Page 53 of At First Smile

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Just Desserts

Pen

S tretching out on the couch, I run my bare feet along GB’s velvety fur. His happy moan hums in my ears. The entire afternoon, since the dog walker brought him back, has been just us two in a semi-vegetative state.

Not since I had the flu my freshman year of college, have I spent two straight days doing nothing.

It’s only temporary is the new mantra on an endless loop in my head.

I’ll see my primary care physician Saturday morning, and if it appears my knuckle is healing, they’ll remove the splint giving me back more use of my right hand.

I still can’t really grip my cane, so I’ve been homebound since the attack.

Homebound but not alone. Rowan hurries back here as soon as practice is over. JoJo came by last night with sushi from our favorite spot for a bicoastal bestie virtual dinner date. An evening preempted by Wes and Gillian showing up with homemade bread pudding, a recipe from Rowan’s grandma.

Between eye rolls and muttered comments, JoJo begrudgingly ate two helpings. The letter from Gillian is in her possession, but she tells me she hasn’t read it yet. I won’t push the issue, but Gillian is growing on me. Rowan has a big goofy grin on his face whenever they’re together.

As lovely as the little impromptu virtual dinner party was, I can’t wait until my hand is back to normal.

It’s amazing how many things require the use of my right hand.

Using a spoon. Washing my hair, which I’m not complaining too much about since Rowan washed it for me last night.

The magnification program on my cell is impossible without a fully functioning hand, impacting my ability to stay up with Cane Austen and Me.

JoJo helped me post an update to explain my mini-hiatus, which will be at least until next week.

I’m startled by the ringing of my cell phone. “Mom calling,” my phone announces.

“Ignore,” I say out loud, pretending my phone can fulfill that request.

Last night was supposed to be my scheduled weekly telephone date, which I’d missed due to dinner. Of course, it’s always easy to find excuses to cancel a call with Mom. A yoga class with JoJo. Dinner date with Rowan. Taking a shower. So many excuses.

“Mom calling,” my phone announces again.

Again? Brow furrowed, I sit up. As much as I don’t want to, I reach for the phone. Mom never calls twice in a row unless it’s something really important. “Hey,” I say, pushing the speaker option and placing the phone on the coffee table.

“Are you alright?” she asks, her tone is rushed and worried.

“Yeah.” I contemplate my bandaged hand. “Are you?”

“No, because my daughter gets attacked by a dog and I have to hear about it from Trina’s mom at the post office rather than from my own daughter,” she snipes.

Cringing, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Sorry, Mom… I’m fine, though.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” An eye roll accompanies the “Just for Mom” smile etched across my face.

“Is Rowan there? Has he been taking care of you?”

The question swirls inside me like a gust of wind sucking up all the emotional debris. Gratitude for my supportive and loving boyfriend. Shame at how much he’s had to do to help me over the last two days. Impatience for this temporary situation to be my history and not my present.

Everything else pales in the burgeoning anger that my mother’s first thought is about someone else taking care of me.

“He’s at practice.” I dig my fingernails into the palm of my uninjured hand in hopes it keeps the brewing storm at bay.

“But he’s been there taking care of you?”

Eyes closed, I sigh. “Yes.”

“Good. It makes me feel better to know you have him. It’s just scary to know that you’re out there alone,” she says, her worry-filled tone is soft.

Rubbing my temples, I count to three before replying, “I can take care of myself.”

“Everyone needs someone to take care of them. With Aunt Bea gone, I just worry about you.”

“You don’t need to worry.”

“I know, honey. You’ve got Rowan.”

“I have me to take care of me,” I hiss.

“Honey—”

“Stop! Just …stop,” I snap.

A sharp intake of breath is her only response.

“I wish you saw me as something more than just a problem to be solved.” Standing up, I begin to pace. The cool hardwood under my bare feet does nothing to extinguish the fire raging inside me.

“Honey, that’s not how I see you.”

“Eat your carrots, Pen, they’ll help your eyes.

You should get this experimental procedure that has a point five percent chance of working.

Pen, you should marry Alex; he’ll take care of you.

” I wave my arms and I mimic my mother’s midwestern accent.

“If you can’t cure my blindness, you want someone else to take care of me. ”

“I just want to help you,” she sniffles.

Part of me wants to say anything to stop her tears. To put on my usual smile and say, “I know, it’s okay.” It’s what I did on Wednesday as I sat with a pretend happy expression on my face while Nelson and Cortes talked to me about the promotion. It’s what I do so often with others.

They’re the blind ones. Rowan’s words almost wrap around me as if they are his strong arms.

“Maybe you should have focused more on your visual impairment, than mine. Focus on seeing your daughter as capable.”

“Honey, I’m… I don’t know,” she stammers.

“I’ve only ever been a problem for you to solve or ship off to someone else to deal with.”

“What does that mean?”

“School therapists. Vision specialists. Summer camps. Aunt Bea. If you couldn’t have my eye disease cured, you’d stick me with anyone else just so you didn’t end up with your helpless blind daughter. Well, I’m blind, but I’m not helpless. No matter what you or anyone else thinks.”

The words sprint out of me as if soldiers, swords ready, charging into battle. It’s not just the resentment that’s quietly brewed inside me over the years with my mother, but a lifetime of others’ perceptions that fuels my fury. My new therapist will have a field day at our session next week.

“I will not apologize for wanting what’s best for you… For getting experts to help you. That’s my job as a mother.” Her water-logged tone is fierce.

“What about just loving me as I am, rather than for what I’m not?”

“I know how fucking amazing you are.”

My frustrated pacing ceases with her forceful protest. Mom isn’t a demure “get my smelling salts” kind of woman, but she’s not prone to cursing. They only get pulled out when the Buffalo Sabres lose or if she’s angry, really angry .

“If I’m so amazing, then why ship me off to California?” I hiss.

“That’s not what I?—”

“It fucking is. You let your teenage daughter move across the country without you and never came to see her!”

“You wanted to go!” she shouts back.

“And you made no protest.”

“You’re right.” A quiet quake ripples along her words. “Aunt Bea and you were so close. She was so much like your dad, and you bloomed with her. I thought it was best for you.”

Forehead puckered, I glare at the phone as if it’s her. “It was also good for you. It fixed the problem. I was someone else’s burden.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why are you obsessed with me finding someone to take care of me?”

“Because I want you to have what I had with your father…and what I have with Charlie. It took me a few frogs to find my second chance for a happy ending after your dad died.” There’s no mistaking the sad wistfulness in her words.

I lean against the wall. “A relationship isn’t a happy ending.”

“True, but it makes that happy ending so much sweeter.” She releases a contented sigh. “My desire for you to have someone has nothing to do with your disability, and I’m sorry I’ve made you feel like it does.”

“It isn’t just your insistence on me finding someone, but how you always focus on my eyesight.”

“I won’t apologize for wanting you to have everything, including your vision.” She sniffles.

“I have my vision, it’s just different than yours.” Eyes closed, I slosh out a breath.

"And it works a lot better than mine, as you said mine is the impaired one.”

“We just see things differently.”

“When you were first diagnosed and the doctor said you’d lose your eyesight, all I could think is that you were so little and already lost so much. Your dad. Now, your eyesight. Perhaps, I was a little zealous in compensating that loss.”

I scoff.

“Ok… a lot zealous.” She sighs. “I don’t want this to be our relationship. For you to resent me for making you feel like a burden because of my actions.”

“Neither do I.” I swallow down that thick lump clustered in my throat.

“That’s a start.”

“Where do we go from here?” Opening my eyes, I push up my glasses and dash away a few escaped tears.

“With a trip. How about Charlie and I come see you.” She clears her throat. “It’s long overdue. We can talk more… Figure it out, together.”

“Alright,” I say, the word slow and hesitant.

It’s not that I don’t want to move forward with my mother, but I know a lifetime of emotions knotted up in a strained relationship won’t be resolved in one call.

I want the type of relationship with my mother where anxiety doesn’t gnarl inside me each time she calls.

The type where I am her daughter to just be with, rather than a problem to solve.

“I’m glad you’re open to this,” she murmurs.

GB jumps up with a bark at the doorbell.

“Someone’s here. Let’s chat this weekend. Figure things out.

“I’d like that.”

Saying goodbye, I hang up. With a quick wipe of my face, I stride to the door. GB trots beside me, his nails clicking against the floor.

“Door manners,” I coo, scratching at his head as he sits beside me. GB may not always listen to Rowan, but he’s a perfect little gentleman for me, unless food is involved and then he’s an adorable monster.

“Hey, Pen, it’s Wes.”