Page 137 of Intermission
Mom waves a hand in dismissal and closes the album. “Old habits are hard to break.”
A boom of thunder makes us both jump.
“I hate storms. Especially when your father’s not home.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t think to ask earlier, but are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“Water sounds good. But I can get it.” I get up and walk around to the small beverage refrigerator behind the built-in bar. “Do you want anything?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
The glasses are still where they’ve always been, and the pitcher ofwater looks fresh. There are even a few cucumber slices floating on top.
I pull out a Styrofoam bowl from one of the cupboards. “Can I use this to give Janey some water?”
“Sure. Faith, did your grandmother know you were coming to Iowa?”
“No.” I fill the bowl with tap water and set it on the floor.
“Ryan? Danielle? Gretchen?”
“No, no, and no.”
“You mean to tell me that you just drove six hundred miles and didn’t tellanyone?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean, I told my roommates, but—”
“What if something would have happened to you?”
“Nothing happened.” My throat tightens at the truth of that statement. “Nothing.”
Mom is silent for several extended moments. “I know we haven’t always had a great relationship, but I’m still your mother. I still worry about you.”
I exhale. “I know you do. But this was... personal.”
I drain my glass and pour another. “I should have told someone, but I guess after waiting two years, I didn’t want to have to explain myself if this trip turned out to be totally pointless.”
“And did it turn out... the way you wanted?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
Sorry?
Gee, thanks Mom, but your ‘sorry’ is about two years too late. I take a sip of my water, mainly to keep my mouth occupied with something other than the words that want to come out. It’s not powerful enough to wash away the bitterness welling on the back of my tongue.
“You said you’ve been planning this, uh, trip, for two years?”
I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak.
“But you’ve only been in Michigan for three months.”
“Yeah. Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
A sudden awareness lights my mother’s eyes. “Two years,” she whispers, lifting her hand to her throat. “This was about that NoahSpencer, wasn’t it?”
