Objects of My Affection by Jill Smolinski

furrows. “Well, perhaps one …”
    When she doesn’t say anything else, I ask, “What was that?”
    But she shakes her head. “No matter. Now, as for your most interesting question: I suppose it would be quite difficult for you to have this deadline, and yet not be able to move forth as you’d like.”
    â€œIt is,” I say, relieved that she’s acknowledging it.
    â€œTo be clear up front, I am not going to return the bowls. It’s an insult to the artist. However, I can assure you that I won’t buy anything further.”
    â€œThat would be great.” While Marva is being so open-minded, I add, “It would also help if you’d let me make decisions on my own. Do presorting. Throw away what’s clearly garbage. Use my time productively.”
    She stubs out her cigarette, then stands, wiping stray ashes off her sweater. “I’ll require final approval, but I suppose at this point there’s no harm in letting you ready things for me to look at. Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’d like to rest.”
    A fter Marva leaves, I take one last pull on my cigarette, cough, and then bask in the glow of my victory. I didn’t let her stomp on me this time! I told her what I wanted, and I got it!
    But as I’m sweeping up the ashes from the floor, I realize—with a flush of humiliation—what a fool I am. Marva put up enough smoke and mirrors that I didn’t even notice: For all our talking, she never answered why she has such a specific deadline.
    Why do I always fall for that?
    Ash used to do it to me all the time. When he was younger, it was kind of funny, the way he would bob and weave around any questions I might ask. I’d say, “Did you do your homework?” and he’d reply, “Really, Mom, what kind of son would I be if I didn’t do my homework?” I’d catch on a few minutes later—force him to the table with his books—and we’d have a chuckle.
    As Ash got older, however, it wasn’t as funny. I’d say, “Ash, are you high? Were you smoking pot?” He’d snap back, “Why do you always think I’m smoking pot? You’re so paranoid.” The evasion was there, but also an underlying aggression—a subtle bullying that, I’m ashamed to admit, often worked to make me back off.
    By the end, he still didn’t answer questions, but there was no trickery about it. “Where have you been all weekend? I was worried sick!” I said after one of the many times he didn’t bother coming home for days on end and didn’t answer his cell. By this point, his responses were more along the lines of “None of your fucking business.” Then he’d disappear into his room. I’d be left to shout through the door, “It is so my business! A door is a privilege, not a right!” Then I’d threaten to remove it from its hinges.
    But I never did. Because at least when he was in his room, I knew where he was. He wasn’t OD’ing or getting rolled for drugs or money or in any of the other scenarios that ran through my mind and kept me from sleeping at night.
    I often wonder if things would have been different if I’d forced the truth from Ash—if I hadn’t been so eager to be fooled. So willing to pretend that everything was okay.
    I cringe at the memory of the first time I discovered a baggie of marijuana in Ash’s room—which I found while rifling through his pockets and drawers while he was at school. Instead of waving it in his face and confronting him with it, I put it back. I knew I was being cowardly, but I wasn’t ready for the fight I’d be in for invading his privacy. I figured I’d have a chance to “catch him” without having snooped, when he couldn’t get indignant over how I found it. He’d be forced to accept his consequences.
    â€œThe problem is, teenagers are going to do