Sea Wife by Amity Gaige

Author:Amity Gaige
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2020-04-27T16:00:00+00:00

VI

It’s a new day. I’m putting on a scarf in front of the hallway mirror. The scarf is silk, a bold fuchsia. Michael brought it back from a business trip several years ago. I never found the occasion to wear it. Well, until now. And of course, now it’s terribly inappropriate.

My mother walks out of the guest bedroom, rubbing her eyes.

I fell dead asleep, she says. Is it already time for the bus?

Yes, I say. I was going to let you sleep.

She blinks at me. One side of her hair is flattened.

Are you going to the bus stop? she asks, incredulous.

I thought I would, I say. I thought I should. Try. Go out and face people.

She looks around the room, licking her lips.

Well, sure, she says. I bet that would mean a lot to her.

I see her glance at the scarf.

Self-consciously, I take it off.

Pink washes me out, I say.

I hand the scarf to her.

My mother stands there holding it like a pelt.

Were you reading Michael’s journal again? she asks.

I shrug. The clenched smile appears. Jack-o’-lantern.

I was wondering…My mother shifts her weight. I don’t want to give unwanted advice, but maybe you should put the journal away? Just for a little while. Until you feel stronger. Ready.

But I’m getting to the best part, I say, before I can stop myself.

The best part? She squints.

Of the story, I say. The best part of the story. Which just so happens to be the worst part of my life.

I don’t believe you need to read that story, Juliet. Do you?

I sigh. You ask good questions, I say. But I really should head to the bus stop now.

One more thing, she says.

I wait, my hand on the doorknob.

My being here, she says. I want to stay. I will stay as long as you need me. But promise me you’ll tell me if you’d rather be alone. Just tell me. Under the circumstances, I wouldn’t take it personally.

My heart pounds. The truth is, the possibility of her leaving hasn’t even occurred to me. I know she has her own place—an apartment in Schenectady, not far from my childhood home and her best friend, Louise. Even though I’ve never seen it, I can picture the art on the walls, the succulents on the windowsills. I can picture my mother going busily in and out of the front door, retired but living carefully, on very little. Volunteering at the Boys & Girls Club. Visiting ignored New England museums with Louise.

Juliet? my mother says. Have I upset you?

The sensation is familiar. Reminding me of what? Then I remember.

The thought of my mother leaving feels like being out of sight of land.

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