Читать книгу One Week In November - Sarah Everest - Страница 1

I avoided my mother's calls for three weeks. She always sounded the same. There was a slight whine to the words, a sort of pressure that meant she actually had something she wanted to say beyond her usually vapid sentiments about missing me, wishing I would come home, wishing I would accept her as a real mother again. I didn't want to deal with it, so I ignored the calls.

Then she called Aunt Stacey, and I lost my edge. Living with my aunt was great, but part of the agreement involved me dealing with things. Things like my relationship with my mother, which had swallowed me whole when I lived with her, but was slightly less consuming when there was distance involved. Not answering my mother's calls fell somewhere in the category of not dealing, and the look on Stacey's face told me I had messed up, and wasn't going to get out of it any longer.

I don't even know how old Aunt Stacey is. She's one of those people who define that term, "timeless." If she dyes her hair, it happens so frequently that there is never a gap in its shiny dark perfection. Until she came into my room, her grey-green eyes squinting with disappointment, and something else I couldn't quite read, I had been unaware whether she was younger or older than my mother.

"AJ," she said, her low mellow voice all mixed up soft and hard at the same time, "I just talked to your Mom." She sat down on the bed beside me and let her hands rest in her lap. I could tell she was struggling with how to continue. She never had kids, or even a husband. I think that was why she was easy to relate to, but I knew she feels like it makes her less of a woman to other people.

I considered giving her a hug. I'm pretty skilled in pulling out the hug when words are inadequate. I developed it as a kid. When my mother would start yelling, I would hug her legs, look up with my big baby blue eyes, and be as cherubic as possible. It's hard to yell at a cherub. Despite the fact that I had usually done something that bordered more on the demonic side of things, I had these round rosy cheeks when I was younger, and I could totally pull it off. Of course, when I was twelve and basically stopped eating anything but rice cakes, string cheese, and apples I lost the cheeks, along with most of my advantages with my mother. I also added a few layers of resentment onto my already questionable feelings for her, and that made it hard to accept her occasional hugs, let alone give them to her without being coerced. But with Aunt Stacey that wasn't the problem.

"She's sick," her words came out in a rush. "You need to call her."

I looked anywhere but at my aunt. I had this ugly feeling that she was going to start crying. I've never dealt well with people crying. That was another reason I'd started with the whole hug thing. Even if the person I was hugging did start crying, I could just bury my face looking away and avoid all the sloppiness.

"What, exactly, do you mean by sick?" I asked, staring at the old granny square afghan on my bed. "Like the flu, or being totally mental?"

I felt her shake her head, heard the sound of that perfect smooth hair brushing against the rigid fabric of her blazer. She was dressed for work, immaculate as usual. I stared at her shiny red high heeled shoes, and wondered how she and my mother could ever have grown up in the same house, let alone come from the same parents. Maybe it was because they lost their parents so young that they turned out so differently. My mother had gone for the first guy who reached out a hand to her, while Stacey had grown determined to make her life better.

Aunt Stacey took in a deep breath that shook slightly at the end. "You and I both know your Mom isn't perfect, but she's the only one you've got, and she's still my baby sister. I told her we would come visit on Saturday, but you need to call her before we go."

I looked at her then, hoping my face conveyed the proper level of horror. It had been three years since I occupied a room with my mother, and I had been planning on letting at least another three years go by before I put myself through that again.

"There are times in life when we just have to let people be people, AJ. This isn't what any of us want, not even close," she sighed, and that hard edge went out of her voice as the lines that had been building up across her forehead relaxed. "You have three days to get yourself together."

I could feel the hug build up in my arms and across my chest. I could already imagine the feeling of her hair on my cheek, and the way her proper body would soften in my arms as she realized there was no way she could do this to me. I was about to go for it, but she stood up and walked back to the doorway before I made my move.

"Call her," she said without turning around.

I don't remember much of what happened for the rest of that day. I went to school, but I was too distracted to care about what anyone was saying. I'd been doing well in school since I came to live with Aunt Stacey. She didn't push, but she approved. She never asked if I had done my homework, or how the day went, but when I brought home a paper with an A on it, or showed her a report card sprinkled with As and Bs, she sparkled. But that day, all I could think about was how to get out of going to visit my mother.

The next morning, Aunt Stacey came into my bedroom before I got up. The light from the hallway turned the inside of my eyelids red, and I closed them tighter. "Call her, AJ," she knew I heard her, but she didn't say anything else. I listened as she closed the door; as she walked down the hallway with her high heels clicking on the wood floor; as she started her car in the garage and pulled away.

The house creaked. It was mid November, and the weather was starting to change dramatically. Stacey told me once that old houses have personalities of their own. If you listen to the sounds they make, they will tell you stories of the past, and reveal things about the future. I had learned that this creaking sound was a warning that frost was coming. The furnace was doing its best to keep things cozy inside, but the great outdoors was seriously threatening to make life unpleasant for anyone with no place to go.

I looped my fingers through the holes in my afghan and pulled it tighter, willing the chill to leave me alone. I wondered what my grandmother would think about me, curled up in the blanket she made long before I was born. There was a long groaning creak, and the wind slammed a branch against the window of my bedroom. My mind flashed to the homeless man who often stood on the street corner near the bakery where I worked a couple evenings a week and on Saturdays. I wondered if he had some place to stay warm when the weather turned angry and bitter like today. It bothered me to think of him curled up and shivering on a frosty morning.

My alarm started buzzing. It sounded like a mosquito, and I slapped at my phone to make it stop. I considered skipping school, but that would definitely go against my agreement with Aunt Stacey, and I couldn't afford to disappoint her right now. I forced myself out into the chill of my bedroom and sprinted to the bathroom, sinking my feet into the soft fluffy warmth of the rug. I turned on the shower and waited impatiently for the water to get hot.

Morning routines are important to me. They set the day up for success or failure. If I don't get my fifteen minute shower and my cup of hot coffee with sweet cream before I have to face any decisions, bad things happen. When the hot water makes its way through the pipes to the shower, the sound changes, turning deeper as it pounds on the blue and white tile floor. Even as I heard it reach the optimal temperature, my phone started ringing. I knew it was my mother. I also knew I should answer it. I stood naked in front of the shower, listening to the ringing. I was about to step in the shower, when I discovered that I had wrapped a towel around my body and opened the door.

The old fashioned ring tone on my phone sounded unusually fake. I wondered if my mother's voice would sound that way, too. My feet hit the cold wood floor, and I started running without thinking. I leapt onto my bed, shoved my frozen feet under the blankets and answered the phone.

"Hello?" I said it like a question, even though I knew who it was without looking at her name on the screen.

"Azrael? Oh sweetie, I'm so glad I finally got ahold of you. Stacey told me you've been busy lately, so I thought I'd call before school time. Do you have a moment to talk to your old Mama?" Her words rushed together so fast that I didn't even have a chance to correct my name. Since the first day of Kindergarten, when I finally had a chance to introduce myself, I have insisted that my name is AJ. I will never understand what possessed my mother to name me Azrael Josephine.

"Hello, Mother," my voice came out as frigid as my icy feet. I barely refrained from calling her Elizabeth, or digging in deeper and calling her Libby as though we were friends.

The line went quiet, and I did nothing to alleviate the silence. She was the one who called, it was her job to figure out how to say what she wanted to say. I could have apologized for not returning any of her earlier calls, but it would have been a lie. I was not sorry.

"So did Stacey..?" her voice broke off. I realized it was deeper than usual, missing some of the typical false cheer that she often put on when she talked to me. She was always trying to make me feel like I was her baby girl, as though I should revert to some childlike state and accept her authority. She breathed heavily into the phone and I kept on waiting.

"Did Stacey tell you why I've been trying to reach you?"

"She mentioned that you haven't been feeling well," I admitted. I was ready to finish the conversation. I could hear the shower water running, and I could feel my routine evaporating. I wished I had at least grabbed a cup of coffee before the drama started.

"It's a bit more than that," my mother mumbled into the phone. "AJ, they say I'm not gonna make it."

I tried to wrap my mind around the words I had just heard. Point number one: my mother just called me AJ without me pushing her to it. Point number two: it sounded distinctly like she was telling me she was dying.

"Not gonna make what?" I asked. I wasn't really playing stupid. I just wanted her to tell me something straight for a change. Riddles and condescension have always irritated me.

My mother sniffled. I felt like I was the parent trying to pry the words out of her. "Just tell me what's going on," I told her, deciding that it would be best to make my point clear, too.

"I haven't been feeling well for a while now," her words started rushing again, and I clutched the phone tightly, worried it might get washed away in the flow. "I finally went to the doctor, because they weren't going to let me keep my job if I missed any more days without a good excuse. I'll spare you the details, but they said I don't have much time. They basically told me to get my affairs in order. I have maybe six months, and I don't want to leave this place without making things right with my baby girl."

"Aunt Stacey said we can come see you on Saturday," I said, not wanting her to start up again once she had stopped. "I'll try to get off work." I hung up before she could answer. I told myself she was probably lying. It wouldn't be the first time she came up with something shocking to get my attention. I pushed myself up from the bed and scurried back to the bathroom. When I pulled open the door, light and steam billowed out like the entrance into Heaven. I let myself be enveloped in the blissful glow and entered into the steaming downpour.

Hot water sizzled on my cold skin and I willed it to wash away everything from my mind. Oblivion sounded divine, and I found myself wondering if that was why my mother had so often turned to alcohol. I didn't want to keep thinking about her, but I couldn't make the memories stop.

I remembered the time she promised to tell me about my father. I was ten, and had been having a hard time at school. She told me that if I brought home a good report from my teacher all week, she would tell me who my father was. I had been so eager to learn about him at the time, so I worked harder than I ever had in my life to achieve that positive feedback from my teacher. As my body slowly warmed up under the spray of water, I recalled her story about him being a rockstar in a band that was on tour. She said she couldn't remember the name of the band, but she had been at the show, and he had invited her on stage to dance. That pretty much summed up the entirety of their relationship. She went to the after party, and three weeks later realized she was pregnant.

If I allowed myself the ignorance of being naive, I might still believe that story. Sadly, I know she was lying, and as much as I wanted to believe her, I suspected it even then. I have no real idea who my father is, but I am certain he is not a ne'er do well rockstar. I suppose I should be grateful that she didn't come up with an actual name, giving me a person to speculate about, to scrutinize until building up enough courage to write a letter claiming his patronage, only to be disappointed by the truth. Instead, she gave such a vague account that I became certain he was a total loser. Perhaps he worked as a janitor at a music hall, but there are plenty of other seedy options that are even more likely, and I prefer not to think too deeply on the topic anymore.

The temperature of the shower water began to cool, and I knew I would not be able to delay the next phase of the morning any longer. I turned the water off and quickly toweled myself dry then got dressed. I left the thick humid air of the bathroom and went in search of the hot coffee I knew Aunt Stacey had left heating in the pot for me. I've gotten used to the added bitterness that comes along with drinking over cooked coffee. I could get up earlier and have it fresh, but I prefer having the extra half hour to sleep, so I just add extra creamer to compensate.

My favorite mug was waiting for me on the counter. Before becoming a well established career woman, Aunt Stacey did some serious traveling. Throughout most of my early childhood I remember waiting for her visits the way other kids waited for Christmas or birthdays. Everything changed when she arrived. My mother would become giddy with excitement. She let me stay up late with them, and allowed Aunt Stacey to stuff me with exotic chocolates, and give me little gifts that represented the countries she had been experiencing. I dreamed that some day I would go with her on one of these exotic adventures, but by the time I was able to escape from home, she had settled down in the city, three hours away from where my mother lived. I knew she still had dreams of her travels, but work had taken priority for the time being, and I suspected she had promised my mother not to take me out of the country until I was 18. For now, I satisfied my traveling dreams by drinking coffee out of the beautiful butterfly mug she bought in Poland. I imagined a place where tables were set with brightly colored stoneware, and families feasted on cheesy piroshki with sausage. I didn't know what they tasted like, but from Aunt Stacey's descriptions I knew I would love them.

I spotted a note sitting next to the cup, but waited to read it until my coffee was ready. I breathed deeply as the hot brown liquid mixed with the cold creamer which I had poured in first. I sighed and brought it to my lips. Sipping slowly, so as not to burn off any tastebuds, I picked up the note. I loved Aunt Stacey's loopy cursive handwriting, and wished I could improve my chicken scratch letters. "Fresh doughnuts on the table," the worlds curled around me like a warm hug. Since moving in, I had replaced my rice cake ways with a more balanced diet, which allowed me to enjoy food again. I still felt occasional guilt upon devouring three doughnuts (the optimal mix being an old fashioned sandwiched between chocolate and maple iced rounds) but today I told myself I deserved it.

It was not going to be possible to avoid seeing my mother. I sugared my nerves, and rinsed them down with coffee. It might not be a great day, but I was determined not to let it be an awful one.