It has over two hundred questions covering every stage of your life.
I’ve managed to wiggle out of some pretty dicey situations, but I have no idea how to escape this one.
I’m so lost in thought I almost miss my bus stop.
I step off and walk down the block toward our apartment, passing the store Catherine once compared to a wizard’s hat. The tiny, crowded space manages to conjure anything customers want—from lottery tickets to jars of maraschino cherries to organic almond milk.
The owner is out front, sweeping the walkway with crisp, even strokes.
“Afternoon!” he calls out.
I don’t answer. My mouth is so dry I can’t speak.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, the broom whispers.
Even after I hurry down the street, a phantom echo of the noise chases me. It’s a gut-wrenching reminder. No matter how busy I stay or how hard I fight, there’s no escaping the fact that my time is slipping away.
CHAPTER NINE
CATHERINE
Here is what I know of my mother’s history.
She was born Ruth Mary Sterling on the second of August, forty-two years ago.
She grew up in the Virginia suburbs, not far from Washington, D.C. Her parents were very religious, hence her Biblical first and middle names. When they kicked her out, she moved to Pennsylvania because it was an easy bus ride, plus she’d gone to see the Liberty Bell once on a school field trip and liked the state.
She gave birth to me at eighteen.
The only guy she ever loved was my sperm donor, and he shattered her heart.
The list is so scanty I can hardly believe it.
My mother has never told me the names of her parents—though I’ve asked many times. She didn’t pack any photographs when she was thrown out. She has never pinpointed her hometown for me, or described any of her extended family members, or named the church her family attended.
I can’t believe I never got her to open up.
I can’t believe it hasn’t deeply bothered me before.
But maybe it isn’t my fault. My mother has a temper. It doesn’t surface often; but when it does, it’s a tsunami, rising with almost no warning.
The few times I’ve pushed past the lines she drew, I’ve felt her fury gathering force. I usually choose to retreat rather than meet it head-on.
As a child, I learned the consequences of not backing down. I still remember the way she yelled at me and the bruises she left on my arm when I once defied her as we stood by the side of the road.
Now I sit across from her at our table with a folded index card shoved under the wobbly leg, inhaling the delicious aroma of spicy tomato sauce and baked dough.
My mother had music playing when I came through the door after meeting with Tin, and she didn’t turn it off when we sat down to dinner. The upbeat pop songs fill the silence between us, disrupting my plans for a free-flowing conversation.
It’s as if she senses what I’m up to and is trying to outmaneuver me.
“I’m a little tired.” She stretches her arms over her head. “I’m going to turn in early.”
My goal for this evening is to extract one new detail about her past. Even a tiny one.
I reach for the knife and cut through the warm, cheesy layers of lasagna pizza, then I serve myself another square.
“Want seconds?” I offer.
My mother shakes her head.
I’ve planned my approach meticulously. Rather than trying to pierce the armor my mother has erected around her early years, I’m going to look for an opening in her teenage years.
The next song on her playlist provides the inspiration I’m seeking. It’s “Everybody” by the Backstreet Boys. They were huge in the nineties, so it probably came out while my mother was in high school.
It’s impossible for my mother to sit still when she hears a song she loves. Gentle waves seem to roll through her body in time to the beat.
My mother and I have very different tastes in music. As a teenager, I’d sigh theatrically and try to change the radio station in our Bonneville when Lynyrd Skynyrd or Boyz II Men played. Sometimes I won control of the dial, sometimes she did.
But here’s the odd thing about the way memory works. I know there were dozens, maybe even hundreds of times, we engaged in this mock battle. When I won, I’d flip the dial to Adele or Taylor Swift.
What happened when my mother won?
I assume she swayed to the music, like she’s doing now, and maybe sang along under her breath. But I didn’t pay attention. I usually opened a book or stared out the window and lost myself in a daydream.
Our brains form memories constantly, from the second we wake until we fall asleep. But if the moment we mentally capture doesn’t intersect with our attention, we lose the recollection forever. Emotional significance also helps move our memories into our longer-term stockpiles.
It’s why most of us can remember details about our Thanksgiving dinner from one year ago but can’t conjure a single recollection about a lunch we had one week ago.
I didn’t pay attention when my mother’s songs played in the past. Those memories are gone for good.
So I pay close attention now.
Her face looks softer than it did a few minutes ago, and her eyes are remote. She isn’t here with me now, absorbing this moment. I’m certain she’s trading the memory she could be creating now in order to relive one from the past.
Maybe this song played at one of her homecoming dances. Maybe she wore a pretty dress and wrist corsage and smiled up at the teenaged boy who opened the car door for her and drove her to the dance. Or maybe she stayed home and cried because no one asked her.
Why won’t she let me in?
In another year or so, I won’t be able to make any more memories with her. It breaks my heart to know she won’t share the ones she has sole ownership over.
I don’t realize tears are streaming down my cheeks until my mother’s face falls.
“Oh, honey, no.”
She hands her paper napkin to me across the table, but within seconds it’s soggy and useless. I can’t stop sobbing. My shoulders heave and my whole body is engulfed in sadness, like my mother’s was just overtaken by music.
She’s sitting right across from me, but I already miss her so much I can’t bear it. I start to hyperventilate.
She’s by my side in an instant, her arm around me, shushing me.
“What can I do?” she asks.
I draw in a shuddering breath. I didn’t plan for this to happen, but I grab the opening even though I don’t know if I’m seeking clues or simply grasping for a piece of my mother to hold on to.
“Tell me something about yourself. From when you were a teenager.”
My mother sighs and returns to her seat. I can see the struggle playing out on her face. She wants to assuage my hurt, but it isn’t easy for her.
I wait quietly, not wanting to interrupt whatever mental calculations she is going through.
“Did I ever tell you I was on the Poms squad in high school? We used to dance to this song.”
The revelation makes my tears evaporate. They’re replaced by a vision of my mother in a uniform, dancing on the football field at halftime. But I need more than that. I need to paint my own mental image of the scene in order to secure a near-replica of her memory inside my brain.
“What did your uniform look like? Was your hair long?”