"Isn't the full moon lovely tonight?" asked Joan, staring intently
ahead at the road. Her hands, hidden by black leather gloves, gripped the
steering wheel.
"Yes, absolutely gorgeous. It looks just like a silver dollar,"
replied her daughter. Kate lived in San Francisco and was visiting her
mother in Maine. It was below zero outside. Kate shivered and sunk deeper
into the heavy camel's hair coat she had found in her mother's closet.
Kate was certain the coat had once belonged to her, but her mother said
no. Still, the texture of the scratchy wool against her chin felt
familiar.
"I'll turn the heat up," Joan said glancing at her daughter. She wore
an oatmeal-colored sweater Kate had given her. The wool was hand-spun and
soft, with a sheen almost like silk. "I guess I'm used to the cold."
"I forgot to mention how much I love your new car," responded Kate,
trying to sound friendly. Mother and daughter were off to an antique
auction. The road was narrow and icy but Joan drove fast, shifting the red
mini-van harshly, as if they were late, but there was plenty of time.
Maine was Kate's newly adopted childhood state. Eight years ago, her
mother and stepfather had retired and moved from Connecticut to a tiny
Maine town named Paris. It was a perfect home town, Kate told her San
Francisco friends, with rambling farmhouses, a brick schoolhouse, and a
few churches that closed in the summer because of poor attendance.
Kate's two sons also loved Paris. Her husband, a native Californian,
admitted he liked Paris too. It had been easy for Kate to sweep her
childhood memories out of Connecticut and into Maine. The cozy Connecticut
she once cherished had disappeared into a maze of housing tracts, crowded
highways, shopping malls, and fast food restaurants. But during visits to
Paris, Kate was delighted to splash in what looked like her childhood
favorite brook and swing on a twin of her old backyard's climbing tree.
"Memories only in my head don't help me. Things have to exist. They
must have a place, so we can taste, smell, see, and touch them when we
need them," Kate told her husband. Bill was a programmer working in
artificial intelligence, devoted to creating abstract equations out of the
smallest details of everyday life.
"I see. It doesn't matter which brook we hear, only that one babbles
for us now," said Bill. Her husband had no ear for poetry, but, after her
explanation, he no longer complained when Kate told their sons about
beloved trails through the woods and lush blueberry patches she remembered
from her newly acquired youth in Paris, Maine.
"This has been a wonderful visit, Kate," said Joan, downshifting
abruptly and causing the van's front wheels to slide off to the right.
"I'm glad we've had so much time alone."
"Me too," said Kate, although she wasn't sure exactly what her mother
meant. She did feel nervous about her mother's driving. It was even worse
than usual.
Today the boys and Bill had spent most of the afternoon sledding down
the big slippery hill behind the house. Kate joined them briefly and
crazily sped down the slope, twisting and turning in the green, plastic
flying saucer. No fear, she told herself.
Earlier in the day, Kate and her mother had taken down the Christmas
tree and carefully wrapped dozens of antique ornaments in tissue paper.
The boys had declared their grandmother's glittering tree was the
prettiest they'd ever seen. But they were surprised to see the tree still
up in late January.
"I kept this room extra cold to keep the tree fresh for you. I so
wanted you to see what your mother's Christmas tree looked like when she
was a little girl," Joan explained to her grandsons.
"That's right. Mom never allowed us to hang these ornaments on the
tree. But we didn't mind because we didn't want to break them," said Kate,
adding another fact to her mother's story.
Actually, the faded, hand-blown Santas and delicate frosted-glass
pine cones weren't part of Kate's childhood. When her mother was still
married to Kate's father, the family tree was decorated with homemade
paper chains, pipe-cleaner angels, and clumps of tinsel hung in bunches by
Kate and her two younger sisters.
"Your children are lovely, dear," Joan said loudly, taking a sharp
turn to the right and bouncing Kate out of her reverie.
"Thanks. I think they're enjoying the year. They like their
teachers."
"And how's waitressing?"
"Mom, I'm not a waitress. I own the restaurant," said Kate, not
trying to hide her annoyance. Kate knew she was a disappointment to her
mother, who, at various times, had wanted her daughter to become a doctor,
lawyer, pianist, architect, and once, oddly, a talk show host. In truth,
Kate had also dreamed about those occupations, with the exception of
interviewing mothers-who-hate-their-daughters on TV, but they remained
only fantasies.
Kate's gift was seizing opportunities. The small restaurant she now
owned had literally fallen into her lap when the woman she worked for had
decided to retire and couldn't sell the business.
"I know you own the restaurant, but I thought you said you were glad
for a chance to get away because you were tired from waitressing. Didn't
you say your feet hurt or did I just imagine it like everything else I
imagined you said?"
This exchange was slippery. It hurt. For a few seconds Kate thought
about punching her mother in the face. No one would ever know what caused
the accident -- the red van lying on its side, the two women tossed
together chest-to-chest, dead.
Kate felt the return of a stabbing pain in her stomach. She imagined
pointing to her belly, and saying, "Kiss me right here, make it better,
please, Mommy." Now that was really sick. Besides, her mother rarely
kissed anyone, not even her grandsons. Instead, she pecked at the air,
like a lost bird, and hugged so quickly it felt more like getting pushed
away than embraced.
"You're right, Mom, I was tired from waiting on tables and I did tell
you about it. I'm a little short-handed right now, that's all. Usually I
don't waitress."
Her mother smiled. This was what she wanted. She wanted Kate to agree
with her, over and over again -- many, many times. It was an obsession and
very annoying. Often Kate dodged conversation, not to sidestep arguments
but to avoid becoming trapped in affirmative gestures; in nodding, yes, oh
yes, of course, I know, you're right, I'd have done the same, what a good
move.
There was one unwritten rule. Kate asked very few questions of her
mother because too many might lead to the big question that was never
answered: there was still no explanation as to why her mother had
abandoned her three daughters almost thirty years ago, only to claim them
back two years later with a new husband. Kate's father was only too happy
to return them. The girls had quickly learned not to mention what they had
done or felt during their mother's two-year absence. Eventually they
almost forgot about the absence. Family finances picked up with the new
husband. That was something.
Kate ventured a single question, "Mom, why don't you come visit me in
California this summer? You can eat at my restaurant and I would be happy
to wait on you."
"Dear, you know I don't fly anymore. Unlike you, I'm afraid to fly.
Of course I'm not sure you would visit me if I didn't help out with the
cost of the expenses," Joan said. "I guess it would be less expensive if I
visited you."
Kate stared at her mother. Her silvery hair looked thick and
lustrous in the moonlight. But she seemed changed, even more abrasive than
usual. And she had developed a crop of new allergies to soaps and
detergents, perfumes, all her silver jewelry, house dust, and dog hair.
She was becoming fearful -- afraid to fly, unable to sleep alone at night,
uneasy in an unlocked house even during the day. She refused to go for
regular checkups. "No news is good news," she had said this morning.
"Doctors killed your grandfather you know."
"Mom, do you know that technically we're both middle-aged?
Demographically, we're in the same group, even though you're sixty-two and
I'm forty."
"Kate, I know you're not a waitress. I don't know why I said that.
I'm just so proud of you I guess I'm a little jealous."
There it was. The unexpected compliment, oddly out of place and
mostly out of character. Kate really began to feel nervous. The car
thumped loudly as they sped over a bump in the road, reminding Kate of the
sound of ice cracking in a frozen lake. The air felt thinner and Kate
inhaled deeply. It was so dry and cold that Kate wondered if there was
less oxygen than usual, like at high altitudes.
Now her mother turned sharply left and the car skidded into a
driveway. They had reached their destination. The auction parking lot was
almost full and it took a few minutes to find a place to park. When the
car stopped, Kate turned to face her mother.
"Mom, what's bothering you?" Kate asked with the suspicion she knew
the answer.
Her mother turned and looked at her, her upper lip quivering, "It's a
lump, dear. It's probably nothing. I don't want to go to the doctor."
For a moment Kate felt irrational and blinked quickly when she
thought she saw her mother's face dissolve into particles of dust. The
emotional distance between them was so great. Now, suddenly, they were
rushing toward each other with the speed of light, about to collide, maybe
explode.
"You're right, Mom. There's probably nothing to worry about. But
we're going to have to find out. I can help you. Is it a lump in your
breast?"
"Yes." Her mother slowly removed the black leather gloves. Kate sat
quietly, unsure what to do next. Without warning, her mother quickly
raised the thick, knitted sweater, first above her belly, then above her
chest. She drew up her turtleneck shirt, reached behind her back, unhooked
her bra, and tucked it above the rolled-up clothing.
In the full moonlight, it wasn't hard to see her mother's skin. Kate
stared at the bunched clothing, her mother's pale breasts and dark
nipples. She felt she was staring into a mirror. She had never known how
similar their breasts looked. Kate searched her mother's eyes.
Her mother touched a spot slightly above her right nipple. "It's
probably nothing to worry about. I'm not sure it even is a lump."
Kate reached toward her mother, resting her hand briefly on her
mother's fingers. Then she gently pushed her mother's hand aside and
lightly felt the outline of a single, hard, almond-sized lump. "When did
you first notice this, Mom?"
"Not too long ago. Before Christmas."
"We'll see the doctor tomorrow, Mom. I'll go with you."
Her mother's skin felt warm and satiny. Outside the frigid terrain
was all sharp contrast, a brilliant, solid moon above a glazed, snowy
surface -- the stars, shards of light in the black, unbending sky. Inside
the van the air felt dense and muddy. Kate stretched out her arms, pulled
her mother close, and hugged her. Her mother's bare flesh pressed hard
against the camel's hair coat. The rough old collar rubbed against Kate's
chin.
