Page 127 of Hate You, Maybe
But still, talking to my mom will be a good reminder that the only person you can rely on in the end is yourself.
“Hey, baby!” she chirps, taking the call on the first ring. “How are you?”
The mere sound of her voice brings up a flood of emotions in me, like I’m one of Pavlov’s dogs hearing those bells before dinner. Old vulnerabilities and loneliness and insecurity bubble up, along with that thin net of safety I always felt around my mother when I was young. Because no matter how much she drove me crazy, or how angry I got at her choices, we always had each other. And the only word I can squeak out is, “Mom.”
Then I start to cry.
“Oh, Sayla,” she murmurs. “Oh. Oh, no. What’s wrong?”
“Eve … ry … thing,” I wail, but the syllables come out garbled over the wall of tears pouring out of me.
“Well, whatever happened, it’ll be okay. And I just know we can get through it. Together. We always did, and we always will. Now go get a tissue and blow your nose. Take a few deep breaths and take your time telling me everything. I’ve got you, baby.”
A half hour later, I’ve filled her in on everything that’s happened in the past few weeks. Some of which she kind of knew about—Tequila Mockingbird—but other stuff was news. The storm. The grant. My feelings soup.
She’s shockingly supportive, and I start to wonder how much of my story about her was framed over the course of my first eighteen years without any pause for amendments. And in the end, aren’t we all a little complicated? A little broken?
She may have hauled me around, kicking and screaming, for a couple of decades. But she kept me. And that’s more than I can say for my dad.
Still, she remains Colleen Kroft. And eventually the conversation circles back to her. And Eugene. And the Christmas wedding at the Clumsy Goat in Apple Valley, Oregon. “What do you think about wearing a dress like you’re one of Santa’s helpers? Just to keep up with the theme.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“You’re suggesting an elf costume for my bridesmaid’s dress?”
“Sexy elf,” she clarifies. “And you’re the maid of honor, baby.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’ll be your maid of honor,” I say. “But I willnotbe wearing any sexy North Pole-related clothing to the wedding. Choose any normal dress in green or even red, and I’m in.”
“You need to loosen up, Sayla.”
“I can’t, Mom.” I sigh. “I never could.”
She makes a long humming noise on her end. Then she says, “And I suppose that’s all my fault.”
I don’t know how to respond to this. Because she isn’t wrong. Ihaveblamed her for a lot of things over the course of my life. Still, I’ve been a full-grown adult for ten years now. So I probably could start letting go of some baggage from my childhood.
“You did your best,” I tell her.
She sniffs. “I could’ve done a better job with the stability.”
“I won’t argue with that.”
“And I know you felt insecure sometimes,” she says. “That hurt me. I just didn’t know how to fix things.”
“You should have asked me,” I quip. “I had a list.”
She barks out a laugh. “You and your lists!”
“They’re what I do best.”
“You do a lot of things best,” she says. And my nose starts stinging again. “But nobody is perfect, baby. Least of all your mama. So you just go ahead and keep doing you. Clipboards and all.”
