Never let an opponent see any sign of weakness or fear.
~
As soon as I wake up the next morning, I spread out my notes, hoping to spot something I haven’t seen before. Detect something I’ve missed.
“Grace!” My mother shrieks from downstairs.
I ignore her and scramble to gather the papers sprawled across my bed. After shoving everything into my bag, I jump over to my desk and quickly begin tying flies to replenish my fishing stock. Mom’ll freak out if she sees me obsessing over Dad’s case. Again.
Besides, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt me.
A few seconds later, she bursts into my room. The door slams against the wall, enlarging the long-standing hole caused by a missing doorstop. Mom is frowning and breathing heavy from skipping up the stairs in a hurry. “Grace! Did you hear me calling you?”
“Mm-hmm.” I study the diagram on my computer screen. Following the instructions, I position a size-twelve hook in the vice and load black thread into the bobbin. Holding a small duck feather in place, I loop the delicate string around it several times and add a few hackles. To top it off, I tie a perfect whip finish. It’s critical to make the fly just perfect down to the gnat’s eyebrow or the fish will know it’s a total fake.
She stomps over and flips off my screen. “You’re being rude.”
Without looking up, I mumble under my breath. “Ditto.”
Her face pops up over my shoulder. I catch a whiff of her flowery perfume and unwillingly soften at the familiar scent. Until she speaks. “Why do you keep tying those? Don’t you have enough?”
Without looking up, I pin a fly onto my rack and think to myself, why do you care?
Her breath tickles the nape of my neck. “Not talking? Why are you so crabby today?”
I hang up another one of my masterpieces. “Why is it that you come in yelling at me, and I’m the one who’s crabby?” Blowing my self-inflicted bangs away from my face, I lean in and admire my handiwork.
Mom grows strangely quiet behind me.
I twirl around on the wobbly stool, nervous she’s found my case notes. Instead, she’s strolling around the room, hands clasped behind her back as if she’s visiting a museum. I cross my arms in front of me. “Mary, can I help you with something? Or are you just browsing?”
She scowls back. “What’s this Mary thing lately? I don’t like it.”
“Sorry … Mary” I smirk. Fighting with her seems unavoidable. We can’t—or maybe won’t—stop tromping on each other’s hot buttons. The days of swinging on the porch together, sipping lemonade, are a distant memory.
Mom ignores me and continues perusing my room like it’s a cheap souvenir shop. She picks up a horse statue and flips it over, possibly checking for a price. “Heard you went to see Captain yesterday.”
I rub my temples and curse my oversight. Two of the hundred and eleven things that suck about living in a small town: dumb news travels fast; and it always visits the wrong people first. In this town, if I blow my nose wrong, it’s sure to be breaking news in the “Medical Section” of The Smoky Review.
Before I can reply, she sneaks in a tiny dig of her own. “I called Jim.”
I sigh. “I figured.”
“He’s expecting you at noon.”
Great. I rub my forehead. “I’ll be sure to count the minutes.” It’s embarrassing enough that I’m forced to see a shrink, but one named Dr. Head? Not to mention I still don’t understand why I’m the one sentenced to whacko sessions when she’s the one who acts mental. “By the way, how come you get to call him Jim, but I have to call him Dr. Head? Or, should I say, Dr. Head-ache?”
She exhales a long sigh for at least twenty seconds. “Because I’ve known him since high school.”
Seated on the stool, I twirl in a circle so my world becomes one big blur. “Sounds like a conflict of interest to me.”
She snaps back. “You know you’re my only interest.”
I mumble. “I’m not crazy, Mom.”
“Never said you were. But you concern me.”
“Why, because I ask questions that you don’t want to know the answers to?”
Mom sighs again. “I can’t get into this again right now. I’m late.”
I finally notice she’s wearing her Daisy’s Diner apron. “Thought you weren’t going in until later?” Since Dad went missing, I never see Mom anymore. She’s either taking on extra shifts at Daisy’s or locking herself in her room until she leaves again. Some nights, she cries. Sometimes, she just watches TV. Other times, I don’t hear anything at all.
As far as I’m concerned, both my parents disappeared on the same day.
She gazes into the chrome lamp and adjusts her apron. “I have a few things to do first.”
I try to hide the frustration in my voice. “Like what?”
“Like none of your business. You just worry about getting to Jim’s on time.”
After a few awkward minutes, I try to be nice. “We still having dinner tonight?” A faded memory sizzles in my mind. Mom and Dad sitting with me at the dining table, eating Sloppy Joes. I miss those days. Mom was different then. She was happy and didn’t work so she was around more. A tide of sickness churns through my belly.
She avoids my eyes and rolls on her lipstick. “Can’t. Already promised Susan I’d eat with her. How about lunch?”
“Sure, whatever.”
She gazes at me, and for a split second, I think I see her eyes moisten. Maybe it’s a hint of regret for pushing me away. Or, maybe an apology for all the times she’s blown me off.
As the staring contest ticks on, I can’t help but notice how much older Mom looks than a few short months ago. Her once-professionally highlighted hair has surrendered to a mousy gray-brown. Instead of her hair being down, it’s slicked back into a bun. New worry lines crease her once-smooth porcelain skin. Tiny crow’s feet frame her brownish-yellow eyes. Under them, black smudges that would make a raccoon jealous, peek through her concealer.
Mom looks tired. Worn down. Similar to the women with no smile who hide in those dusty, faded photos from the past. Of course, the puce diner uniform and black nursing shoes don’t add much cheer either. A rush of sadness trickles through me. She used to be so full of life. Now she’s hollow. Her energy sucked out. A zombie waitress ambling through life, decaying without even noticing.
For a brief moment, I want nothing more than to hug her. I wish she’d let me comfort her. Then she could stroke my hair while singing Blackbird in my ear. When I was little, her singing could fix anything.
Now a song just isn’t enough.
Mom turns away. “I better go.”
“Yeah, see ya.” I spin around on my stool and pretend to start tying another fly.
She sighs as she leaves the room. Once the front door slams shut, I spy on her from behind the old curtains splattered with large flowers. My dad called them “antique.” He had a way of making cheap things sound beautiful.
Mom hops into my dad’s “antique” faded-red truck. My throat tightens as I watch her, wishing I’d been a little nicer. Still, I can’t help but want to give up on Mom. The way she’s given up on Dad.
The same way she’s given up on me.
I press my forehead against the cool window and watch her inch down the pebbled driveway like an old lady, braking every few feet. Soon after the truck rounds the corner, I hear the familiar crunching sound of a tired clutch as she shifts into second gear. After the countless hours Dad spent teaching her, Mom still sucks at driving a stick.
I smirk. In a backward kind of way, the scraping sound comforts me. It’s one of the only things I can still depend on with her. That god-awful noise gives me hope that maybe one day, things will be normal again.
The alarm on my watch sounds off, pulling me from my thoughts. Great. Now I’m going to be late for Dr. Head.
I can hear him now. Being tardy makes you look like an “avoider lost in denial.”
After stripping off my PJs and squeezing into my getting-too-small-but-I-don’t-care jeans, I yank on a vintage green t-shirt with Oscar the Grouch on the front that says, 'Scram!' I tie back my hair and race out the door to have my head examined.