Page 39 of Double Exposure

“Did you cancel your performance?” She eases into the sofa cushions.

“I didn't cancel. That's what understudies are for. I'm sure Margaret will be thrilled that she gets to have the lead. Don’t act so surprised that I’m here,” she says and leans in for a sort of abbreviated hug. Way too short. She rubs my forearm, finishing with a tenacious grab of my hand. “Are you okay?”

“Mom, did something happen? Why are you really here?”

My mother’s hair is pulled back into a tight bun. She always wears it like this. She takes a slender hand and wipes a few wayward strands into place.

“Why do you think?”

I start to shrug and then she cuts me off.

“Your father,” she says.

Your father?

She’s not here for my father. Something’s happened. Something’s really not right.

Mom, oblivious to the ridiculous game of cat and mouse playing out between the two of us, waves away my questions and then volleys with one of her own.

“How is he?” She swirls the Scotch in her glass. Ice cubes roll over each other like loose gravel.

“Ah—well. You know Dad. The doctors keep saying he was incredibly lucky.” I try to announce this like it’s no big deal. This is how we handle stuff in my family. Nothing’s ever a big deal.

She doesn’t respond for a moment. “I have to get out of these clothes,” she says suddenly, setting the glass down. She disappears into the bathroom, taking the suitcase with her. When she emerges, she’s wearing a flaxen silk nightgown I’ve never seen before and a robe.

Dad’s robe.

Mom turns on the table lamp and motions for me to turn off the overhead.

Then I see her face. Her color is bad. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay,” she says stiffly. Suddenly her eyes start to well, and I'm panic stricken. I've never seen my mother cry, except once when our dog, Chewy, passed away. I grab tissues from a box on the kitchen counter.

“I’m sorry,” she says dabbing her eyes. “I’m jet lagged. And I shouldn’t have had this drink. It’s about five in the morning my time. I mean Munich time.” She wipes her eyes while I stand, hovering, like an idiot.

“What can I do?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. I didn't sleep on the flight at all.”

I soften. “That’s okay.”

She turns her whole body toward me. “You sure he’s going to be fine?”

“Mom. Yes. You said yourself that this happens a lot with him and it does.”

“But this is different.” She finishes the thought for me. “This is different because he really was missing. He was missing for three days. That is not your father. He doesn't just abandon people.”

Then something flies out of my mouth I wish could take back. Immediately. “Really? It seems like you do that to each other.”

My mother silently pats her head again, stroking those fine hairs back into place, as if doing this exercise will help her summon patience.

“I’m sorry,” I fumble. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that.”

“You know? Sometimes I get the sense that you don't believe your father and I love each other.”

This direct forthrightness is not typical of my mother. But it does cycle through occasionally. I can go for two months and not talk to her and then she'll show up and find something incredibly intimate and provocative to say.

“Well, if you can speak your mind, do it,” she says quickly. That's been our family’s mantra forever. Kind of like a verbal version of “rip the bandage off.” It’s because they are never together, so if they have something to say to each other, they better say before the next flight takes off.