Ask Again Later by Jill A. Davis

I have a mother who survived, and all I can do is complain about this shirt. This fun shirt she bought for me. Sure it needs to be tailored, but still, it’s fun.
    What she fails to take into account is that she herself would never wear walruses—regardless whether her child would have “loved” this shirt. She wouldn’t risk being ridiculous for anyone.
    Her feelings are hurt. She goes off to take a nap. She runs away.

Coping Skills
    THERE IS A KNOCK at our front door, and then it opens. Perry walks in. He’s wearing jeans. Sunglasses and a linen shirt.
    â€œHey, my gay bowling league ran late. Sorry,” Perry says.
    Perry and I went to high school together. After school,we’d drink beer, and he’d try on my mother’s jewelry and tummy-control undergarments.
    I lived with my mother. He lived with his father. We brought unique perspectives into our relationship. It did occur to me that he was using me to get to my mother’s girdles, but I liked him too much to care.
    He drops a box of wine to the floor, hands my mother some daffodils, and gives her a big hug.
    â€œOh, Perry, thanks for the flowers. Careful, that’s a linen shirt I’m wearing,” Mom says.
    Perry was about to break the hug until my mom made the comment about the shirt. Then he decided to hug longer. Wrinkle her shirt more.
    â€œEnough hugging,” Mom says, trying to pull away.
    â€œOh, come on,” Perry says. “I know you have a steamer in this place somewhere.”
    Mom breaks away and carries the flowers into the kitchen.
    â€œCute shirt,” Perry says. “A Nana hand-me-down?”
    â€œShould we take the wine into my bedroom?” I ask.
    â€œSure,” Perry says.
    As a teenager, Perry was the only boy allowed in my bedroom.
    I sit on the floor. Perry stretches out on the bed.
    â€œI’m starting to think that what you need are some coping skills,” Perry says with authority. “You have no model to follow. No instructions on how to get through the shit end of things.”
    The way he says it makes it sound so attainable. Like I can walk into a store, pick up a bag of coping skills, go home, and slip them on. One size fits all. Bing-bang. And we’re on to the next problem.
    I’ll just leap over these hurdles of illness, relationships, and unemployment and land on the other side happy and complete.
    If you’d told me a month ago that I’d be drinking wine out of a box and sharing my problems with Perry, I’d have thought that sounded too good to be true. If you’d told me that two years ago, it would have depressed me to no end.
    We met in drama club. I worked on scenery and wanted to be respected. He directed the school plays and wanted to be loved. I was on the shy side, so I latched onto people who talked a lot. If I chose well, very little was required of me.
    After an hour of catching up and drinking, the wine is starting to make me woozy. My mind is drifting.
    â€œWhat are you thinking about?” Perry says.
    â€œAsk again later,” I say.
    â€œAh, your favorite answer,” Perry says.
    That first day at my mother’s, when she was asleep on the davenport and I was in her bedroom trying on her lipstick, some part of me wanted her to die. Her death would be over, and I could stop imagining where I’d be when I get the news; or worse, that I’d watch her die. I can’t say that even to Perry. It’s so horrible to want to fast-forward through anyone’s life—or death. Skip the grief and jumpto the next scene. Skipping the grief is an eerie U-turn back to childhood.
    My grief is so old it’s a habit. It is so much a part of me that I’m afraid to give it up. My father left, and, until tonight, no one spoke about it. His return mainly leaves me curious about his departure and his attempt at a reunion. My mother’s cancer reminds me only of what I didn’t experience while it was