Mother Dearest

Chapter 6

I take one last look into the darkened guest room before closing the door quietly. My mother is waiting in the hall.

Is she sleeping? she signs, a worried expression deepening the lines on her face.

No, I reply. But she's pretending to.

It's been two hours since Sara dropped the bombshell. One hour, fifty-nine minutes, and fifty-five seconds since I bellowed "What?" and scared the living bejesus out of her.

In my defense. well. it's not something you hear every day.

But my outburst scared her, enough to send waves of violent tremors through her body. I held her instinctively, rubbing her back and whispering apologies. For what, I can't say. We both knew they should have been coming my way instead.

Let's get some tea, Mom signs.

I nod wearily, following her into the kitchen.

It's an old tradition we have, one of many. Whenever I don't want to talk about something, my mother brews a pot of Earl Grey, and we sit at the table until I'm ready. Once, in a hormone-induced bout of teenaged stubbornness, I didn't say anything for four and a half hours. Mom didn't either, just sipped from her empty teacup until I broke down.

She'd be a good interrogator, come to think of it.

I sink into one of our old kitchen chairs, thinking about sons, and mothers, and daughters, and thirteen years of lost moments. Moments that I can't even decide whether I would have wanted. But an option would have been nice.

"She's hurting," Mom says aloud, setting the kettle on the stove. I've never liked it when she speaks. Somehow it's always felt more intimate when we sign to each other. Like we're using a secret code.

"She is hurting," I agree when she turns to look at me.

"Is it your fault?"

"No."

Is it, though? If I'd kept in better touch with Sara. if I'd stayed in San Francisco like I'd wanted to, like she'd wanted me to. then would she have raised April as her own? Would I have been a weekend dad, dropping by on Saturday mornings to take my daughter to amusement parks and the latest Disney movie?

My daughter. Christ.

Mom squeezes two slices of lemon into each teacup, then adds a generous dollop of honey. The teabags go in last, just in time for the kettle to whistle. She catches sight of the steam cloud and pulls the kettle off the burner, filling each china teacup carefully.

I've watched this routine hundreds of times, and my daughter never has. What if Mom hadn't lived long enough to meet her?

God, what if Laurie doesn't even let Mom meet her?

Reaching up, I take the proffered teacup from Mom's hands, setting in on the placemat in front of me. She sits in the chair across from me, and the waiting game begins.

Thirteen years of being called Daddy. Strollers and pink bicycles, stuffed bears and butterfly wallpaper.

Mom, Sara has kept a secret from me, for a very long time.

She nods, blowing lightly on her tea.

She has a child.

Her eyebrows go up, almost imperceptibly.

The child is mine.

It takes a lot to shock my mother. But I've done it. She gets to her feet shakily, making her way over to the counter. I want to explain, but she's got her back to me. So it's my turn to wait, and to notice how old Mom's hands look as she grips the countertop.

Finally she turns around, her expression inscrutable. How old is the child?

Thirteen. Her name is April.

There's a spark of something I can't remember ever seeing in my mother's eyes.

Maybe it's how a grandmother looks.

What do you plan to do? she asks carefully.

I don't know.

Do you want to be in April's life?

Homemade birthday cakes with fourteen purple candles. Trips to art museums and ear-splitting rock concerts. I don't know.

You need to figure it out.

I give her a "duh" look, and she shakes her head admonishingly.

You need to figure it out before you do anything else, Gil. If you go to talk with April, she can't be faced with your uncertainty.

"It's more complicated than that," I say, my voice startling the silence. "She doesn't know I'm her father. And she doesn't know Sara's her mother. She was raised by Sara's mom as her own."

She blinks hard, looking down at our teacups. Hundreds and hundreds of pots of tea, and after tonight, I'm not sure the tradition will ever be the same.

What does your heart tell you to do?

Pink ribbons and piggyback rides, Barbie dolls and prom dresses. Whatever is best for April.

Patting my hand, she beams at me proudly.

See that? You're already thinking like a father.

o-o-o-o-o

Fishing a coaster out of the side table, I place a hot cup of tea next to Sara. She keeps her eyes closed, and it reminds me of how I played Hide and Seek when I was little. I'd stand in the center of the room, my eyes scrunched closed, confident that I was invisible to others.

"Have some tea," I tell her softly, sitting beside her.

She waits a few seconds, then sighs in concession. Her eyes are swollen and red when she opens them to gaze at me bleakly. "Do you want me to go?"

I lean over, helping her up into a seated position. "No. Now drink this. It will help."

She takes the cup between her palms, staring at the surface of the tea. "Do you hate me?"

"Sara."

"Do you?"

"Of course not."

"You should." Her eyes well up with tears, and she puts the cup back on the table. "I do. I'm the worst mother in the world."

Sighing, I crawl under the covers with her, snuggling against her. "It's like you said, honey. You were young, and struggling to make ends meet."

"Exactly. I was selfish."

"No," I whisper into her hair. "You loved that baby enough to carry her for nine months and then give her to someone who could take better care of her. That's not selfish; it's selfless. You knew what was best for her, and you did it."

She's quiet for a moment, and when she speaks, my heart nearly breaks. "I miss her."

"I know, baby."

"I've missed her for thirteen years."

I picture the two of us reading a Dr. Seuss book to a young April, and wonder how many times Sara has already had that very fantasy. Pulling her closer, I kiss the crown of her head. "We'll go see her tomorrow."