The Year My Mother Came Back by Alice Eve Cohen Page A

time,” I told him after that awful year. “It makes me miserable. And I’m not in love with you anymore.”
    But even with David out of the picture, Mom still seemed to be angry with me.

    When I pick up Eliana from school, she and her classmate Thomas are intentionally bumping into each other, shoulder to shoulder, in that fourth-grade way that could be aggression or flirtation, or an amalgam of both. I picture Eliana a few years from now, as a fourteen-year-old. Oh, my God, I would hate it if either of my daughters at age fourteen had a love affair with a college student. I would forbid it. I’d be furious. What was I thinking? Of course David was too old for me. Of course my mother was right.

    Pelting rain. The motor was idling. The windshield wipers swished back and forth, to no purpose. I sat in the passenger seat next to Mom, my face in my hands, hoping none of my classmates would see me through the wall of water. Students huddled under umbrellas and ponchos near the high-school entrance. The bell rang, and they shoved through the glass doors.
    â€œMom. Please don’t go into school like that.”
    â€œWhy not?” she snapped.
    â€œBecause you’re wearing a nightgown!”
    â€œI have a raincoat over it. Nobody will notice.”
    â€œYes they will! Everyone will notice.”
    â€œWho cares what I’m wearing?”
    â€œI do!”
    â€œWell, I don’t. I’m angry, and I need to have a word with the principal. If I phone he’ll ignore me. I can get his attention if I go into school now.”
    â€œYeah, you’ll get his attention alright!”
    She turned off the engine. “Are you coming?”
    â€œDon’t go into school like that.”
    â€œAre you coming or not, Alice?”
    â€œNo,” I groaned. “I’ll wait till you’re inside.”
    â€œFine!” she seethed. She turned off the engine, got out of the car, and slammed the door behind her. I watched her run through the pouring rain in her slippers, her long white nightgown dragging in the puddles.
    My mother was usually angry
at
me. But today she was angry
for
me, which was even worse. She periodically marched into the high school office in her nightgown to complain about some meaningless bullshit—my intense homework load, or my heavy backpack, or some other idiotic notion that she had blown way out of proportion. I was mortified by her public displays.
    The late bell rang. I waited in the car till she was out of sight before slinking soggily into school. Later, through the open door of my first-period Spanish class, I saw the assistant principal escort my mother out of his office and into the hall, where he jutted his chin out and called her an “irate parent” in his gruff, retired-army-sergeant voice, before letting go of her elbow. There was giggling in the classroom. My cheeks burned. I stared hard at my notebook and scribbled hieroglyphics in the margins. Some of my classmates were staring at my mother, the lady in the nightgown and trench coat. Some were staring at me.
    â€œÂ¡ A tención, clase! Escúchame, y repita lo que digo ,” said Señora Delgado, tactfully and mercifully closing the door.

    Every morning, after walking Eliana to school, I take a different path through Central Park. This is my favorite part of the day. Purple morning glories line the fence around Sheep’s Meadow. Turtles line up on the boulders bordering the lake. Bright yellow leaves carpet the trails near the Boathouse. Jugglers and musicians practice at the Bethesda Fountain. In a hidden pond, I see orange carp, pond skimmers, emerald dragonflies . There’s an aerial party around the birdfeeders, a cacophonous symphony of birdsong. I walk on soft grass and dirt paths, and scramble to the top of boulders, pretending that I’m on the Appalachian Trail, rather than in the middle of Manhattan.
    Signs at trailheads designate the Ramble FOREVER