.

She tells us about the hospital’s recreational activities, the doctors, the group therapy, leaving out the more personal details. “The food is actually amazing here,” she says.

What I want to know is why this time is different. Why she changed her mind about medication, or if she’s only taking it so they’ll discharge her. If she’ll fall back on her old habits once she goes home.

And she can’t stop staring at my sling. “They’re going to let you on camera with that?” she asks.

“I sure hope so, given it’s my job.”

“It doesn’t reflect poorly on the station?”

“Why would it do that? It doesn’t affect my ability to forecast the weather.”

Dial it back, Alex’s expression says. She’s trying. Give her a chance.

“We’re all really glad you’re here.” Alex touches her arm, ever the peacemaker. “We want to support you however we can.”

She gives him a tight smile, and I try my best not to read into it. I’ve never known what’s going through my mother’s head—I can’t imagine that changing now.

Eventually, the conversation moves to my breakup, just as I feared it would.

“We weren’t right for each other,” I say with a shrug, because I can’t bear to tell her the real reason. “It just took us a while to realize it.”

I’m fully prepared for her to say something shitty, even though she doesn’t know the details. You were too much. He couldn’t handle it.

Instead, she reaches across the table and places a hand on mine, her skin weathered and dotted with freckles. “I’m sorry,” she says, and if I close my eyes, I can pretend she’s apologizing for so much more.

15

FORECAST:

Rough seas ahead, both literal and metaphorical

“DID YOU HEAR about the meteorologist who broke her arms and legs?” one of the camera guys calls to me as I position myself in front of the green screen. “She had to wear four casts.”

“That’s hilarious, Glenn. Top-notch humor.” I wince as morning producer Deandra Fuller helps me adjust my mic over one of my five-of-the-same-dresses in navy today. Zipping it up was hell. “Are you sure this is going to be okay?”

“Absolutely,” Deandra says. “Remember when Gia broke her wrist playing rec volleyball last year? She showed that video of people helping her get made up in the dressing room that everyone loved. And hey, maybe you can make a joke about it when you’re on the air. You know, make the viewers feel less awkward about it by showing that you don’t feel awkward about it.”

What that turns out to be is this: “A lot of snow in the mountains this week, which is good news for skiers and snowboarders,” I say, lifting my left arm. “Though I won’t be doing any of that for a while!”

I can barely keep my eyes open during the show. It’s gotten easier to sleep upright, but I’m going to have to take a break before Russell and I launch the next phase of our plan tonight. I’m a pro power-napper, but I tossed and turned between the hours of eleven and two, and when I forced myself out of bed at two fifteen, my head was pounding and my stomach was unhappy with me. Once again, I regret not buying that dog pillow from Instagram.

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