Page 138 of Intermission

That Noah Spencer.I press my lips more tightly together. What should I say? WhatcanI say that won’t result in being either scolded or mocked?

When my fingernails have dug a series of crescents into my palms, I say, “Yes. But it’s over. For good this time, I guess.”

“You saw him?”

“No.” The word claws through my throat... and my fragile hold on composure. “No, I didn’tseehim, Mom. I haven’t seen or heard from Noah Spencer since the night you slapped my face and called me every imaginable variation of the word ‘whore.’”

Mom’s eyes round. Her face blanches.

“Never mind.” I grind my teeth. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“I’ve never known how to . . . I thought—hoped—that . . . maybe you would forget about it.”

Forget about it? That night—and its many repercussions—gutted me.Guttedme.

My mind races through hundreds, nothousandsof moments I’ve tried to forgive my mother, each like rehearsing a scene over and over without being able to discover the character’s true motivation. Flat. A performance without heart. The forgiveness I’ve recited to myself, with the hope that it would come true, is nothing but insincere dialogue—or a prop that’s misplaced every time I think about how she treated me. About how she treated Noah, when he was a part of my life.

“I tried to forgive you. I thought I did, so many times.” I shake my head. “But every time I think about how the last few yearsshouldhave been, I... I unforgive you.” I grimace. “I don’t even think that’s a word. But it’s how I feel.”

“I see. That’s a long time to hold a grudge.”

Says the grudge-holding champion of Kanton, Iowa.

“Yeah, well, I guess we have something in common after all.”

Mom opens her mouth but closes it just as quickly. Her gaze moves to the carpet.

When I finally look—reallylook—at my mom’s face, what I see there surprises me.

Delights me, on some level.

It’s pain.

Herpain.

Finally.

A strange, ugly sort of satisfaction stirs in my belly.

Without warning, she stands. “You’re going to need a pillow and blanket.” She doesn’t meet my eyes. “I’ll go get them. Upstairs. Be right back.”

I know very well that she keeps blankets in the storage ottoman, not two feet away from the couch, but I don’t argue. Instead, I silently watch her retreat up the stairs.

Every muscle tenses around my bones. Accusations boil within my brain. Tonight’s crushing disappointment rushes through my blood, gathering under my skin.

Where would I be right now if she’d had the courtesy to meet Noah? To trust us? Would we still be together, in a committed long-distance relationship? Or would we have gradually, naturally discovered—on our own—that ours was not a romance that was meant to succeed long-term?

As Noah discovered for himself, I guess, at some point during the past two years.

But what if . . . ?

What if we had been allowed to be together? What if that amazing connection had survived? Deepened?

The grief of that possible future, lost, sucks away the air I want to use to scream. At her.This is your fault! Your! Fault!

Poisonous words form in my mind, thickening my tongue with their venom, begging for release.I hate you! I HATE you!

The ugly passion of my own emotion jolts me back from the precipice of rage.