Memories in the Drift: A Novel

by Melissa Payne

  “I’m nervous,” I say. “What if I forget? What if it scares her?”

  Mom’s face softens. “You’ll be fine. Besides, she looks pretty comfortable here. But if you need anything, you know where to find Ruth, and I’m just two floors away.”

  I smile and nod, comforted to know she’s near, surprised I feel this way. When she’s gone, I sit on the couch across from the girl and notice that she’s wearing cat-eye glasses that are taped in the middle. “What happened to your glasses?” I ask.

  The girl looks up from her book, crosses her eyes to see the glasses on her face. “Oh, well, you broke them.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah. Hey, I added more pictures to the photo album I made for you. Want to look through it later?”

  “Sure, but I’m sorry I broke your glasses.”

  “Yeah, it happened a long time ago, and you were just upset because of your dad and everything. Here.” She hands me a note card with her handwriting. I’m Maree and your best friend Tate is my dad and your mom lives here and your dad died. Im sorry.

  I swallow hard, notice that there are note cards like this all over my apartment, on the refrigerator, scattered across the kitchen counter, on the end tables, taped to the front door.

  “Ms. Claire?”

  “Mhmmm?”

  “So you know how we are the same ’cause both our moms left us?”

  I did not know that. “Okay,” I say instead.

  “Well, my mom is still gone, but yours is here.” She points to a card, this one with my handwriting, that tells me her mother is not in the picture.

  “Okay.” I wonder where she’s going with this, worry it might be a conversation that’s too big for me.

  “Well, if my mom lived here, I’d be hugging her all the time. But you never hug your mom.”

  “Is that so?” So the girl knows my mom?

  “Yeah.” She scoots over, settles herself so close to me that our arms touch, lays her head against my shoulder and yawns. “And she’s a really nice lady too. She makes me think of you, even.”

  A memory of a night similar to this one rises up. It was a couple of days before my thirteenth birthday, and I was sick with a fever, huddled under blankets on the couch while snow hit the window, fluffy and wet. Mom had made me chicken noodle soup and then afterward sat next to me and pulled my head into her lap, ran her fingers absently through my hair. I lay very still, scared that if I moved she’d remember that her drink was on the counter just out of reach. She was soberish, I recall, and her attention was a soft, golden light that surrounded me like a spotlight, leaving all the bad in the shadows beyond the light. She was beautiful again, even if her stomach poofed over the tops of her jeans now and even if her skin was mottled and pale. In that moment I felt closer to her than I had for a while, pierced with longing and a childish belief that she could stop drinking and be my mom again. Foolishly, I thought I could be honest, speak what was in my heart.

  You’re more sick than I am, Mom.

  My words erased her smile, dimmed her eyes, and plunged the space around us into a cold blue light. Her hand had trembled, shaking the mug of tea violently until she set it on the table.

  Why can’t you get better? I spoke in a stream that ended with a stifled sob. And when she looked at me, her face was red, as though my words had been a slap.

  I don’t know, honey. I’ve tried—

  I scuttled away from her and to the other side of the couch, knees drawn to my chest. Tried? My head hurt, but I was shouting anyway, a heated eruption of doubt and a fear that she was slipping away. All you’ve done is give up! I liked how my words seemed to make her shrink, grow so small that I could pretend I didn’t care anymore. She hadn’t fought back or left the room, just sat on the couch with her hands limp in her lap, absorbing my anger like a punching bag until I was empty and crying. She left two days later.

  “Ms. Claire?”

  The girl is looking at me, and I take in a ragged breath.

  “I’m Maree,” she says softly. “And I’m spending the night ’cause my dad, who’s your best friend, Tate, missed the tunnel, and I didn’t want to stay with Leonora ’cause I’m mad at her.”

  “Who’s Leonora?”

  “My best friend.” She bites on a nail, looks up at me. “Do you want to know why I didn’t want to spend the night with Leonora?”

  I nod.

  “It’s ’cause she says she hates my stories about Uki. She says they’re fake ’cause nobody has a mom like that, and also, didn’t I know that Santa was a big fake too.”

  I can see tears brimming in her eyes; she wipes them away with the back of her hand, but her bottom lip trembles. Instinctively, I put an arm around her. Her hair smells like soap. She snuggles closer against my side, and her nearness touches on a yearning I try to keep stuffed inside.

  She continues but this time in a whisper, “I know Uki’s not real. Don’t tell Dad, okay? But I know my real mom wouldn’t leave me if she didn’t have to.” Her hands are squeezed into small fists and her body tenses. “She’ll come home as soon as she can.” Tears are running down her face now. “But I didn’t know about Santa!”

  I squeeze her gently and we sit like that for a while, listening to the storm rage outside, warm and cozy in here. Maree is spending the night, I repeat to myself because I don’t want to move; I want to sit here like a normal person and comfort her. So I lean my head back and keep the mantra on a repeating loop. Maree is spending the night. Maree is spending the night.

  Her breathing deepens, so I slide out and cover her with a blanket. Her eyes flutter open. “How will you remember me in the morning?” she asks.

  “I’ll write it on my whiteboard so I’ll see it when I wake up first thing. Is that okay?”

  She nods, points to a photo album on the coffee table. “And keep my pictures by your bed so you recognize me.” She yawns with a wide-open mouth, eyes squeezed shut. “Do you want to come with me to make doughnuts? It’s tomorrow morning before school.”

  I write it down and add it to my phone. “I’d love that.”

  “Good night, Ms. Claire.” She smiles at me above a wool blanket she’s pulled to her shoulders. It’s a sweet smile that deepens a dimple in her chin. I reach down, tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, touch the dimple lightly.

  “Good night, Maree. I’m glad you’re here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Friday, February 22

  The next morning, I find a pan of cinnamon rolls outside my door along with a note. This was our favorite weekend treat. Do you remember how it filled our entire apartment with the smell of sugar and dough? Dad said it smelled like family. I love you, Claire, and I hope this batch tastes as good as you remember. Love, Mom (I live in Whittier and I’m sober.)

  I bring the rolls inside, stick her note to the refrigerator, which is covered with note cards similar to this one, from her and—my face warms—Tate Dunn. I do remember her cinnamon rolls. The scent would pull me out of bed on the coldest and darkest of mornings, and we’d sit around the table, my parents with mugs of strong black coffee, me with a glass of milk.

  Maree and I eat the rolls, which are as good as I remember, and she entertains me with her near-constant stream of chatter. I love it. She’s in the bathroom taking a shower when there’s a knock at my door.

  I open it to a handsome dark-haired and older version of Tate. My knees go weak, and I touch my hair, wondering whether I’ve bothered to pull a comb through it yet.

  He’s smiling. “How did Maree do?”

  I tilt my head, try to come up with an answer.

  “My daughter, Maree, stayed the n . . . n-ight with you because I missed the tunnel. Oh, here.” He hands me a note card, which I read, feeling the blush spread up my cheeks, before I attach it to the fridge with all the others.

  But my apartment is empty, and just as a panic starts to spread, I hear a whooshing sound from the bathroom pipes and smile. “She’s in the shower.”

  �
��Perfect.” Tate takes my hand, pulls me toward him, and the contact startles me even if it feels familiar and comfortable. He’s everything I remember, except different and more, his chest hard and solid, arms firm around me, and then he kisses me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, pressing his lips into mine, hands spanning my hips.

  I kiss him back, delight in the leathery smell of his aftershave, the warmth of his body. I feel normal. I feel like the Claire I remember, unbounded by lost minutes and scattered thoughts. I feel—

  “Ho-ly cow! What are you doing to her, Daddy!”

  Tate groans and pulls away from me but doesn’t seem embarrassed or upset. “Hi, peanut.” He crosses the room, kisses the top of her head.

  “Daddy,” she says with a stomp of her foot.

  “I was kissing her,” he says with a chuckle.

  “Well, did she want you to do that? ’Cause it looked messy.”

  I start laughing, first behind my hand because I don’t want the girl to think I’m laughing at her, but when Tate starts, I can’t help it, and soon all three of us are laughing, and the sound mingles with the lingering smell of cinnamon rolls.

  My phone buzzes. Doughnut day with Maree at school. I hold it up. “Should we go?”

  “Yes!”

  The three of us take the elevator to the basement, then use the tunnel to get to the school. Inside, a surprising number of kids and adults are spread out in the small cafeteria. Maree sprints to the kitchen, throws her arms around a woman who is surrounded by mixing bowls, wooden spoons, and measuring cups. My breath catches because the woman is my mother, and she couldn’t look more in her element than at this moment. She wears a black-and-white-printed apron, and her dark hair is pulled into a loose bun. Kids flank her on either side, elbows on the counter, eyes trained on the dough she spins in a mixer. I’m rooted to the floor when she looks up, catches me staring at her, and a smile lights up her face, illuminates her eyes. I smile back.

  “Today we’re making glazed doughnuts,” she tells the kids.

  A tiny girl with a pink headband in her silky black hair says, “Can I put chocolate on mine?”

  “Yes, of course, but first we have to make them. Who wants to help?”

  Every kid raises a hand. While they work, Tate snaps pictures and records short videos with his phone. He promises to put everything in a memory catalog he’s making for me.

  While the kids are eating the finished doughnuts, Mom comes over, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hi, Claire. This is a surprise.”

  Maree’s chest puffs up. “I invited her.”

  “That was a great idea, Maree. Thank you.”

  A woman approaches with two little kids, no more than five and seven, trailing her, doughnuts in hand. The woman’s hair is greasy, pulled back into a lank ponytail, and I notice her eyes—red rimmed, tired—a small tremble in her hands. I push down a lump; my eyes go to the kids.

  “They loved it. Thanks for inviting us, Alice.”

  My mother touches her shoulder. “Anytime, Jory. Call me if you need me, okay?”

  The woman nods and walks away, eyes lowered, her back bent like she’s already given up on the day.

  “Who is that?” I say.

  Mom leans close, lowers her voice. “Jory is a recovering alcoholic.” Mom seems to reconsider her words. “She’s trying, at least. It’s been hard for her.” Her voice is gentle, soft, full of empathy.

  It loosens something in my chest. “You’re helping her?”

  “I’m trying.”

  I hug her, clumsy, holding on like she might melt away, and beside me I hear the click of a camera taking pictures. Then I release her, and I sit down to write and write and write across a fresh page of my notebook because this I want to get down and make sure that I never, ever forget. Mom is sober. Mom is sober.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Saturday, February 23

  Today is Maree’s tenth birthday. I know this because I’ve written it down so many times I think I might actually remember it. Hah. That’s a laugh. A buzz from my phone. Birthday party for Maree at 3 p.m. Hang decorations. Today is her 10th birthday. You have cake and a present.

  Outside, a deep-blue sky shimmers above a fresh layer of snow blanketing the entire town. I love walking in powdery new snow; maybe I’ll go for a walk later.

  Someone knocks on my door. My mother. At first I can’t move, but she smiles at me and she looks normal and sober and suddenly I’m smiling back, happy to see her. She hands me a note card, which I read before putting it on the refrigerator with several others.

  She sets a covered cake pan on the counter. “Ruth said you planned on baking a cake for Maree but that you may have forgotten to do that.”

  I chew my bottom lip, scan the kitchen, don’t see anything. She uncovers the cake. Chocolate frosting with flowers and candy letters that spell out HAPPY 10TH BIRTHDAY, MAREE!

  My chest tightens. “Thanks, Mom.” A buzz from my phone. Decorate for Maree’s birthday. On my desk are decorations, still packaged, that I obviously intend to hang.

  “Can I help?” Mom asks.

  There isn’t much, just a few metallic streamers and a banner and a few balloons. “Here.” She hands me one end of the banner, and together we hang it across the kitchen cabinets. We work in a comfortable silence. When we’re done, we both step back to survey our work. Mom touches my arm and I lean into her. “That looks nice, Claire. She’ll love it.”

  “Do you want to stay?” I ask.

  Mom tilts her head, looks surprised. “Yes, but not today. I’d love to come over another time, if you’d like?”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  Her eyes are bright and she nods, lips pressed together. “Yes, yes, that sounds lovely.”

  My phone buzzes—Birthday party for Maree at 3 p.m. Today is her 10th birthday—just as the door opens and a little girl walks in. Mom winks at me, then touches the little girl on the head, says, “Happy birthday, Maree,” and leaves.

  “Bye, Ms. Alice.” Maree stands awkwardly in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped around her stomach like she feels sick.

  “Sweetheart, are you okay?” I say.

  “Yeah.” Her eyes trail around the apartment, seem to take in the shiny streamers fluttering from the ceiling. “Did you do this all for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s so nice.” I think her voice breaks, but she’s turned away from me to stand by the table, stares at the cake and presents. I pick up a wrapped gift, hand it to her. “Happy birthday, Maree. I hope you like it.” She makes no move to open it. “Go ahead, open it.”

  She does, stops halfway, looks up at me. “Do you remember what it is?”

  I shake my head. “Nope, but I’m excited to see what I got.”

  This gets a small smile out of her, and she tears off the rest of the paper, lifts out a pair of cat-eye glasses that don’t look like the prescription kind, more like dress-up. I clap my hands, delighted to see that she wears a similar pair that have been broken at some point and taped back together. “To replace your broken ones!” I say. “And it looks like the new ones might fit your face better. They’re a bit smaller.”

  “Oh, that’s so nice, Ms. Claire.” Her voice cracks on my name. “You’re so nice. I love them. Thank you.” She throws her arms around my neck and hugs me tight.

  “You’re welcome,” I say into her hair.

  She takes off the old ones, but when she slides the new pair on, I pull back, hand to chest. Tears spill down her face. Her bottom lip trembles. A deep sadness comes off her in waves, and I can’t connect the dots, can’t figure out why, and my mind scrambles to find an answer.

  “What’s wrong, Maree?”

  “I asked Leonora to help me find my mom.” Her voice is raw, face wet. “So Leonora searched on the internet ’cause she’s always on the computer and knows how to do stuff.”

  I’m writing and writing, wanting to listen but needing to make sure I get it down because I have to
tell someone; I can’t be the only one with this information.

  She pulls the sleeve of her shirt over her hand, wipes it across her eyes. “And she’s not a hero. She’s in jail and she does bad things for drugs, and she could call me ’cause I could love her even if she is bad, but she never, ever has.”

  I want to hold her, rock her, something to ease her pain, but I can’t stop writing, because this little girl needs someone better than me to help her.

  “Maree,” I say. “I’m going to call Ruth, and we are going to get some help, okay?”

  Her nostrils flare and she stares at the notebook in my hands; then she grabs it from me, and I’m so surprised that I don’t react quickly enough when she runs to the door.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Claire. I’m so sorry. But I don’t want to remember this either. I want to forget like you.”

  Then she is gone, and I am standing in my apartment staring at a HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner above my sink and an uneaten cake on the counter and wrapping paper on the floor. My phone is in my hand with a reminder on the screen. Birthday party for Maree at 3 p.m. I sit down, breathe in, breathe out, heart racing, and try to let the facts accumulate.

  The present is open, which means that Maree was here. The cake has not been eaten, but maybe she didn’t feel like cake. My hands clench into fists, run up and down my thighs, anxious. I feel very anxious. Why? I sit down at my desk, check the calendar.

  Today is Saturday, February 23, and this morning I went to the gardens and then this afternoon I had a birthday party for Maree. I check the time. 3:30. I guess it was a short party. I sit back in the chair, my hands shaking from an uneasiness that I can’t explain, and look out the window to a clear blue sky. Maybe a walk will help me work out this excess energy. I grab my coat and gloves and head outside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE