At the Water's Edge

by Harper Bliss

  Before I have a chance to pinch myself, Kay heads back into the room with two steaming mugs.

  We install ourselves cross-legged on the bed, the tray between us, the coffee mugs safely deposited on the night stands.

  “I slept like a log,” I say before popping a piece of bacon in my mouth.

  “Glad to know I have such an exhilarating effect on you.” Kay raises her eyebrows.

  “Did you sleep well?” I try to ignore Kay’s remark, not really knowing what to say.

  “Honestly? No. Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to invite you into my bed after kissing you while you were naked. Difficult image to get out of my head, you know?” She smirks. “But hey, I asked for it.” There’s a twinkle in Kay’s eyes. What are we waiting for? A note from my doctor? A permission slip from my conscience? I want her and, clearly, she wants me.

  “No pressure, Ella. I’m attracted to you, but I have no expectations. I’m not some chick you need to put out for to keep interested.” Kay’s voice has gone all serious.

  Again, I’m torn between the two extremes that seem to make up my emotional life. As much as I love having breakfast in bed with Kay, I can’t take her words at face value. I’m sure she means them—now—but she’s only witnessed about ten percent of my personality—and only the well-behaved side. After every failed attempt at building a healthy relationship, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, alone and heartbroken, and I knew for a fact that I wasn’t worth it. That I couldn’t do it. That once a woman got close enough to discover the real me beneath the shiny veneer that comes with a brand new love affair, she had every right to run.

  “Ella?” Kay nudges my shin with her toe.

  “Sorry.” I stack some eggs on my fork.

  “Where did you go just now?”

  The magic of the moment, of this beautiful morning with Kay, has disappeared. Another conflict pops up in my brain. Am I really trying to woo another woman by confiding my blackest secrets to her? And what does that make her? Instead of enjoying Kay’s company, of simply eating her food and engaging in some carefree banter, I’ve ruined it—again. Instead of Doctor of Biology, my business card should say: Ella Goodman, Ruiner of Romance.

  The only way to go is right through it. One of Dr. Hakim’s quotes stored in my phone. If you want to heal, there’s no way back.

  “You have no idea how much I wish I could just jump into this headfirst.” I can barely look at Kay, because, after the kiss, I see her differently. “But that’s no longer an option for me.”

  “As long as you don’t run away from me for all the wrong reasons.” Kay pops a piece of bacon in her mouth, chews it unceremoniously.

  But my usual M.O. of crash and burn is all I know. I have no idea how to play this slow game. It doesn’t help that Kay looks at me with that glint of desire in her eyes.

  “I guess I’m just nervous about Mom’s visit.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either.

  “I’ll be here for you afterwards.” Kay presses her toe into my leg again. “And if you’re too torn up after her visit, it’s an excellent excuse to get out of cooking for me.” A smile flits along her lips.

  “Why do you want this, Kay?” I have no idea where I get the courage to ask that question, unless it’s just more self-sabotage: question it to death before it can grow into anything substantial. “Do you get a kick out of trying to save lost causes? Does it turn you on that I’m so broken?”

  Kay’s fork clatters against her near empty plate. “First of all, stop referring to yourself as a lost cause. Second, that feeling-sorry-for-yourself schtick doesn’t work on me, so you might as well put a sock in it now.” There’s not a hint of anger in her tone. Nothing I can latch on to, because anger is what I grew up with. Anger, my very own blueprint for love.

  I’m not allowed to apologize, so instead I shovel some eggs into my mouth. They taste divine. Kay is divine. Over my plate, I stare at her legs, her strong thighs disappearing into a pair of boxer shorts. Everything about her is magnificent and, like that one mosquito in the night that never gives up, the thought keeps hammering in my mind: what am I bringing to the table? How can this ever be a meeting of equals?

  “Go for a swim. It’ll make you feel better. Clear your head,” she says.

  “After a breakfast like this, all I want to do is go back to sleep.”

  “Don’t you have to go shopping?” The smile is back on Kay’s face. “To prepare me some fancy city-style food.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Waiting for my mother at the cabin feels like a do-over of our failed attempt a few days ago. Only, this time, Kay won’t come to my rescue before we have a chance to say anything of meaning.

  I sit on the porch and hear her footsteps approach. Small, clipped steps walking purposefully toward me on the graveled path.

  When my friend Trish had her first baby five years ago, she told me that the love she felt for little Josie was so obliterating she couldn’t compare it to anything else. I remember wondering if that was a universal feeling among new mothers around the world—if my own mother ever felt that way about Nina and me.

  After my mom has deposited her pie in the kitchen, she grabs me by the shoulders, turns me toward her, and hugs me so tightly I fear she may crack one of my ribs. When we let loose, we both have tears in our eyes.

  “Do you have anything stronger than coffee?” she asks.

  I arch up my eyebrows, unsure this is the best way to start a coffee date.

  “Just the one, to take the edge off. I know we have some serious business to discuss and the pie is just dress-up.”

  I’m not used to my mother being so forthright. Taken aback, I head for the fridge and dig up the bottle of white wine I had planned on serving Kay tonight. I pour us both a modest glass and put the bottle back.

  “I’m glad we never sold this place,” Mom says after we’ve installed ourselves on the porch, both of us looking out over the lake. “Although I came this close.” She brings her thumb and index finger together, only leaving half an inch between them. “He brought her here. To this place where we vacationed with you and Nina, our girls.”

  Although Dad’s affair hung over our lives like a dark cloud, after the big confessional moment, it was never directly talked about again, despite silently dominating almost every conversation in the Goodman house. Again, Mom surprises me with her forwardness.

  “Are you kidding me?” I need to take a sip from my wine to process.

  Mom shakes her head, but not in her usual victim-like way. “That’s how I found out. She left a pair of tights under the bed. How cliché is that, Ella?” To my utter amazement, she even manages a chuckle. Who is this woman sitting next to me? She looks like Dee Goodman, but seems possessed by someone else’s spirit. She takes a big gulp of her wine. “I have a confession to make.” She twirls the stem of her glass between her fingers. “Your father and I contacted your doctor in Boston this morning. Not to check up on you, just to ask for guidance on how to, uh, handle this.”

  “You did what?” Pure rage flares in the pit of my stomach, quickly making its way up. It’s so typical that she would go behind my back.

  “I should have asked first. I know that. And, for the record, your father was against it, but I needed to do something. I couldn’t risk coming here again and not being able to find a crack in this wall between us. It’s been killing me. I’m so scared, Ella. So scared of losing you forever.”

  “You had no right.” My anger diminishes at the sight of her tears. It reminds me of an article I read on parenting not so long ago. Never let your children see you cry or fight. Be strong for them. Resolve your conflicts behind closed doors. For all the times I’ve witnessed my parents’ passive-aggressive argument routine, I’ve hardly ever seen my mom cry.

  “I know. I know I had no right to, but I’m glad I called.” She fishes for a handkerchief in her purse. “We have so much to talk about. So much time to catch up on. I’m your mother, Ella. I wanted to
do it right for once.” And just like that, my mother’s eternal problem rises to the surface once again: good intentions, flawed execution.

  “What did he say?” It feels a bit like asking how things went after my mother went to a parents-teachers night when I was still in school.

  “He sounded like a lovely man.” Mom pauses to blow her nose and wipe away most of the tears. “He seemed to understand why I called, put me at ease. Advised me to ‘listen without blinkers on’. Obviously, he was quite reluctant to engage in conversation about you directly, but just having the opportunity to talk to him for a few minutes was enough for me.” Another tear sits at the ready in the corner of her eye. “Ever since that call, every minute of my life has been consumed with worry.” A tear falls down her cheek. “But I’m here for you. I’m here to listen. I don’t want you to hold back, not on my account.”

  I drain the rest of my glass, desperate for some sort of buzz to make this awkward moment more bearable. I have dreamed of an opportunity like this many a time, but every time the scenario played out in my head, it ended with yelling followed by more hurt feelings and misunderstanding—like any Friday evening at our house when I was a teenager. Now, it feels more as if I’ve landed in the middle of a very uncomfortable nightmare.

  “I guess the reason why I haven’t been coming home as much as you’d like,” I start, gazing over the water, the possibility of having to meet my mother’s eyes keeping my neck stiff and immobile, “is because… there’s no joy. There’s no love in that house.” I feel my mother stir next to me, but she manages to hold her tongue. “If there is, it’s a very twisted, very conditional, very stifling kind.” I try to block out the voices in my head and continue. “I came back now because, under Dr. Hakim’s guidance, I’ve concluded that to accept myself, I need to accept where I came from. I need to make some sort of peace. I need to feel that there’s something more between us than a very, very loose family tie.” My thumb and ring finger tap against each other in a nervous fashion.

  “I mean, I know you and Dad love me, and I love you too. You’re my parents, my family. But something has gone so wrong between us, I can’t even put it into words. And, the worst thing is, before, uh, what I did, I had come to accept it was just one of those things. Sometimes children fall out with their parents. When the past has been too toxic, when too much has been said or done, or perhaps, in our case, silently implied.

  “But the way you and Dad treated each other has left its mark on me. And, by no means am I here to fix your marriage, I’m here to fix myself. To ask a few difficult questions and to get some answers.” The words roll out of me, leaving me breathless. I’m not even sure of all the things I just said, mostly because I can’t believe I said them.

  “Ask away.” In those two words, I hear how broken my mother is. I don’t need to look at her to see her slumped posture and troubled gaze.

  “I asked you the same question many years ago, and you brushed it off as though it was just a silly child’s thought.” I turn to look at her. “If he made you so unhappy, why did you stay?”

  “Oh, Ella. I can see why, to you and your sister, it might have seemed like the wrong decision, but you don’t know what your father has done for me.” Tears streak her cheeks. “You and I, we are much more alike than you know.”

  “You’re my mother. Of course we have a lot in common.”

  “I’ve never resorted to what you—” She hesitates. “I’ve been in your situation. I know how you feel, Ella, more than you’ll ever know. I know what that darkness does to you.”

  It doesn’t really come as a shock, but to hear her say the words still surprises me. When Dr. Hakim asked me if depression ran in my family, I was never able to give him a straight answer.

  “A year after Nina was born, I spent four months in Stewart Center in Portland. It was the hardest thing I ever did, leaving my baby to get better. It helped, but it’s been a struggle ever since.” She eyes her empty wine glass longingly, but I don’t get up. “Your father was by my side through everything. How hypocritical would it have been to leave him because of that affair? We had so many other considerations. You girls. My illness.” In desperation, she throws her hands in the air. “Was it the right decision in the end? I believe that for your father and me it was. You haven’t been around for a while, Ella. We’re good now.”

  “But…” I’m not sure if I have the right to ask after what my mother just admitted to. “What about the endless fighting? The constant disparaging tone you used with him? The complete lack of respect?” I try to keep my voice steady, try not to show the anger I always carry with me quietly.

  My mother sucks in a deep breath, her shoulders sagging again. “I guess that, back then, it was my way of coping. For me, anything was better than the gaping black hole that awaited me if I gave in.” She takes a break to sniffle into a tissue. “You girls were too young to understand. I don’t expect you to understand now, or ever.”

  “Jesus, Mom. I do understand.” In moments of complete, blinding anger, I’ve resented my parents for having children in the first place, but I can hardly hold my own existence against them—despite trying to erase it.

  “You and I, Ella,” her voice croaks, “we’re sensitive in a way your father and Nina will never fully comprehend.”

  “If you knew,” I start to choke up, “what I inherited from you.” It sounds so silly to say it like that. “Why didn’t you reach out and offer help?”

  “I did. So many times. You blew me off at the merest hint of intimacy between us. And I know that’s on me and I’ll carry that guilt with me forever.” She looks away briefly. “I know what you think of me and it hurts me every single day.”

  I want to tell her it’s not true. I’m squirming in my seat trying to come up with ways to deny that I’ve felt wronged by my own mother for more than half of my life, but nothing comes out. No more words make it past the knot in my throat.

  We both stare at the lake, but, in that moment, its beauty is lost on me. The damage between my mother and me was done a long time ago. And perhaps knowledge is power, but, in this instant, it feels more like a heavy, crushing burden on my soul.

  “What are you making for Kay tonight?” Mom breaks the silence.

  “Roasted chicken with asparagus and bacon vinaigrette.”

  “Do you need a hand?”

  I don’t know what to say. Of all the surprising things my mother has said since she arrived at the cabin, this suggestion amazes me the most. “Sure.” I shuffle to the edge of my seat. “How about another glass of wine?”

  “I would love that.”

  I know it’s not much, but the light pang of relief running through me is, at least, something.

  “It’s my understanding she’s quite fond of you,” Mom says when I return with the bottle of wine.

  I’ve been out to my parents for twenty years and I’ve never brought a girlfriend home, never even gave the possibility a second thought. I can’t help but go on the defense. “I know you don’t like her, but—”

  “That’s not what I’m trying to say, Ella. I couldn’t be more thrilled for you if it worked out. I mean it.”

  “Yes, well, it’s complicated.”

  For the time it takes us to finish that second glass of wine, my mother seems like a different person. Perhaps she feels temporarily freed from the crosses she bears in life. Or perhaps she’s over the moon to have something that resembles a normal conversation with her daughter.

  “I agree that love and relationships can be complicated, but, as your father would say, ‘don’t destroy it by overthinking it’.” This strikes me as an exact phrase from Kay’s big book of wisdom. It also shows me that the way I’ve thought about my parents’ marriage all these years might have been a tad too superficial.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  By the time Kay arrives I’m still so frazzled that her soft knock on the door startles me, but her presence, nonetheless, has an instant calming effects on my nerves—like that fi
rst dip in the lake after dark.

  “I waited an hour after I saw your mother’s car leave the lot. Not that I was counting down the minutes.” She holds up a bottle of champagne.

  “Are we celebrating something?” I lean my hip against the kitchen counter and look Kay over. She’s wearing extra tight linen shorts and a halter top that accentuates her shoulders in a way that makes my mouth water.

  “Our first date.” She steps closer. “I was expecting smoke in your kitchen and the irresistible smell of burning meat. Color me surprised.” While she hands me the bottle, she gazes deep into my eyes.

  “My mom helped me cook.” I fight the urge to lean into her, to feel her support.

  “How are you?” Gently, she places a hand on my shoulder. “Are you in the mood for this?”

  “I’m exhausted from slaving over this chicken.” I point at the oven.

  “How about I pour us a glass of that?” She nods at the bottle. “And we sit for a few minutes before we eat.”

  “Okay.” The afternoon’s tension slides off me with Kay’s arrival, leaving my muscles limp, and my brain a numb mass.

  I wait on the porch, in the same chair I sat in when my mother was here. After Kay has sat down and we’ve lifted our glasses, toasting what we insist on calling our ‘first date’, I glance at her, so relieved to sit opposite someone whose face relaxes me and whose presence doesn’t undo me.

  “She practically gave us her blessing.” The bubbles burst on my tongue as I sip and scan Kay’s face for a reaction.

  “Well, that kind of takes all the fun out of it.” A huge smile breaks on her face. “Seriously, though. Do you want to talk about it?”

  I shake my head. I’ve done enough of that sort of talking for one day. “No. We made progress, I guess. Actually had a conversation. She shed some light on things that were never very clear to me, but now, I just want to be with you. Enjoy your company.”