The Mother Garden by Robin Romm Page B

leave.” I stood and walked toward the door. My father, cowed, set the coffee cup down on the table, picked up his coat, and walked toward me.
    â€œI’m only trying to be honest,” he said.
    Last night, as he wailed, I’d wished for him to stop. But now I wanted to switch the flip, watch him howl and bawl every day for the rest of his life. We’d take each bead and recount a memory of my mother: the way she tapped a dish after she washed it; the way she organized and labeled our camping gear, cut dreadlocks off the dog—and as we talked, we’d drown in borderless, limitless grief. When we got to the last bead, we’d start again.
    â€œGo be honest somewhere else,” I said.

    I was supposed to meet Mateo for lunch downtown, but I had no interest in walking to the train. I didn’t want to see him, his clean-shaven jaw, well-meaning eyes. I only wanted to see him if his mother was dead. I’d start a club. Maybe even a commune. I’d surround myself with people who would promise never to say the word “happy.” Who wouldn’t use it or any of its synonyms. We’d be like an experimental French novel. We’d even ban the letters of happy.
    The phone rang and the machine picked up. No one left a message.
    â€œWhat,” I said when it started up again. My sharpness dissolved into crying.
    â€œYael?” Mateo sounded concerned. “I don’t suppose you’re coming for lunch? I was going to suggest that Japanese place, but another time. I’ll just come home. Are you okay?”
    Okay? Was okay like happy?

    The bathroom tiles felt cool and gluey under my bare feet. All the crying had made me feel a little high. As the water crashed from the faucet of the tub, I dumped in the beads. They gathered near the drain, a colorful smattering of glass, brighter once submerged.
    I took off my nightgown and sat until the water grew cold around me, gazing at the light blue ceiling, the small crack that led from the window above the tub to the corner of the room.
    The front door opened and slammed.
    â€œYael?” Mateo called, walking toward our bedroom. I shivered, but I didn’t want to move. I rolled the beads under my feet and stared at the shower curtain. A small vine of orange mold started at the bottom. Rust spotted the metal at the top of the curtain rod.
    â€œHey,” he said, coming into the bathroom. He sat on the toilet and peered at me. My eyes felt dry, the skin around them thin and tattered.
    â€œHow are you?”
    â€œNever better,” I said.
    â€œOkay,” he said. There it was again, that stupid, stupid word. He reached over and tucked a wet strand of hair behind my ear. His hand lingered there. I put my hand on his for a moment, then pushed it away.
    â€œI brought you some food from that soul food place on the corner,” he said.
    I didn’t want to look at him. The rust growths looked like starfish.
    He sighed. “Yael, you gotta help me out here. I’m doing the best I can.”
    This was Mateo’s burden? Was I supposed to comfort him?
    â€œScrew off,” I said.
    â€œOh, that’s really nice. I bring you lunch while you’re acting like a total psychopath, rolling around in your mother’s stomach remnants, and you tell me to screw off. You screw off.” He continued to sit on the toilet. Why didn’t he just leave? My insides were made of lint and tiny red embers, a combustible combination of stillness and fury. He ought to get out now and find himself a nice girl with two functional parents and maybe a little dog to play with in the park.
    â€œI’m not getting out,” I said.
    Mateo looked down at his shoes. Brown leather loafers, appropriate for a budding journalist. News shoes. The toes were worn, the rubber soles curving a bit at the heels. He stood, took the bag of food, and walked out of the bathroom.
    I thought I’d hear him leave. I waited for the door to