Page 23 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
“What do you want to listen to?” my mom asked, flipping through her vinyl collection.
“Anything except…”
She sighed. “I know.” She chose Bob Dylan’sBlood on the Tracks. The perfect album to cheer someone up.
“Do you think a mug of cocoa will make it better?” She patted the top of my head on her way to the kitchen.
A farmhouse table with my birthday flowers arranged in a putrid green ceramic vase separated the kitchen from the living room. I’d made the lopsided vase at a pottery studio when I was about nine, but like me, my mother kept everything.
“Do you have anything stronger than hot chocolate? Tequila? Whiskey? A shot of Demerol?”
“What’s going on?” My mom poured milk into a saucepan and set it on the gas burner.
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.” I pulled on a loose piece of yarn and the blanket started to unravel. Kind of poetic, really. All it took was one phone call to unravel my entire life.
I care about Annika. It was never my intention to hurt her…
What did that mean? Was he planning to break up with her on his birthday? Why would he even say those things to me?
What an asshole.
My mom handed me a mug of cocoa with six mini marshmallows, like I was still five years old, and this was the cure for all my worries and woes.
She sat opposite me on the sofa with her back leaning against the arm and blew on her hot chocolate, waving her hand at me. “Talk.”
I didn’t want to talk. Spilling my guts would only drive home the point that I’d inadvertently caused my best friend’s impending breakup.
Far better to pretend that that conversation had never happened.
“You know what I’d really love to do?” My gaze drifted to the battered desk where my mom’s ancient Olympia typewriter sat. It was big and clunky and weighed a ton, but she refused to part with it.
When I was a kid, the distinctive sound of her pounding those keys late into the night used to be as soothing as a lullaby. A reassurance that my mom was working, she was safe and well, and I wasn’t alone.
“I’d love to get lost in a good book?—"
“No.” My mom shook her head and pursed her lips. “Absolutely not.”
“Please,” I pleaded. “It’s the only thing I want for my birthday. Just let me read a little bit?—”
“It still needs more rounds of edits…and it needs work. It’s not ready.”
“You’ve been working on it for two years. You have to let me read it eventually.”
Her brows inched up. “Just like you used to let me read all the poetry you wrote.”
“Oh please, that was entirely different. That was just angsty high school stuff. And I’m not a writer,” I pointed out.
“So how’s the art coming?” she asked, prodding my leg with her foot. “Have you exhibited your work in any galleries yet?” She wiggled her toes, digging them into my thigh. “Have you sold anything yet?”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed her foot, pushing it away. “I know what you’re doing.”
“I’m being serious, Cleo. If you want to be an artist, you have to put yourself out there.”
Where have I heard that before?
Without debating it further, my mom crossed the room and retrieved the manuscript from the desk drawer. She held it to her chest like it was her baby before offering it to me.
The symbolism wasn’t lost on me. I set my mug on the table and took it from her. “Thank you.”
