Her mother had long ago given up any semblance of normalcy in the way she lived. Even before Alex had gone off to college, her mother’s art had begun gobbling square footage, until nothing but Alex’s bedroom and the bathrooms remained untouched. A sort of metaphor for her mother’s mental illness-there were very few areas of their lives it didn’t touch.
Alex dropped the newspaper on the kitchen counter and crossed to the doors to the patio. They stood open and she paused, the chilly air enveloping her.
Her mother, still a striking beauty at fifty-four, sat sketching at the café table on the patio, a pot of French press coffee and an untouched croissant beside her.
Alex resembled her-the same dark hair and fine features. The same almond-shaped eyes. But she had always seen herself as a watery reflection of her mother’s dramatic beauty-her hair wasn’t as inky, her skin not as alabaster, her eyes a sensible hazel instead of clear green.
Now, the sun fell across her mother’s silky black hair, illuminating the inky highlights as her pencil flew across the pages, flitting almost frenetically from one sketch to another. She wasn’t wearing a coat but seemed oblivious to the cold.
All the signs of a full-blown manic episode, Alex acknowledged. She stepped onto the porch, crossed to her mother, and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “I see you’ve been working. Anything you loved?”
Her mother looked up at her. “Several things. It was a wonderful session. Just wonderful.”
“Why don’t you come inside? You’ll catch your death out here.”
Her mother waved off the concern. “These are the ones, Alex. The ones I’ll be remembered for. Grab yourself a cup of coffee or a juice and take a look.”
A moment later, glass of orange juice in her hand, Alex studied the works in progress. There were at least twenty of them, in various stages of completion. Swirling colors, brilliant. Organic shapes, vibrating with life. Stunning.
She gazed at them, a catch in her chest. Her mother could have been an important artist. Could have been. Hard to have a real career without a consistent body of work. Or when you committed to showings, then backed out at the last moment.
Alex sipped the juice. How long had she worked without stopping to eat or sleep? Twelve hours? Twenty-four? More than that? At least when Alex still lived here, she’d been able to coax her mother to eat. Had been able to keep tabs on her. Make certain she rested and took her medication.
“What do you think?” her mother called from the kitchen.
“Incredible,” she called back, heading that way. She found her mother standing at the counter, newspaper spread open before her. She was humming as she read. “They’re really wonderful, Mom.”
Her mother smiled. “Some of my best work. Certainly the best in years.”
How many times had she heard those same words from her mother? Too many to count. And each time it had ended the same way.
“May I have one of them?” she asked.
“Silly.” Her mother’s hands fluttered. “None of them are complete.”
And most likely, they never would be. “I’d like one anyway. Would you mind?”
Her mother laughed. “Strange girl. But if it’s that important to you, take any one you like.” She snapped on the radio; Fleetwood Mac’s late seventies rock classic “Don’t Stop” filled the room. Her mother rocked to the beat. “This song brings back memories.” She snapped her fingers. “I was quite the wild child. The Eagles, Peter Frampton, the Grateful Dead, I saw them all.”
“You’re not taking your medication, are you?”
Her mother frowned. “Don’t start, please.”
“You need your meds, Mom.”
“I don’t like the way they make me feel.”
“They keep you even.”
“If feeling like a zombie is ‘even,’ you can have it.”
“We’ve talked about this before. Now you feel unstoppable, but-”
She waved off Alex’s concern. “Nothing you say can pop my bubble today.”
“Mother, plea-”
“No, no, no.” She sank onto a chair and reached for Alex’s hands. “I don’t want to argue. Please, let’s not.”
“I’m just worried about you.”
“No need, I’m on top of the world.”
On top of the world now, Alex thought minutes later as she placed the canvas she’d chosen in her old bedroom. But the moment’s lofty perch meant a steep plunge later.
She moved her gaze over the room’s girlish furnishings and the small collection of works in progress she had stored here. She thought of it as an archiving method. A way to ensure that someday her mother would have a body of work to look back on, even if they were incomplete works.
She locked the door, then headed back down the wide staircase. Her mother stood at the bottom, gazing up at her. “You’re a funny girl,” she said affectionately.
Alex reached the landing. “I come by it honestly.”
“That you do.” She cupped her face in her palms. “My pretty, pretty girl. So different than-”
She bit the words back and spun away, humming, heading back toward the kitchen.
“Than who, Mom?”
Her mother stopped in the doorway. “Than everyone, silly.”
Alex gazed at her mother, battling twin feelings of frustration and resignation. They had been through this a hundred times. At least. Her mother would hint at something or someone from their past, then refuse to say more.
She tried again anyway. “What’s so horrible about my dad that you won’t tell me about him?”
“I don’t know who your father was. You know that.”
Alex followed her into the kitchen. It wouldn’t do any good to argue with her. To plead and cajole. She had tried that. Nor would questions about her mother’s family and past provide clues. All she knew was her mother’s parents had disowned her when she’d gotten pregnant.
Alex snatched her purse off the table and slung it over her shoulder. “I have to go to work.”
Her mother didn’t respond. Alex crossed to the doorway, stopped and looked back at her. Something in the newspaper had caught her attention and she was gazing down at it as if she had already forgotten Alex was there.
What was the point of pushing? Of getting angry or wishing for something that would never happen?
The truth was, her mother didn’t have the emotional wherewithal for an honest relationship.
“Goodbye, Mom.”
Her mother looked up, her expression strange. “You’re leaving?”
“Going to work.”
She frowned slightly. Her bubble had popped, Alex realized. And she had begun her descent.
“All I’ve ever wanted to do was protect you.”
“From what, Mom?”
But she’d already returned to the newspaper. Alex let herself out and crossed to her car. She slid inside and started it, only then looking back at the house. She half expected to find her mother standing at the window, watching her go. Instead, the windows were empty.
Empty. The way these visits always left her feeling. She pulled away from the curb, thinking again of her mother’s words. “All I’ve ever wanted to do was protect you.”
But from what? she wondered. From who?
CHAPTER SIX
Wednesday, February 17
9:45 P.M.
Alex was still asking herself those same questions as she called good night to her colleagues two days later. She exited the bar. Business had been slow, so she had clocked out a few minutes early. Located in the Mission district, Third Place was usually hopping weeknights until ten o’clock, when activity slowed considerably. Tonight had been a crawl; her feet and back ached from standing around doing nothing.
It’d given her too much time to think, as well. About her mother. Her illness and her secrets. And to worry.
As she neared her car, she saw Tim leaning against it, waiting for her. He always looked every inch the hip professor, from his shaggy threaded-
with-silver blond hair to his Armani sweater and Ecco driving mocs.
Typical Tim. She had left him a message after leaving her mother’s the other afternoon; instead of a call back, here he was at bedtime, tail wagging and puppy dog earnest.
She couldn’t help but smile. Knowing exactly where she stood with him took the angst out of their relationship. For her, anyway. It also placed her in the driver’s seat.
“Hey,” she said as she neared him. “I thought you might have decided I was more trouble than I’m worth.”
“Never.” He kissed her cheek. Another woman’s perfume, flowery and sweet, clung to him. “How was work?”
“Slow.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “One of those nights I had too much time to think.”
“What’s going on? You sounded pretty upset when you called.”
“I needed someone to talk to.”
“Your mother?”
“How’d you know?”
“Recognized your tone.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice to the silky rumble she used to love. “What happened to us, Alex?”
“Where did that come from?”
“I miss you.”
She placed her hand against his chest to keep him from moving closer. “Even if we forget that you couldn’t keep your peter in your pants, we have nothing in common.”
“Not true. We’re both seekers. Both fascinated by the universal quest for meaning. What people will do to find it.” He grinned. “And we were great together in bed.”
“Not so great the other night.”
“You were having head issues.”
She winced at the way he casually tossed that out there. As if her “head issues” were a common occurrence, in the sack and otherwise. It struck a nerve-she lived in fear she had inherited her mother’s mental illness, although at thirty it still hadn’t manifested itself.
Was her “vision” the other night its first appearance?
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said softly. He covered her hand with his. “I didn’t mean anything by that. You’re not like her.”
She searched his gaze. Should she tell him about her vision? Get his opinion, see if he could help her figure it out?
She opened her mouth to do that, but instead said, “The day I called, I’d stopped by to see her. She’s not taking her meds and was in the middle of a manic episode.”
“I’m sorry, Alex.”
“Me, too. It’s so frustrating.” She heard helplessness in her voice and fought it. “Thanks for listening.”
“You want to have a drink? My shoulder’s available.”
Alex was tempted, but suspected what that drink would lead to. And even though she knew she wouldn’t find what she sought through sex, she wasn’t that strong right now. “I don’t think so, Tim. I’m back to work on my dissertation and keeping some late hours. I’m pretty tired.”
“I could wake you up,” he teased. “Plus, I’d like a chance to expunge my record.”
She unlocked her car. “Sorry. Not happening.”
“You know I still love you.”
“Still not happening.” She kissed him lightly on the mouth, slid into her vehicle, and drove away. When she reached the corner, Alex glanced in the rearview mirror and found he had already gone.
Probably into the bar in the hopes of convincing some other woman to give him the chance to prove himself, she thought. So much for love.
The light ahead turned red, and Alex eased to a stop. She dug her cell phone out of her purse and flipped it open. She had missed several calls and had a new message waiting.
All from her mother. The first had come in at 1:00 P.M., not that long after she had arrived at work. She’d left the voice mail a couple hours ago.
Alex punched in her password and her mother’s voice came through the device.
“I have to talk to you, Alex. I have to-” She sounded horrible. Voice slurry, thick. With tears? Or from self-medication? Alex didn’t know.
“I’ll tell you everything. I promise… I-” Her mother drew in a shuddering breath. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen-I only wanted, I-”
The message clicked off. Had she hung up? Alex wondered, a catch in her chest. Or had the machine cut her off?
Either way, what had happened was obvious. The pendulum had swung back-mania had become depression.
At the blare of a horn behind her, Alex rolled through the intersection. She had to check on her, make certain she was all right.
Sighing, Alex turned onto Guerrero Street heading toward her mother’s house.
Ten minutes later she braked in front of her mother’s. The house was dark, not a sliver of light spilled from any of the windows. She climbed out of her car and hurried up the walk.
She let herself in. “Mother,” she called. “It’s Alex.”
Only silence answered and she flipped on the light. Carnage greeted her. Her mother’s beautiful canvases all destroyed. Some obliterated by paint, others scraped clean and a few slashed, as if in one final burst of despair or fury.
It hurt to look at them and she averted her gaze. The shades were all drawn tight and Alex wondered if she had even opened them to the day. It had rained earlier and she saw a puddle of water on the floor.
“Mom,” she called again, heading up the curving stairs. “It’s Alex.”
She reached the second-floor landing and started for the master bedroom. She would find her in bed. Maybe sleeping. Maybe curled up under the covers, staring at nothing.
The glow from a streetlight fell across her mother’s bed. She wasn’t wrong, Alex saw. Her mother was there, lying on her back, blanket a jumble around her, as if she had been thrashing about.
Alex crossed to her. “Mom,” she said softly, “are you awake?”
She didn’t reply and Alex bent to straighten the blankets. Her hand knocked something to the floor. A pill vial, she realized, bending to retrieve it.
Seroquel. It was empty.
Her heart jumped to her throat. “Mom,” she said, loudly this time. “Mom!”
Alex shook her. Her body was stiff. Her skin cold to the touch.
She shook her again, panicking. “No, no, no… you did not do this… Mom, talk to me. Wake up!” She caught her mother’s hand, frantically pressed her fingers to the wrist, praying for even a flutter of a pulse.
Nothing. Nothing.
With a cry, she stumbled backward, fumbling for her phone. She found it, but dropped her purse, the contents spilling across the floor.
She punched in 911. “Hello? Oh my God… I think my mother… I can’t get a pulse! I think she’s… please, you’ve got to help!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wednesday, February 17
10:55 P.M.
Her 911 call yielded a patrol unit and an investigator from the Medical Examiner’s Office, who’d introduced himself as Investigator Hwang. Apparently, they couldn’t take her word for it that her mother had killed herself.
The patrolman babysat her while the ME investigator looked at her mother. He explained that she had to stay put because the detective would need to ask her some questions.
Where did he think she would go? Alex wondered, struggling to keep hysteria at bay. Bar hopping? To visit friends?
“Is there someone you can call?” the officer asked gently. “A family member?”
“I have no… my mother was my only fam-”
Alex choked on the last. She saw the sympathy in his eyes. He was young, surname and coloring indicated Italian decent. Judging by his wedding band, he was married; he might even have a kid or two; and likely boasted an extended family that included aunts and uncles, cousins, nephews and nieces.
Young Officer Pagani couldn’t understand what it felt like to be alone. To have no one. He couldn’t understand it, but he could pity it.
“A friend then?” he offered. “A coworker?”
She nodded, retrieved her phone and dialed Tim’s cell. It went directly to voice mail.
His cell was off. He must have found company for the night.
“Tim, it’s me. I’m at Mom’s. She’s… oh my God, Tim, she killed herself. Call me when you get this, okay?”
She closed her phone and turned back to the patrolman. “Is it okay if I sit?”
“I suggest it. It may be awhile yet. Thirty minutes even.”
He hit it on the button. Exactly thirty minutes later, the investigator, a trim Asian man with a no-nonsense demeanor, found her.
“Ms. Owens?”
“Owens was my maiden name. It’s Clarkson now, though I’ve been thinking of changing it back.” She was rambling but couldn’t seem to stop herself. “I mean, since the divorce.”
He nodded, took a small spiral notebook from his trench pocket. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“Could you tell me how you happened to be here tonight?”
“My mother left a message on my cell. I was working. She sounded-”
“Where do you work?”
“I’m a bartender at Third Place. On Sixteenth Street.”
“Nice place. How’d she sound?”
“Upset. She was crying. So I came to check on her.”
Again he jotted a note. “Her message, what did she say?”
Alex struggled to think clearly. “She said she was sorry… that she was ready to tell me everything.”
“Everything,” he repeated. “What does that mean?”
How did she explain? Alex wondered. It didn’t make sense, even to her. “Mom refused to talk about the past. My father. We argued about it-”
“When?”
“The last time I saw her. Though it wasn’t the first time.”
“When was that?”
“Day before yesterday.”
“Monday?”
She thought a moment. “Yes. In the afternoon.”
“And that’s when you argued?”
Alex nodded. “She wasn’t taking her meds. Another bone of contention.”
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