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It had been a while since Christine had seen her mom. Too long, really, and she wasn’t sure how to feel about it, just nervous and uncertain as she waited in the tiny Syracuse airport as the puddle jumper came in from Montreal. Then there she was, tall, put together, her small black and silver suitcase rolling behind her, and Christine raised an anxious paw, and her mom looked, and she smiled, and Christine wanted to cry.
Anne Sophie put her arms around her and held her tightly, and Christine clung back, and knew it was good to be able to go it alone, to put her life together by herself, that she was doing it, doing fine now, but she didn’t want to have to do it all herself. She wanted to go home and curl up in her old bed and hear Mom and Dad murmuring comfortably downstairs and never have to worry about anything again.
But that wasn’t how life was. So she walked her mom out to the car—technically T’Pring’s car—that she’d borrowed to get to Syracuse with.
Her mom observed the small sedan—with a stick shift that Christine was still getting used to—eyeing the charmander on the dashboard, the crumpled prize pack wrappers on the floor, and the support seat in the back—Khosa was still not quite tall enough to wear a belt in the right place without it. “A friend’s car?”
“Yeah,” Christine said, tossing the suitcase into the hatchback. “My . . . my girlfriend’s car.”
“Your . . . girlfriend’s car?”
Christine slid into the driver’s seat and gave her mom an awkward grin, pulling up her hood with the ears on it, then pushing it back, because hiding was one thing, but she needed peripheral vision to drive. “You’re not going deaf yet.”
Her mom gave her a look, but got into the car, and took one more look around. “You’re dating a woman with a child?”
It was the hint of incredulity that got her goat, the sense of oh, well that won’t last or are you sure you’re not being used? And though her mom didn’t say either of those things, Christine was still irked enough about it to be glib in response.
“I broke up her marriage.”
The look on her mother’s face made Christine regret all of her life choices today, and remember exactly why she always felt awkward around her mom, because she was not going to have a sense of humor about this. Christine liked to joke about terrible things, but her mom Took Things Seriously. Christine wanted to say, “Joking!” which she had been! But she also had been telling the truth. So what was she supposed to say?
“Christine.”
“It’s fine!” Christine hit the curb as she was trying to navigate the turn onto the road. “It’s all fine now. We’re good, and her ex-husband is good, and her son is not traumatized at all.”
“What did you do?”
And well, they yelled pretty much the whole 45 minute drive home.
Fuck.
When they finally got to Christine’s and stowed Anne-Sophie’s bags in the corner of the living room, they’d pretty much worn out the topic. It was the way it was, and there were lots more interesting things to get upset at Christine about, like, the whole, quitting school and not telling her thing. Of course, then Christine said they were going to Erica’s for dinner, where Anne Sophie could meet her girlfriend and her son, and Anne Sophie gave her a dire sort of look. “I think I’d rather talk to you about what you’re doing. Tell them another night.”
“They cooked for you!”
“I need to find out what is going on with you! Dropping out of school, and breaking up marriages, and—”
“You can do what you want, but I’m going because I promised, and I’m not going to be rude to my friends!”
“Well, if you think it’s rude—”
“It is rude!”
“You’re telling your mother that she’s being rude!”
Both of them fuming and silent, Christine drove them over to Erica’s.
The smells that emerged from the open door were so fucking good that even Anne Sophie seemed less annoyed at going into the house. Her shoulders relaxed as she came in, and she cocked her head as she glanced around the space that honestly had improved a lot in style since T’Pring moved in. Erica met them in the foyer and gave Christine a big hug.
“You look fucking wrecked.”
“This was a terrible idea.”
“Christine! Was the car all right?”
“It was fine!” Christine shouted back. “I only stalled out twice this time, and the police did not get involved!” Just hearing her voice made her feel better. She bolted into the kitchen, where T’Pring was wielding chopsticks for deep-frying, and heedless of the danger wrapped her arms around her shoulders and buried her nose into her neck. A hand pressed hers.
“Are you all right?” T’Pring’s eyes were sharp, observant, and thoughtful, and Christine fell back into that intensity between them—the one she’d felt during the game they’d play-tested yesterday, the wit and moral crisis and then being trapped, and breathing slowly together, what do we do, what should we do, and then their fingers entwining, and the slow lean in. I see you. I know why you are the way you are.
Oh god, she didn’t need T’Pring to know that right now.
“Everything smells great.”
T’Pring caught her chin with one finger and pushed down until Christine couldn’t avoid her eyes.
She sighed. “Let’s pretend I’m fine.”
“All right,” T‘Pring said wryly. “But if you aren’t, tell me, and I’ll help you.” She poked Christine with the non-oily end of the chopsticks. “I’m not known for my patience with parents . . . anymore.”
Christine grinned. “I love you.”
T’Pring stared up at her, furrowed brows and thoughtful lips, and for a moment Christine felt like a bug under an etymologist’s magnifying glass. “You are a valuable person who has a worthwhile life.”
Christine groaned. “How do you always do that?”
“I’m a therapist.”
Christine laughed and lightly swatted her ass.
I’ll help you. It was something to lean on, as Anne Sophie was introduced to T’Pring and reservedly shook her hand. She was vague with Khosa, and during dinner asked polite and non-invasive questions, and clearly didn’t like anyone. But when Christine wasn’t upset about it, she could see it more clearly. Her mom was just like that—initially reserved, not good at making new friends, at liking things, or treating her kids like adults. It was okay.
The truth was, Anne Sophie was outnumbered. Erica was loud and made terrible jokes that got worse and worse with every offended or disapproving look on Anne Sophie’s face, Khosa babbled intensely about the series of books he was reading, T’Pring engaged—asking questions, and following up, showing a level of knowledge about Christine’s hometown that Christine hadn’t known she’d had—and Christine finally loosened up and just hung out with her friends. Anne Sophie was a stranger at the dinner table, chiming in sometimes, staring bewilderedly other times, but she wasn’t a boulder dragging everything down, and even, sometimes, came up with something just at the right time to shore things up.
When they were leaving, a large packet of leftovers in Christine’s arms, and Anne Sophie politely thanking T’Pring and Erica for dinner, Khosa came up with a large number of handwritten pages and handed them to Christine. “For your feedback please.”
“Of course,” Christine said. “More about the gnoll culture of Kvehlard?”
Khosa nodded firmly. Then squeezed his shoulders together and ducked his head “And an adventure.”
Christine grinned widely. “Awesome. I love an adventure.”
Anne Sophie was watching with an unreadable look on her face.
T’Pring emerged from the bedroom with an orange bottle and tucked it into Christine’s pocket. “You forgot that here last night,” she said.
“Thanks.”
T’Pring cupped her face, moved her chin into a preferred position, and kissed her. Christine let all of her stress and anxiety just fall away, because why should she care about any of that, when the prettiest girl she’d ever met was kissing her?
Christine and her mom walked back to Christine’s apartment. It was only a few blocks. “What are those pills?’ her mother asked.
“Lamictal,” Christine said. “For the bipolar.”
Her mom looked at her, frowning. “That sounds like a serious medication.”
“And it seriously works,” Christine said. “I’d been through all of the basic depression meds—you know, I started prozac in high school. They didn’t do enough. I was still always walking into something that was just a little more than I could handle and crashing.”
“I see.” Anne Sophie frowned at the dim buildings they were passing. “I suppose I thought it was just grief, and it would go away eventually.”
“Nope,” Christine said. “Bipolar II. Possibly some PTSD, but that was more situationally triggered, and I got myself out of that situation. The situation was grad school, if you were wondering.”
“You—” Anne Sophie screwed up her face. She stopped right there, on the corner near the bus stop and threw up her hands.
Christine froze. What had she said? Why was that comment going too far?
“You say all this like it’s a joke, but it’s terrible. Why don’t you tell me seriously if it’s serious and joke if it’s not. I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond to you when you’re like this!”
“You mean hypomanic?” Christine felt that wild fluttering, that intensity, and grimaced. She knew this was not the way her mom liked to communicate, but she wanted Christine to be vulnerable, and . . . she didn’t feel safe enough to be vulnerable. Oh. She swallowed. It was her mom. What was the worst that could happen if she tried to be a little vulnerable? “Sorry,” she said. She could always start there. “I’m joking because I’m okay now,” she said. She took out the bottle and shook it. “The drugs help. So does being with my friends, and hanging with Khosa, and leaving my shitty department.”
“And I couldn’t.”
Christine felt a stillness take hold inside her. No no no no no. This was the worst case scenario. This was what she didn’t want from being vulnerable. Don’t feel bad. I’m fine. I have to be fine around you, so you don’t get hurt again. You got hurt so bad before, and I made everything worse by focusing on how much I was hurting. I can’t hurt around you. I don’t want to make everything worse for you again.
“You didn’t even call me when things were going badly.”
Christine took a long breath and tried to calm the distress and panic filling her brain with sour cherry juice. “Yeah,” she said. “Because things were going badly, and I’ve never wanted you to be anything but proud.”
“Don’t put this on me! I have never pressured you to be anything but happy.”
“But I wasn’t happy!” Christine snapped back. “I was fucking depressed! I didn’t specifically not call you. I didn’t reach out to anyone! Erica had to literally drag me to the fucking therapist!”
“Don’t swear at me!”
“Don’t miss the point!”
“I get it! I didn’t pay enough attention and I could have lost you!”
Christine shook at those words, at the look on her mother’s face. Anne Sophie was always so composed, so cool and focused. But underneath, she could see the raw flesh—the look she hadn’t wanted to see, hadn’t ever wanted to see again, because it had been there so often after she’d found her dad. Christine wasn’t the only one with PTSD. She’d never even mentioned suicide, but how present must that idea have been in her mom’s head for her to look like this? How long had she been worried about her kid doing something like that? Christine shook her head slowly. “No,” she said. “I didn’t want to tell you I was doing badly because I was ashamed. I was ashamed that I couldn’t get my shit together. You didn’t make me feel that way. That feeling is all mine.”
And it was. She didn’t blame her mom for having her own grief and fear and finding Christine’s something scary and painful. How were you supposed to help a kid with the loss of their dad when you couldn’t cope with it yourself? How were you supposed to know what to do when they had a mental health crisis while you were having one too? Her mom had never made her feel like a burden, but it had been true. She’d been one.
Quietly, they started to walk along the street again. A night cat prowled by. An owl hooted from the direction of the falls.
“I should have checked on you more often.”
Maybe Christine would have liked that. She wouldn’t have said anything was wrong, of course, but it would have been nice just to talk. “And I should have called too. Can we share the blame? 60-40?”
Anne Sophie narrowed her eyes. “40-60.”
Suddenly, Christine realized that this was a joke. She must have looked shocked, because Anne Sophie took a look at her face and laughed, and suddenly Christine was laughing too.
Maybe their relationship was never going to turn into a sentimental story. They weren’t going to ever really get each other. Christine was not going to confess her dreadful sexual adventures and Anne Sophie wasn’t going to embrace her and say, ‘you seem so happy now; it’s all I could have asked for.’ She might never get used to T’Pring or Erica until she’d known them for a few years and they became fixtures—load bearing—in Christine’s life. But she’d probably claim Khosa right away, because Anne Sophie was a sucker for kids. Despite all of that, her mom was her mom, and Christine knew where she gotten her appalling sense of humor from.
“I’m good now,” Christine said, as they continued through the night towards home. “But what about you? Are you dating yet? You should have been dating again ten years ago. Get a life, Mom. I have an awesome one.”
Then she looked over, and she saw the secretive look on her mom’s face and the slight flush there, and Oh. Well, now they had something juicy to talk about.
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