Page 141 of Intermission
“It was not okay, the way you treated Noah. And it was worse, how you treated me. The vicious accusations, the name-calling... You hit me, Mom. And you made me go to that clinic, and—” My throat is dry. I have to swallow. “You did those things—abusivethings—and that is not okay.”
“I didn’t mean to—I was angry, Faith. And maybe I overreacted. I shouldn’t have slapped you. But everything else? It was for your safety. I was doing my job, as your mother.”
She truly believes that. It’s a little hard to swallow, that truth. But I will not be held captive by it. I allowed myself to wallow in bitterness and hate for way too long. Now that I’m finally free of that ugliness, I refuse to allow it to have a hold on me again.
“I forgive you, Mom. For all of it.”
Mom blinks several times, opens her mouth, and closes it. “It’s over. In the past. And I can’t... I can’t do much, I guess. You don’t live here anymore, so we just need to...” She shrugs. “We move on.”
It’s not the response I hoped for, but...
I nod. “We’ll figure it out as we go.”
Mom yawns and tilts her head. “I think the storm’s over.”
A great crash of thunder pulls a yelp from her, and I almost drop my glass of water.
“Or maybe not.”
Our laughter is soft but heavy-laden and cut off by my own wide yawn. “I don’t know about you, but it’s been a long day. And a long night,” I add as I stand and offer Mom a hand up. “Do you want the sofa, or would you rather take the recliner?”
Mom groans. “I’ll take the recliner. If I sleep on that sofa, I’ll be stiff for a week. You’re young. You’ll bounce back more quickly.”
“Time for bed, Janey.”
“Please tell me that wet lump of fur is not going to sleep on thesofa with you.”
“It’s a sectional. We’ll each get a section.” I clasp my hands and bat my eyes.
“Oh, fine.” Mom rolls her eyes, but the expression holds a semblance of a smile.
I arrange the blankets and pillows Mom brought downstairs and settle into the sofa. “Goodnight, Mom.”
“Goodnight.” Mom settles into the recliner and pulls the chain on the lamp. “Sleep tight.”
“Geesh, Mom. I’m not six years old.”
“I know, Faith.” She sighs. “I know.”
The next morning dawns clear and sunny. Except for a few downed tree limbs and puddles, there’s little evidence of the storm. My internal alarm clock has me up before seven. Mom is still asleep in the recliner when I set to work cleaning the mess upstairs.
When I’m finished, I cast a critical eye around the bathroom. The brushed-nickel fixtures sparkle. The glass and mirrored surfaces are finally streak-free. Even the toilet’s been scrubbed, just to be thorough.
“You really didn’t need to do that, Faith,” Mom says as she puts a load of whites in the washing machine.
She must have switched my clothes to the dryer sometime during the night because I found them there when I went to do it myself.
“You did an admirable job wiping everything down last night. Besides, the cleaning service is coming later. They could have gotten what you missed.”
“You have acleaning service?”
“I won a month of service in a raffle last winter and...” She ducks her head. “I guess I got spoiled. I signed a contract and everything. They come once a week. Keep the place neat and tidy.”
“Sweet.” I laugh. “I wondered how you managed without me around to do the dirty jobs.”
“That’s one of the privileges of being a parent, Faith. Free slave labor.” She smiles. “But then they grow up, and you’re stuck cleaning your own toilets. It’s so unfair to—”
The doorbell rings.
