I let that hang between us, processing it. All the things I’ve never said bang against the inside of my brain. All the things I used to want from her.
“Yeah. I do, too.”
“Ari,” she says, but I’m not finished.
“I’m glad you’ve gotten help,” I continue, touching the tiny lightning bolt around my neck for a shock of courage. “Truly. And I know it’s an intensely personal thing. A personal journey. But I’ve been wondering lately . . . why now? What made this time the time, instead of when Alex and I were kids? Because sometimes it makes me feel like—like we weren’t enough for you back then.”
I watch her absorb this, the way her dark blond eyebrows draw together and her mouth parts before she closes it, as though carefully considering what she wants to say. Then she drapes her hand over mine, giving it a squeeze. “Arielle. Ari. I’ve wondered that every day since I left the hospital. I wish I could answer that question for you in a way that was even remotely satisfying.” She runs her thumb along my knuckles. “I don’t know why it took so long. Maybe it was having the right therapist—the one I’m still seeing. Maybe it was feeling like this whole group of people cared about me and wanted me to get well. I don’t know why it took me getting to that awful place I was in before I was admitted to the hospital, and I am so, so sorry.
“Eventually, you deal with something for long enough that it becomes such an intrinsic part of you, and you can’t imagine yourself without it. You accept it, maybe because you think you deserve it but also because you’re scared that if you tried to change it, it wouldn’t work. It feels easier to live in that somber place because you don’t know who you are otherwise, and you’re worried about putting in all that effort without a guaranteed outcome.”
“You knew I got help. You knew it worked for me.”
“I did,” she says. “And I’m even happier now that you were able to realize it so much sooner than I was. I’m sorry . . . if I let you down, by not getting you help earlier.” At that, her voice wavers and she pulls her hand away, seeming to almost fold in on herself. My mother has never looked as small as she does in this moment, and it is absolutely staggering. “I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me. I’m trying to give you an explanation—not an excuse.”
“Being a person is hard,” I say simply.
“The hardest,” she agrees. Then she looks back up at me, the full weight of her gaze pinning me to the chair. “You and Alex were enough. I think . . . I think the problem was that I was the one who wasn’t.”
I’m not sure how many times my heart can break during the course of a single conversation.
“Mom. No,” I say, though there were moments I thought the same thing. Moments I now know were warped by my own depression. My own brain waging war against me.
“Somehow I got lucky that you and Alex turned into such incredible people. You both have jobs you love, jobs you’re great at. Javier and the twins couldn’t be sweeter. And maybe you and Russell? Is that becoming serious?”
“It’s not really anything at the moment,” I say quietly. “For a while, I’ve had these distorted ideas about relationships. Dad was never able to handle us, and—”
“I have to stop you there.” Her voice is firm, firmer than I’ve heard it in ages. “Your father was a sorry excuse for a human. He couldn’t deal with me, fine. But disappearing from your life and Alex’s? In no world was that okay.”
I pause to consider that. When I think about my dad’s abandonment, I always frame it in terms of my mother. He discarded all three of us because she was too much. That’s what I have always believed.
But this is the truth: he made the decision to leave us.
My mother is the one who chose to stay.
“It’s just—it’s been easier to blame you, I guess.” The words are nearly impossible to shove past my lips, but I keep going. “Because you were the one who was there. And ever since then . . . I’ve never been honest with people I’ve dated. I sort of felt like I couldn’t be my full self, like I had to hide the less attractive parts. Until now, and then I got worried I was too honest.”
“Is that what happened? With Russell?”
“Not just Russell. With my engagement, too.” And pretty much everyone before then, I think but don’t say. It’s not right, I’m realizing, to attribute my problems to her. Even if that’s where they started, I am in control now. Sunshine and darkness and everything in between. That’s the real reason my relationships didn’t work: because I was only ever giving a fraction of myself. “But it’s getting better. I’m still figuring it all out.”
And I hope I’m right.
“I’m so sorry,” she says again, her own heartbreak creased into the lines on her face. “I wish we could have had this conversation a while ago, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say I don’t think I would have been ready. But now that we’re here, I want to be part of your life, Ari. I want us to be able to talk about these things, even when it’s hard. Do you think we could start over?”
I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure that ship has sailed. But . . . we could have something new. We could do better, from this point forward.”
Maybe this isn’t the two of us gossiping over mimosas at brunch, but it’s real.
She drops her hand to my knee, and I am learning that I’m someone who really, really enjoys being comforted by their mother. Even at age twenty-seven. “I’d like that, Ari. I’d like that a lot.”
* * *
? ? ?
THERE’S AN INVITATION waiting for me at home. You are cordially invited to Elodie Watson-Barringer’s bat mitzvah is spelled out on the front in marquee-style letters.
At first I assume Russell must have sent it before the breakup, but then I turn it over and find the confident, loopy cursive of a twelve-year-old instead.
Dear Ari,
As you know, I’ve been spending the past year preparing for my bat mitzvah. And while it’s maybe not as thrilling as the opening night of a Broadway show, I’m excited, and only partially for the presents and party afterward.
I wanted to say thank you. Again. For . . . you know. And that I’d love for you to come watch me Become A Woman, if you can make it.
I’m not entirely sure what happened with you and my dad, but I’ve never seen him happier than when he’s with you. He was SO STOKED to go to work in a way he never has been. Like, okay, he always loves sports, but he’d spend more time getting ready in the morning. Sometimes he’d even ask my opinion on his clothes. It was cute but also embarrassing, which I guess is my dad in a nutshell.
So even if he hasn’t said anything to you about it, I think he’d really love it if you came, too.
Elodie
I read it a couple more times, letting the words sink in.
Since our breakup, I’ve worked hard to convince myself that Russell wasn’t worth my secrets. It’s been easier than allowing myself to consider the alternative: that it scares me, how much he was worth it.
He’s had more of me than I’ve given anyone else, and he might be worth risking even more. Even if he cannot possibly give me a guarantee—because truthfully, no one can. Every time I’ve let him in, he’s surprised me by being good and understanding and all those wonderful Russell qualities I’ve grown to love. And I can’t deny how fucking nice it felt, how freeing, not to wear a mask.