Something Like Fine.

You know when something has been sitting there long enough that avoiding it starts to take more effort than doing it?

That was lunch with my mother.

I’d put it off twice already. Once because of work, which was mostly true, and once because I said I wasn’t feeling well. She hadn’t questioned either excuse. Just asked when I wanted to reschedule.

I should have said never.

Instead, I picked Thursday.

I got there early, which annoyed me because she was almost always late. Now I had nothing to do but sit with a glass of water and watch the door. I kept my hands folded on the table so I wouldn’t pick at my nails.

I considered texting her. Didn’t. If I asked where she was, I’d get an explanation, and somehow the explanation would take longer than the waiting.

At twelve-fifteen, I saw her through the window.

For one second, before she came inside, I wanted to bolt. Past the waitress station, through the swinging kitchen doors, around whatever cook or busboy happened to be in the way, over a milk crate if I had to, and out the back door before she ever saw me.

Instead, I closed my eyes and took one slow breath through my nose. Held it. Let it out.

When I opened them, she was coming through the door.

She spotted me right away and smiled. Navy cardigan, white blouse, purse tucked under one arm.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

I stood because she expected me to.

I’d worn a pale blue sundress I’d bought a few weeks earlier, thin straps, fitted through the ribs and loose from the waist down. I liked it. Or I had, until I stood up.

She leaned in and kissed one cheek, then the other, leaving the faint powdery smell of her perfume behind.

She drew back.

Her eyes went from my face to the straps, down the front of the dress, then back up.

Not long. Long enough.

“You look good.”

“Thanks. You too.”

She slipped off her cardigan and folded it beside her instead of hanging it over the seat.

“Traffic was ridiculous. I left twenty minutes early.”

“I figured.”

The server came before either of us picked up a menu.

“Can I get you started with something to drink?”

“Just water,” my mother said. “Still, no lemon.”

“Coffee.”

After he walked away, she looked around the restaurant.

“This is nice. Have you been here before?”

“Once.”

“With anyone I know?”

“No.”

She picked up the menu. “I was only asking.”

“I know.”

For a while, it was all right.

She told me about a woman she knew who’d sold her house and moved to Naples, then discovered she hated Florida. My mother did an imitation of her that made me laugh despite myself.

“There,” she said.

“What?”

“I haven’t heard you laugh like that in ages.”

“I laugh.”

“I didn’t say you don’t.”

The coffee came. I added cream.

“Whatever happened to Daniel?”

I looked up from my coffee. “We broke up.”

Her face changed before she could stop it.

“When?”

“A couple months ago.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t think I had to.”

“No, of course not.” She looked down at the table, then back at me. “I liked him.”

“I know.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“I liked the way he looked at you.”

That caught me off guard.

“What?”

“He paid attention. When you talked, he actually listened.” She gave a small smile. “You used to interrupt each other constantly.”

I laughed once. “He hated when I did that.”

“He didn’t hate it.”

“You weren’t there afterward.”

Her smile faded.

“What happened?”

“It just ended.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“What does that mean?”

“You usually have reasons for everything.”

“I had reasons.”

“And?”

I shook my head.

“I thought you two were heading somewhere.”

“We were.”

“Marriage?”

“No.”

“You never talked about it?”

“Not really.”

“Why?”

“Because he seemed stable. Kind. He had a good family. He was doing well.”

“So?”

“So nothing.”

“I just think sometimes you’re very quick to decide something isn’t right for you.”

I stared at her.

“And sometimes people don’t realize what they had until it’s gone.”

The server returned to take our orders. My mother ordered the salmon, dressing on the side, and handed him the menu without looking at it again.

She glanced down at my dress again.

“That really is a pretty color on you.”

“Thanks.”

“The blue works.” She looked at the front of it. “Although I’m not sure about the fit.”

I waited.

She picked up her water.

“Mom.”

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

She took a drink.

“I probably would’ve had the top taken in.”

I looked down at myself. “Why?”

“It gaps a little.”

“Where?”

She touched two fingers to her own chest.

“You’re so small there. It leaves all that extra room.”

I felt my shoulders pull forward.

“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you.”

“Okay.”

“I’m talking about the dress.”

I reached for my coffee.

“And then it fits differently through the hips.”

She leaned back slightly, looking at me with the same concentration she’d used on the menu.

“The waist is nice. I like the waist.”

“But it pulls here.”

She made a small gesture toward my hips.

I looked down at my lap.

The skirt had ridden up slightly when I sat. I tugged it toward my knees.

“See?”

I stopped touching it.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just snug through your thighs when you sit.”

“Jesus, Mom.”

“Oh, please.”

“Can we not?”

“I’m trying to tell you that the proportions of the dress aren’t quite right for you.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know you didn’t.”

A woman at the next table glanced over.

My mother kept going.

“You’re very small through the chest, and then the dress gets tight lower down. It draws attention to things you probably don’t mean to draw attention to.”

I could feel heat climbing my neck.

“Could you lower your voice?”

“I am speaking normally.”

“You’re talking about my body.”

“I’m talking about how the dress fits your body.”

“That’s not better.”

She gave me a tired little look.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’m your mother. Who else is going to tell you?”

“I don’t need anyone to.”

“Well, somebody should.”

I looked toward the next table. The woman was pretending not to listen now.

My mother followed my eyes.

“Nobody cares what we’re talking about.”

“You just told half the restaurant I have no breasts.”

“I did not say you have no breasts.”

“You said I’m very small through the chest.”

“You are.”

She reached for her water.

“You’ve always been small-breasted. Daniel obviously didn’t have a problem with it.”

For a second I thought I’d heard her wrong.

“What does Daniel have to do with my breasts?”

“I didn’t say he had anything to do with your breasts.”

“You brought him up while we were talking about them.”

“I was trying to make you feel better.”

“About what?”

She paused.

Her fingers tightened around the water glass.

“You’re making this into something it isn’t.”

“I asked you to stop.”

“I was talking about the dress.”

“No. You were talking about my breasts and my hips and whether my thighs look too big when I sit down.”

She looked at me.

“Those are the parts the dress has to fit.”

I pushed my chair back an inch.

“Can we not do this?”

Her face changed.

“Do what?”

“Talk about my body like I’m not sitting here.”

She folded her napkin once and set it beside her plate.

“I’m your mother.”

“I know.”

“I’m allowed to be honest with you.”

“Then be honest about something else.”

She sat back.

“You’ve gotten very touchy.”

“Okay.”

“Geffen, I mean it. I can’t say anything to you anymore.”

“Then don’t.”

She went quiet.

The food came.

For a few minutes there was only silverware and plates and the low mess of other people’s conversations.

I thought maybe we’d managed to get past it.

Then she said, “You know what bothers me?”

I put my fork down.

“You ask me what I think, and then you punish me for answering.”

“I didn’t ask what you thought of my body.”

“I was talking about the dress.”

“We already did this.”

Her mouth tightened.

“I’m trying to understand when exactly I stopped being allowed to say anything to my own daughter.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You’ve made it very clear.”

“No. I asked you to stop picking at me.”

“Picking at you.”

“Yes.”

She gave me a tired little smile.

“I complimented your dress.”

“And then spent ten minutes telling me what was wrong with my body.”

“That is such an ugly way to describe what happened.”

She dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin.

“I only want what’s best for you.”

“You say cruel things to me and then call it wanting what’s best.”

My mother looked up at me.

“What’s best for who?” I said.

She didn’t answer right away. She moved a piece of salmon through the dressing pooled at the edge of her plate, then set her fork down.

“You came here angry.”

“I came here because I wanted to talk to you.”

“And you’ve been waiting for me to say the wrong thing since I sat down.”

She picked up her napkin. “You have.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want you to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t. I’m sitting here trying to have lunch with my daughter, and apparently everything I say is evidence of something.”

The server appeared beside the table.

“Everything tasting all right?”

My mother looked up at him.

“Lovely, thank you.”

He glanced at me.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Can I bring you anything else?”

“We’re fine,” she said.

He left.

She waited until he was out of earshot.

“You see?”

I pushed my plate away.

“What?”

“That. You were perfectly pleasant to him.”

I stared at her.

She gave a small shrug. “So you can do it.”

Something hot moved up through my chest.

“I’m not doing this with you.”

“Doing what?”

I reached for my purse.

Her face changed.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”

My hand stopped on the strap.

She looked down at my plate. “And you barely touched your lunch.”

I let go of the purse.

For one stupid second, she looked relieved.

“I asked you to stop commenting on me.”

“I’m commenting on the food.”

“No.”

A couple at the next table stood to leave. My mother waited until they were gone.

“You know,” she said, quieter now, “I think you’ve decided who I am, and nothing I say is going to make any difference.”

I looked at her.

“I came here because I wanted things to be different.”

Her eyes moved over my face.

“I want you to be happy.”

“I am.”

“Are you?”

“I think you’re twenty-five and very sure of things that may look different to you in ten years.”

“Like what?”

“Daniel, for one.”

I almost laughed.

“You don’t even know why we broke up.”

“Because you won’t tell me.”

“Because it’s mine.”

Her expression tightened.

“There. That.”

“What?”

“This idea that caring about you is some kind of intrusion.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to.”

I sat back.

“You really don’t hear yourself.”

“I hear myself perfectly well.”

“No. You hear what you meant. I’m telling you what it feels like sitting across from you.”

“I cannot be responsible for every way you choose to interpret me.”

“You don’t have to be responsible for everything. Just what you say.”

She looked toward the window, then back at me.

“I see.”

“You see what?”

“I see that this is how you’ve decided to think of me.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“You just spent the better part of lunch telling me I’m cruel.”

“I said you say cruel things.”

Her expression tightened.

“I have spent your entire life worrying about you.”

“I know.”

“I gave you everything I knew how to give you.”

“I know.”

“You wanted for nothing.”

Her hand lifted from the table, then dropped again.

“And apparently that counts for very little now.”

“This isn’t about what you bought me.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You’re making a list.”

She looked down.

For once, she didn’t answer.

When she looked up again, her face was composed.

“I’m sorry you feel this way.”

I stared at her.

She reached for her water.

“I need you to hear me.”

“I have heard you.”

“No. You’re waiting for me to stop.”

Her mouth opened, then closed.

“I’m telling you I can’t keep doing this.”

She looked at me differently then.

“What exactly does that mean?”

She held my eyes.

“I mean I’m tired.”

“Everyone is tired.”

“That isn’t what I mean.”

“Then say what you mean.”

I looked down at my hands. They had stopped shaking.

“I keep thinking if I explain it the right way, you’ll understand.”

Her expression sharpened.

“I understand perfectly well.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. You want me to approve of everything you do and keep my opinions to myself.”

“No.”

“That is what you’re asking.”

“I asked you not to pick me apart.”

“I don’t pick you apart.”

“I notice things. I say something when I think you’re making a mistake. I’m your mother. I’m not one of your friends.”

“So you think that gives you the right.”

“To be honest with you? Yes.”

I sat back.

“If Daniel had been wrong for you, I would have said so. He wasn’t. You ended it anyway.”

“You don’t know why.”

“No, because you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t tell you because you do this.”

Her eyes lifted to mine.

“This?”

“You decide first. Then you ask questions.”

“I thought he was good for you.”

“That doesn’t mean I owed him the rest of my life.”

Her mouth tightened.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No. You just keep telling me what I should regret.”

She looked toward the window.

“You are very determined to hear the worst possible version of everything I say.”

“I’m sitting right here listening to you.”

Her face went still.

“That’s unfair.”

“Maybe.”

She folded her hands on the table.

“What would satisfy you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly.”

“No. I mean I don’t know what you could say now.”

“So there is nothing I can say.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But that’s where we are.”

She picked up her water.

“You’ve already decided I’m the villain in whatever version of this you’ve been telling yourself.”

I stared at her.

She drank, set the glass down carefully.

“I have spent twenty-five years trying to keep you from making avoidable mistakes. If that makes me difficult, fine.”

“You think that’s what this is?”

I felt something in me settle.

Not calm. Something harder.

“You really don’t think you’ve done anything wrong.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I think I have made mistakes. I do not think loving you enough to be honest with you is one of them.”

I looked at her for a long time.

She didn’t look away.

“So you’re going to keep doing it.”

“If I think something matters, yes.”

I picked up my purse.

Her eyes dropped to it.

“What are you doing?”

“Leaving.”

She sat straighter.

“We’re in the middle of a conversation.”

“No. I think we finished it.”

Her face changed then, not much, but the softness went out of it.

“You came here asking me to change.”

“Yes.”

“And because I won’t agree to become someone you find easier, you’re walking out.”

I put the strap over my shoulder.

“I’m not asking you to be easier.”

“Then what?”

“I’m asking you to stop hurting me.”

She looked at me as if I’d embarrassed her.

“I am not responsible for every feeling you have.”

I stood.

My mother lowered her voice.

“Sit down.”

“No.”

“Don’t make a spectacle of yourself.”

It almost pulled me back into the chair.

I stayed where I was.

She reached for the check folder and opened it.

“You’ll feel differently when you’re less emotional.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

She took out her card.

I watched her slide it into the folder.

“I’m not coming over anymore.”

Her hand stopped.

“I’m not answering your calls. Don’t come to my apartment.”

She looked up.

For the first time all afternoon, she seemed to have run out of the right expression.

“You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

She leaned back.

“And how long is this supposed to last?”

I could hear my pulse in my ears.

“It isn’t supposed to.”

Her face emptied.

The server came toward us, and she handed him the folder before he could ask.

“Thank you,” she said.

Perfectly pleasant.

He walked away.

She looked at me again.

“If you leave like this, I’m not going to chase after you.”

“I know.”

“You may find that people become tired of being pushed away.”

I put on my coat.

“Maybe.”

Her eyes hardened.

“That sounds like your father.”

I stopped with one arm still in the sleeve.

She knew.

I finished pulling on the coat.

“Goodbye, Mother.”

She looked down at the table.

I walked away before she could answer.