Page 94 of My Cosplay Escape
“It’s Sarah, remember? Sarah Miller, actually. I wanted to make a donation to the escape room’s communal cosplay closet.” I pull the paper bag stuffed with myNightbat Returns-inspired catsuit out of my gym bag and hand it to Stacey.
She peeks inside before crumpling the bag flat to her chest in shock. “You serious? You’re not quitting, are you?”
“No. Nothing like that. I’ve outgrown it is all.” I toe my Asics into the sand-dusted concrete. “And I was thinking of trying something new anyway. I’ve been working on a third costume that I’m excited to try. See you Saturday?”
“I’ll leave the back door open as always.”
I shift my gym bag onto my shoulder. It’s lighter without the costume and boots. “Keep it locked. I can handle the front door.” My Lyft pulls up. “Good luck with the bachelorette parties.”
* * *
Catstrike was just a place to start. I don’t need to hide behind a costume anymore. That’s what I tell myself throughout my Saturday morning run. And I believe it, too, right up to the point where I walk into the kitchen and see Mom juicing a pile of lemons, oranges, ginger, and carrots. Turns out the fresh juice is here to stay and not just a summer pastime.
“Hey, Mom. Can we talk?” I ask.
“What’s up, honey?" She feeds a handful of carrots into her juicer, and they are buzzed, pulverized, and sifted until only the juice remains.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.
“What?” Mom can’t hear me over the juicer.
“I’m sorry!” I yell.
She turns off the machine. Her lips press into a tight frown, and her worry lines are all over her forehead.
“If I could go back and have a do-over, I would never have gone to that stupid party. I’d never have even spoken to Daniel. I’d definitely never have had sex with him.” I involuntarily shudder. “ I—”
“Oh, baby,” Mom says, swatting her hand through the air. “Water under the bridge.”
“No, let me finish. I know I disappointed you. I lost my scholarship. I was an embarrassment—”
“Sarah, you were never an embarrassment,” Mom says firmly.
I reach for the ginger and begin peeling the fragrant root. Mom is meticulous about her kitchen knives. Annoying, until you realize that a super-sharp knife makes nearly every kitchen chore go five times faster. “You kept saying, ‘If Dad were here—’”
“If your father were here, I thought he might have been able to help you through it all better than I could. If he were here, he could convince you right now that none of it matters. That Daniel wasn’t worth two cents of your time.” Mom pushes a pile of lemon peels out of the way.
Mom sighs. “I thought you loved him, sweetheart. I thought it was what you wanted. All of it.”
“Mom, I was pregnant. And I didn’t love Daniel ever, but I loved my baby.”
Mom’s pale as almond milk. We’ve never talked about my pregnancy. She’s never asked. I’ve never shared. I assumed Brent told her, but he certainly never told her how much I loved my daughter.
“I was excited. I wasn’t scared.” My knife makes precise and pleasantchop, chopsounds against the bamboo cutting board. Having something for my hands to do makes the words come more easily. “I mean, I was scared of other people. But not scared of being a single mom. That’s what you’ve been all these years, and it’s worked out.” I close my eyes. The memories are still painful, but not in a raw way. “The day I found out, I went out and bought this yellow dress with a snail on it, because, you know, maybe she’d be a slowpoke like me.”
“Your father gave you that nickname, just because you were five years younger than Brent, and I never liked it. You are not slow. You’ve never been slow in any way.” Mom huffs but drops the hands from her hips. “Sorry, honey. Keep going. I’m listening.”
“I married Daniel for her, and yeah, there was pressure.” I scoot the chopped ginger over to Mom. “But I thought maybe she’d need a dad for a little while. Or whatever.”
I reach for a couple of oranges to peel, but Mom places her hand on mine to stop me. She looks me in the eyes, and I can see worry there, but also love.
“I had a miscarriage.”
“How far along?”
“Twenty-four weeks.”
My mom cries out as if she’s been stung by a honey bee. A bright burst of sunlight reflected from a passing car outside temporarily blinds me. Next thing I know, Mom wraps her arms around me in a viciously tight hug. “Oh, Sarah.” She’s struggling for composure. “I wondered if you were pregnant. I should have asked. I told myself you’d tell me in time if you were. A few friends asked me if you were, and I wasn’t going to lie outright. So I made a point of not asking.”
