Page 23

1986

ONCE, GLORIA DECIDEDto pick five-year-old Luce up from her sister’s and take her out for a special date in the city nearby. It would just be the two of them, a whole day alone, window-shopping and nibbling on pastries and strolling through toy stores, maybe even giggling together at this high tea she’d heard a coworker talk about, where you sit on velvet chairs and are served cucumber sandwiches by people who call you miss and ma’am, like queens, the kind of day her daughter would remember for a long time, forever maybe, and when people asked her later what her mother had been like, she’d fill with crackling love and tell the story of this day. Gloria hadn’t been around as much as she’d have liked, as much as she’d wanted. When she agreed to Gem’s offer to raise Luce, she said that she’d be very involved as well, she’d be over most nights, take her on weekends, it would be more like coparenting. But auditions were mostly at night, and between rehearsals for the plays she was in, dates, her job, she was just so busy, and then it wasn’t long before she knew that her biggest shimmering dream of stardom could only have a real shot from LA—where she’d intended to go from the beginning—and LA wasn’t all that far from where Gem and Luce lived in Sacramento, six hours maybe, so they’d still see each other a lot. This was a thing she had to do.

But it was hard to get back up north. Couldn’t get people to cover her shifts at the restaurant. Always a big audition she might get. She’d really planned on being with Luce so much more. When she let herself think about it, she felt as if there were some kind of worm inside her heart, chewing it, and so she didn’t let herself think about it very much.

Now she was back for the weekend, and they would have this whole perfect day together. One day wouldn’t make up for everything completely, she wasn’t an idiot, but if it was perfect enough, it could do a lot.

From the beginning, something felt strange. Luce morphed from overly excited to sulky and distant, something her sister had said she might do, a sensitive little thing, her daughter, and Gloria had said it was no problem. Of course it wasn’t. Her daughter sulked sometimes probably because she missed her mother, and Gloria was sorry about that, she truly was, but a woman is more than just a mother and she had so much else to do. Anyway, spending the day with her own mother would whisk Luce right out of anything else she had going on. But the little girl was stubborn. Quiet, despite how many times Gloria tried to start a conversation. Picked at the bear claw, uninterested, didn’t want to gaze at the window displays, said she didn’t like the taste of tea. Turned inward, like a private little whirl of dust. It was exhausting. Still, they carried on until early evening, finally finishing up their day together, taking the train back out of the city to where Gem had agreed to pick them up. It was rush hour, thousands of bodies hustling and jostling all around them. Gloria was holding her tight, making sure she stayed close—it wasn’t easy to keep her safe in a big city after a long day—and Luce had squeezed her hand hard, surprising it could be that hard from such a little thing, but it was, and it hurt, like really hurt, and Gloria had no idea, none at all, why on earth her daughter would want to hurt her, and then, even more surprising, as Gloria held tight to keep her daughter close, ready to step off the train, her daughter let go of her hand. She let go. Gloria got off, and Luce stayed on the train. She would rather be lost in an unknown city than be with her mother a moment longer, Gloria thought, and thought again, unbelieving, feeling a physical pain inside her ribs she’d never felt before. Her daughter, this tiny, beautiful girl, did not want her.

The doors started to close. Gloria lunged back into the train, throwing her body between the closing doors, back pressing against one side, hands against the other, struggling, and then grabbing for the emergency cord. The doors sighed open. She shoved people aside, calling her girl’s name. There Luce was, unmoving, afraid. Once she finally pulled her off the train, onto the platform, she hugged her tightly, too tightly maybe, pressing this small frame into hers, and said, down toward the top of her head, “Sorry, sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” And she was. So sorry for a lot of things.

And then her daughter bit her.

Back at Gem’s apartment that night, Gloria packed her suitcase while big-eyed Luce watched from across the room. The sun was setting, and Gem opened the sliding glass doors, sat herself on a bench on their small balcony. Luce followed her, sitting right beside her so their arms touched, legs dangling. Gloria on the other side of the glass, alone. The sun’s final orange glow on the parking lot below, and Luce and Gem, side by side on the bench, not talking, just looking, a pigeon landing on the railing and then taking off, both of their heads turning to follow it as it disappeared. How did you ever find happiness? What was clear to Gloria was that Luce would not find it with her.