girlfriends for baby green salads after yoga class; an aspiring screenwriter with 110 pages of hope trapped in a rubber band, waiting to slip it to a B-list actor on his way to the restroom.
With her curls gathered into a loose knot, with lips glossed pink but a face otherwise free of makeup, in a flamboyant, beaded turquoise jacket and an ankle-length, snug white skirt, Elisabeth looked up and waved, then clapped her hands over her mouth in excitement. Lila snaked through the tables to her mother, unsure what to do when she got there. No need to worry, Elisabeth was already up and gathering her close. Lila had to work to soften her body—stiffened from years of distance—and allow herself to be hugged by the woman who birthed her.
It overwhelmed Lila, the sensation of being held so close. It seemed a lifetime since she’d felt it. Victor had never been a hugger and, other than the odd coworker of Victor’s who reached over his desk to muss her hair on days she accompanied him into the office, she’d grown up with very little human touch. Now, with the strength of her mother’s hand cupping the back of her head, Lila stared down at Elisabeth’s flowered mules and tried to lose herself in the strange sensation of closeness.
There was a show she’d seen recently on TV about newborn panda bears and how zoologists in Japan don’t name the impossibly tiny cub until she reaches six months of age in case the cub doesn’t make it. All too often the mother inadvertently flattens her offspring. In order to ensure the blind, hairless, squalling, and bawling infant has the best possible chance, the cub might spend up to half her time in an incubator. But not swaddled in receiving blankets like a human. They slip her into a large pocket made of panda fur. Right away, the panda stops screaming because she believes she is being pressed against her mother’s chest.
Lila too was silent.
Elisabeth’s hair smelled like Alfred Sung perfume—her old standby. Breath mints. Cigarette smoke. Lila gulped it in as if she might take back her entire childhood in Toronto. It was a good smell, a sweet and dirty smell, and brought her back to her old green daisy comforter and sheets, her Holly Hobbie doll, tramping through the ferns and mossy logs in the Rosedale woods to spy on people who had cushioned patio furniture and gardeners and pools, the sofa in her mother’s painting studio from where she used to watch Elisabeth—paint brush in one hand, cigarette in the other. It brought back sliding down the thinly carpeted stairs ina sleeping bag, and getting her head stuck in the painted metal banister while spying on Elisabeth’s friends. Watching Degrassi Junior High reruns way too young and drinking milk from a bag rather than a carton. But most of all, her mother.
Answers, caloric sustenance, emotional distance.
Lila pulled away from the hug. It hurt her mother, she could see in Elisabeth’s curled lip. Hurriedly, Lila said, “It’s so good to see you.”
Elisabeth’s eyes were moist. “I was sure I’d dreamed you into being yesterday.” She stood back and stared hard, as if to keep her daughter from vanishing once again. “I still can’t get over you. So lovely. All grown up and tall and strong. I was thinking last night that, if I’d passed you on the street, I would have known you, I’m sure of it.”
“Me too,” said Lila. “I’d know you too.” It was true. Elisabeth hadn’t aged a day. Same wild hair, same round green eyes, same delicate jawline and wide mouth. Same year-round caramel skin, faintly dusted with freckles, that suggested she’d spent a year somewhere exotic and beachy. The lines at the corners of her eyes might have deepened but only enough to make her smile hit you harder in the gut.
Mumbling awkward observations about the weather and the traffic, they lowered themselves into the slatted wooden chairs and Lila realized, for the first time, there was a small girl at the table with eyes so
With her curls gathered into a loose knot, with lips glossed pink but a face otherwise free of makeup, in a flamboyant, beaded turquoise jacket and an ankle-length, snug white skirt, Elisabeth looked up and waved, then clapped her hands over her mouth in excitement. Lila snaked through the tables to her mother, unsure what to do when she got there. No need to worry, Elisabeth was already up and gathering her close. Lila had to work to soften her body—stiffened from years of distance—and allow herself to be hugged by the woman who birthed her.
It overwhelmed Lila, the sensation of being held so close. It seemed a lifetime since she’d felt it. Victor had never been a hugger and, other than the odd coworker of Victor’s who reached over his desk to muss her hair on days she accompanied him into the office, she’d grown up with very little human touch. Now, with the strength of her mother’s hand cupping the back of her head, Lila stared down at Elisabeth’s flowered mules and tried to lose herself in the strange sensation of closeness.
There was a show she’d seen recently on TV about newborn panda bears and how zoologists in Japan don’t name the impossibly tiny cub until she reaches six months of age in case the cub doesn’t make it. All too often the mother inadvertently flattens her offspring. In order to ensure the blind, hairless, squalling, and bawling infant has the best possible chance, the cub might spend up to half her time in an incubator. But not swaddled in receiving blankets like a human. They slip her into a large pocket made of panda fur. Right away, the panda stops screaming because she believes she is being pressed against her mother’s chest.
Lila too was silent.
Elisabeth’s hair smelled like Alfred Sung perfume—her old standby. Breath mints. Cigarette smoke. Lila gulped it in as if she might take back her entire childhood in Toronto. It was a good smell, a sweet and dirty smell, and brought her back to her old green daisy comforter and sheets, her Holly Hobbie doll, tramping through the ferns and mossy logs in the Rosedale woods to spy on people who had cushioned patio furniture and gardeners and pools, the sofa in her mother’s painting studio from where she used to watch Elisabeth—paint brush in one hand, cigarette in the other. It brought back sliding down the thinly carpeted stairs ina sleeping bag, and getting her head stuck in the painted metal banister while spying on Elisabeth’s friends. Watching Degrassi Junior High reruns way too young and drinking milk from a bag rather than a carton. But most of all, her mother.
Answers, caloric sustenance, emotional distance.
Lila pulled away from the hug. It hurt her mother, she could see in Elisabeth’s curled lip. Hurriedly, Lila said, “It’s so good to see you.”
Elisabeth’s eyes were moist. “I was sure I’d dreamed you into being yesterday.” She stood back and stared hard, as if to keep her daughter from vanishing once again. “I still can’t get over you. So lovely. All grown up and tall and strong. I was thinking last night that, if I’d passed you on the street, I would have known you, I’m sure of it.”
“Me too,” said Lila. “I’d know you too.” It was true. Elisabeth hadn’t aged a day. Same wild hair, same round green eyes, same delicate jawline and wide mouth. Same year-round caramel skin, faintly dusted with freckles, that suggested she’d spent a year somewhere exotic and beachy. The lines at the corners of her eyes might have deepened but only enough to make her smile hit you harder in the gut.
Mumbling awkward observations about the weather and the traffic, they lowered themselves into the slatted wooden chairs and Lila realized, for the first time, there was a small girl at the table with eyes so
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