from kindergarten, not the photo album she kept under her bed with class photos, Christmas photos, photos of ants from her pithy stint as an entomologist—a career path that ended abruptly when Lila held a magnifying glass over a worker ant on the sidewalk to get a look at his antennae and accidentally fried him to death.
As a result of her hasty overnight packing, the only photos she had from her other life, the only photos she had of Elisabeth, were in an old album of Victor’s, stashed on a bookshelf in the living room.
She’d flicked on a light, pulled out the book, and flipped to the second-to-last page to the photo she loved most. Five by seven, glossy, with a thin white border all around. Lila was about five or six—all giraffe limbs and bony joints in her sleeveless dress—nothing soft or cuddly about her. But Elisabeth, propping her daughter up in front of a canvas, encouraging her young child to paint for the camera, snuggled her around the middle as if she were the most huggable child on earth.
This photo used to taunt her. Look at what she’d had, then lost. But now the photo angered her. Who might she be now, had she grown up with such adoration and confirmation of her worth? This seemingly good mother who laterturned around and abandoned any interest she had in her child. Did she really have it at all?
Now maybe the lingering questions would be answered. If nothing else, life would finally make sense.
L ILA LEANED INTO the wind on Sunset and marched toward the awning of Le Petit Four with hair whipping and snapping in her wake. The morning’s nebulous mixture of stratus and fog had worked itself into an irritable tempest that sent sidewalk debris skittering up her legs. Not only that, but the temperature had plunged. Felt more like January. Los Angeles January.
Lila didn’t mind the cooler air today. It had given her reason to pull on an oversize navy turtleneck, one that Victor had tired of a few years back, and fraying Levi’s cutoffs. For the occasion, she’d dressed up her feet. She’d pulled on the cowboy boots she’d found at Goodwill for $32.75 a few days prior. They were nearly new. Soft and sandy suede and full of the new person she promised herself she’d become: a proper person who draws on paper rather than self.
She came upon Book Soup and its plein air bookshelves, magazine covers flapping in the wind. Not wanting to arrive at the café before Elizabeth, she paused and pretended to flip through a copy of National Geographic . She studied an ad for an animal rights group without really seeing it. Another two, three minutes and she would be sitting in front of her mother. Her stomach lurched and she regretted the extra cup of black coffee.
She’d made a decision on the way over. This was not going to be an ooey-gooey, you’re-back-in-my-life meeting with her mother. First of all, Elisabeth could take off at any minute, not to resurface again for another twelve years. So itwas best not to get too close. Second, she had already proven herself to be reprehensible as a parent—the most untrustworthy person in Lila’s life, really. So what this brunch was about was getting answers, ingesting a little protein, and protecting herself from further hurt. But not necessarily in that order.
It was time. Lila left the safety of the magazine rack and continued along the sidewalk in a fog, crossing side streets without looking, barely noticing the car that screeched to a halt when she stepped out in front of it.
Answers, caloric sustenance, emotional distance. Lila repeated it silently as she marched.
Then there she was, right where she said she’d be, at the far end of the patio, all expectant and glowing under the canopy of dazzling yellow umbrellas that sheltered the outdoor tables. She could have been anyone, glancing up the street, flicking cigarette ashes onto the sidewalk: a recently jilted woman wondering if her blind date would ever show; an empty nester waiting to meet her
As a result of her hasty overnight packing, the only photos she had from her other life, the only photos she had of Elisabeth, were in an old album of Victor’s, stashed on a bookshelf in the living room.
She’d flicked on a light, pulled out the book, and flipped to the second-to-last page to the photo she loved most. Five by seven, glossy, with a thin white border all around. Lila was about five or six—all giraffe limbs and bony joints in her sleeveless dress—nothing soft or cuddly about her. But Elisabeth, propping her daughter up in front of a canvas, encouraging her young child to paint for the camera, snuggled her around the middle as if she were the most huggable child on earth.
This photo used to taunt her. Look at what she’d had, then lost. But now the photo angered her. Who might she be now, had she grown up with such adoration and confirmation of her worth? This seemingly good mother who laterturned around and abandoned any interest she had in her child. Did she really have it at all?
Now maybe the lingering questions would be answered. If nothing else, life would finally make sense.
L ILA LEANED INTO the wind on Sunset and marched toward the awning of Le Petit Four with hair whipping and snapping in her wake. The morning’s nebulous mixture of stratus and fog had worked itself into an irritable tempest that sent sidewalk debris skittering up her legs. Not only that, but the temperature had plunged. Felt more like January. Los Angeles January.
Lila didn’t mind the cooler air today. It had given her reason to pull on an oversize navy turtleneck, one that Victor had tired of a few years back, and fraying Levi’s cutoffs. For the occasion, she’d dressed up her feet. She’d pulled on the cowboy boots she’d found at Goodwill for $32.75 a few days prior. They were nearly new. Soft and sandy suede and full of the new person she promised herself she’d become: a proper person who draws on paper rather than self.
She came upon Book Soup and its plein air bookshelves, magazine covers flapping in the wind. Not wanting to arrive at the café before Elizabeth, she paused and pretended to flip through a copy of National Geographic . She studied an ad for an animal rights group without really seeing it. Another two, three minutes and she would be sitting in front of her mother. Her stomach lurched and she regretted the extra cup of black coffee.
She’d made a decision on the way over. This was not going to be an ooey-gooey, you’re-back-in-my-life meeting with her mother. First of all, Elisabeth could take off at any minute, not to resurface again for another twelve years. So itwas best not to get too close. Second, she had already proven herself to be reprehensible as a parent—the most untrustworthy person in Lila’s life, really. So what this brunch was about was getting answers, ingesting a little protein, and protecting herself from further hurt. But not necessarily in that order.
It was time. Lila left the safety of the magazine rack and continued along the sidewalk in a fog, crossing side streets without looking, barely noticing the car that screeched to a halt when she stepped out in front of it.
Answers, caloric sustenance, emotional distance. Lila repeated it silently as she marched.
Then there she was, right where she said she’d be, at the far end of the patio, all expectant and glowing under the canopy of dazzling yellow umbrellas that sheltered the outdoor tables. She could have been anyone, glancing up the street, flicking cigarette ashes onto the sidewalk: a recently jilted woman wondering if her blind date would ever show; an empty nester waiting to meet her
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