Page 75 of Take It on Faith

Mother’s nail lady gestured for Mother to put her feet back in the water, and she obliged. “Never for a moment think that I love you less than I loved Dante,” she said. As her eyes met mine, I could see a fierce pride burning. “You are my only daughter, and a gift from God. Never forget that.” She inspected her fingernails and added, “And maybe, don’t be so judgmental.”

* * *

For the rest of the day, all I could think about were my mother’s words. You are my daughter, and a gift from God. It was still hard to believe that those words came from my mother.

“Are you sure it was your mom that said that?” Cat said, a dubious look playing between her eyebrows.

We were in the car, on our way to The Home Store, otherwise known as my happy place. In my dreams of living in holy matrimony with Michael, our place was splendid. It had beautifully decorated rooms, complete with lush carpets to dig our bare feet in, a roaring fireplace, comfy couches, and throw blankets to wrap ourselves in on chilly New England nights. It would be somewhere between elegant and cozy, the perfect blend of Michael’s bachelor décor and my warm but minimalist vibe.

Of course, to do that, we needed the décor. And, you know, furniture. That’s where The Home Store came in.

My favorite place in the world was located in a not-quite-outdoors-mall just off the main road in our hometown. It spanned the square footage equivalent to four city blocks and had just as much packed in. There was Ned’s Tavern, which served everything from cheap bar food to the best beer west of Route 9; Everything Toys, which was self-explanatory; the best shoe store known to man; and, of course, my little slice of homemaker heaven. The rest of the stores that made up the collective were a bunch of chains, like Barnes and Noble and the Hallmark store.

“It was Mother,” I said to Cat as I backed the car into its space. I took the keys out of the ignition and stared through the windshield, wincing as I thought back to earlier that day. “Definitely Mother.”

“Were you dreaming?”

“Possibly. But probably not.” I watched a boy chase after his sister in the parking lot with a small smile. The mom looked less than amused. “The rest of the day was a litany of criticism.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Yep.”

Cat was silent for a moment. “Wow. This changes everything. Mama Jones out here giving compliments. I didn’t know she even knew how to smile at you genuinely.”

I snorted. “Who are you telling?” I thought back to all the times I wished she would congratulate me just once on doing a good job without adding tips on how to be better. “I almost fell out my seat when she said I’m her daughter like it was something she was proud of. Do you remember that time when we went on the field trip to the New England Aquarium and someone asked if I was her daughter?”

“And she looked like she was gonna deny it?” Cat shook her head. “Who could forget?”

“I still can’t believe she almost didn’t claim me!”

Cat fought a smile by biting down on her bottom lip. “To be fair, you were sobbing hysterically about the museum feeding live fish to the penguins.”

“I was six!”

“Girl, you were fourteen.”

I sucked my teeth. “Man, whatever. It’s the principle. They don’t even kill the poor guys first! They just let them die when they get chomped on. Death by eating.”

We chuckled at the bleeding heart I used to be. As we stepped out of the car and closed our doors, Cat mused, “I wonder what else we don’t know about your mom.”

“Right?” I walked to the line of shopping carts, took one, and pushed it through the opening doors. “How many other gems is she hiding?”

Cat shrugged as she followed me into the store. “Who knows?” A wry grin overtook her face as she caught my eye. “Maybe your mom actually loves you.”

I rolled my eyes as I stopped to inspect a vase with intricate detail. “Sure,” I said. “Okay. Which version of me? The one that follows all of her rules and marries her dream guy? Or the one that goes on tour with a band whose lead singer has pink hair?”

“Isn’t it just a few streaks of pink?”

“Tell that to Quinta Jones.”

“Right. But think about it.” Cat tapped her finger to her lips, a gesture she picked up from Jeremiah. Her eyes grew unfocused as she started thinking about an alternate future. I braced myself for impact; Cat’s daydreams, while mostly based in reality, sometimes took us on a journey.

“What if,” she said finally, “your mom really does love you? The you that you are presently? What if she does have a heart that we didn’t know about”—at this, I snorted—“but she’s been motivated by wanting you to have a husband and a good life?”

“There are other ways to have a good life,” I said. “I don’t need a husband to do it.”

“True,” Cat conceded, “but what if she doesn’t know that? What if her ideas about what makes a good life are based in the traditional? Back when your parents got married, that’s what was considered having a good life. Get married, have kids, buy a house, blah blah blah. What if she is the way she is because she wants you to have all that?”

“Regardless of the intention, the impact is the same,” I said. I placed the vase in the basket a little too roughly and a sales associate passing by gave me a sharp look. “Even if what you’re saying is true—that she just wants to make sure I have a good life—she’s been hard on me my whole life. She can’t possibly think that I would know that’s how she shows love.”

“Hey, we didn’t know she was even capable of giving you a compliment up until today, much less showing you love,” Cat pointed out. “Who’s to say what she believes?”

I paused at that. What Cat said could be true, or it could not. But in order to believe this alternate reality—to believe that Mother really did love me, and she did what she did so I could have the best in life—I would have to believe that my mother’s intentions were pure. I didn’t know if I had the capacity to believe that. Not after all these years of feeling unloved, unwanted, and emotionally beat down by her and my father alike. It took too much faith to believe in that which had no physical, tangible evidence. You can’t see intention. I simply couldn’t believe in what I had yet to see or feel.

I couldn’t even hope for it.

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