held her shoulder. âIâm sorry. I was justâI was trying to tell you, itâs weird, you know? The way people love and try to understand all our different versions of not-rightness. I donât think it makes much sense most of the time.â
When Maya finally left a few months later, it was summer, before classes started. She was antsy in Florida, ready for the cityâthe water only worked on her for finite bits of time. Annie came to the house and cried and helped her pack. They would talk always after that. Sometimes months would pass. Sometimes they wouldnât see one another for years. But they were constants for one another, when neither of them had had much constant before that.
âI reconciled myself to not having a mother a long time ago,â says Annie. Mayaâs hardly moved since she picked up the phone. Itâs snowing outside Ellieâs window, tiny blustery flakes. âLong beforemy actual mom died,â Annie says. âI figured most people had it a lot worse than me. She just wasnât the type to nurture. And when I thought of a person that I could count on for those sorts of phone calls, I always thought of you. I liked that weâd chosen one another, that we could be peers as well as whatever weâd started as. But I donât know. I guess there are things that connect us to the people who gave birth to us, to the people that we gave birth to.â She stops a minute. Maya chokes back a sob.
âIâm not going to pursue charges, Maya. I donât want her to be locked up her whole life.â Mayaâs knuckles ache, they hold so tightly to her phone. âShe didnât . . .â Annie says. âWeâre all culpable, Maya, you and me much more than her.â
Summer 2011
E llieâs last day in New York, she comes home to the sound of her mom in her office, rifling through papers, doing whatever it is she does with all her books. She thinks of listening to the lock turn when she and Ben were small. Itâs an old door. There was no mistaking the sound of the large bolt creaking. And they all had to pretend their mom hadnât done it on purpose, that she wasnât terrified suddenly of her own kids. Sometimes, when their dad was home, when Ben and Ellie were upstairs and he didnât think that they could hear him, he would yell straight through the door. Heâd hiss awful things at her. âYou pathetic child,â heâd say. âWhat the fuck is wrong with you?â They never heard the things their mom said back to him. Though Ellie guessed that she was silent. Whatever her mom felt or thought, she pulled it in, like Ellie, rather than throw it back out into the world.
âEl.â
She jumps. Theyâve hardly spoken since the trip was scheduled.Ellie has a plane ticket for the next morning. She still canât believe how quickly her mom has managed to do away with her.
âCome in here?â her mother says.
Ellie stays still at the threshold of her momâs office. She looks at all the shelves, full to overflowing, the papers a mess over her desk.
Her mom turns her chair so that sheâs facing Ellie. Ellie looks along the shelves, then briefly at her mom. She is only accidentally pretty, Ellieâs mother. She wears her hair pulled back most of the time and hardly any makeup. A lot of the time, she sort of looks just like a mom. She looks tired and her skin is worn from all that sun she got growing up in Florida, the hours she spends running almost every day all year. But then Ellie will catch her from a certain angle, sheâll be smiling just a little, or her nose will scrunch in approval, usually over something Benny says, and Ellie will think she has a very lovely mother, sheâll wish they were the sort of mom and daughter that she could tell her this.
âWhen you were really little,â her mom says. She crosses her arms over her chest.
Ellie wants to stop her. She
When Maya finally left a few months later, it was summer, before classes started. She was antsy in Florida, ready for the cityâthe water only worked on her for finite bits of time. Annie came to the house and cried and helped her pack. They would talk always after that. Sometimes months would pass. Sometimes they wouldnât see one another for years. But they were constants for one another, when neither of them had had much constant before that.
âI reconciled myself to not having a mother a long time ago,â says Annie. Mayaâs hardly moved since she picked up the phone. Itâs snowing outside Ellieâs window, tiny blustery flakes. âLong beforemy actual mom died,â Annie says. âI figured most people had it a lot worse than me. She just wasnât the type to nurture. And when I thought of a person that I could count on for those sorts of phone calls, I always thought of you. I liked that weâd chosen one another, that we could be peers as well as whatever weâd started as. But I donât know. I guess there are things that connect us to the people who gave birth to us, to the people that we gave birth to.â She stops a minute. Maya chokes back a sob.
âIâm not going to pursue charges, Maya. I donât want her to be locked up her whole life.â Mayaâs knuckles ache, they hold so tightly to her phone. âShe didnât . . .â Annie says. âWeâre all culpable, Maya, you and me much more than her.â
Summer 2011
E llieâs last day in New York, she comes home to the sound of her mom in her office, rifling through papers, doing whatever it is she does with all her books. She thinks of listening to the lock turn when she and Ben were small. Itâs an old door. There was no mistaking the sound of the large bolt creaking. And they all had to pretend their mom hadnât done it on purpose, that she wasnât terrified suddenly of her own kids. Sometimes, when their dad was home, when Ben and Ellie were upstairs and he didnât think that they could hear him, he would yell straight through the door. Heâd hiss awful things at her. âYou pathetic child,â heâd say. âWhat the fuck is wrong with you?â They never heard the things their mom said back to him. Though Ellie guessed that she was silent. Whatever her mom felt or thought, she pulled it in, like Ellie, rather than throw it back out into the world.
âEl.â
She jumps. Theyâve hardly spoken since the trip was scheduled.Ellie has a plane ticket for the next morning. She still canât believe how quickly her mom has managed to do away with her.
âCome in here?â her mother says.
Ellie stays still at the threshold of her momâs office. She looks at all the shelves, full to overflowing, the papers a mess over her desk.
Her mom turns her chair so that sheâs facing Ellie. Ellie looks along the shelves, then briefly at her mom. She is only accidentally pretty, Ellieâs mother. She wears her hair pulled back most of the time and hardly any makeup. A lot of the time, she sort of looks just like a mom. She looks tired and her skin is worn from all that sun she got growing up in Florida, the hours she spends running almost every day all year. But then Ellie will catch her from a certain angle, sheâll be smiling just a little, or her nose will scrunch in approval, usually over something Benny says, and Ellie will think she has a very lovely mother, sheâll wish they were the sort of mom and daughter that she could tell her this.
âWhen you were really little,â her mom says. She crosses her arms over her chest.
Ellie wants to stop her. She
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