Page 21 of Notes of Attraction

I answer before the second ring.

“Bumblebea!”

I cringe.

Twenty-one years old, and the nickname still makes me feel like I’m eight and she’s shouting it across a school playground.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Guess where I am.”

Wind rushes through the speaker. A van door clunks shut.

Somewhere with a sky, then.

“I genuinely can’t.”

“Marfa. Texas! There’s an art thing here, and I’ve met some really awesome people. What are you up to?”

“I was folding laundry.”

“Of course, you were.” I can hear her smiling. “You know, you get that from him. He was fanatical about how the cables got coiled. Everything else could be chaos, but God help the roadie who—” She catches herself, laughs again. I envy how freely she can think about him and laugh.

“How’s the van?” I ask, changing the subject.

“She’s perfect. Well, the solar shower is off and on, but I’ve found a system that works.” If I know my mom, that system likely involves duct tape. “I made his eggs this morning. The disgusting ones. Hot sauce in the pan, not on top.” She laughs.

I laugh too this time. “They were always so gross.”

“That’s what I told him for eighteen years,” she says it fondly. Neither of us has to. Today’s the anniversary of his death, and I always feel his presence more today; I know Mom does too. We struggle to talk about him not being here, though. We’re ok speaking about memories, but not facing the present.

“Where to next?” I ask, because it’s safer.

“Mm, Tucson maybe. Or up to Santa Fe. Linda from the hot springs said there’s a gathering near Taos next month, so I might drift that direction. I’ll see how I feel.”

Forty-nine years old and no permanent address, because for half her life home was wherever Dad’s next show happened to be. Then he died, and she kept moving anyway.

“Anyway, Bumblebea, how’s school?”

I hesitate. I know she’s trying here—to be a good mother. But I know how little she really wants to hear about my life, especially my college life. As always, I try. “It’s good. The semester’s only just begun. I’ve got my big exam this semester that determines what kind of med school I c⁠—”

“Oh, that’s GREAT, honey,” she interrupts me. “So sorry, but I have to shoot. There is an officer here trying to move me.” I hear rustling, then her muffled voice. “Sir, this is a Walmart, and it says overnight ALLOWED so I don’t know what your problem—” I shut off the call. I’m not worried about her; she knows how to handle herself.

I go back to my pile and finish folding darks, and I do the corners very precisely, and I pair every sock, and when the drawer is full and ordered, I feel like I can breathe again.

* * *

I imagine the orange peel is an abdominal wall and I am leading the surgery. Oh noooo! I’ve punctured the heart. I suck out the wound, but it’s too late. Massive hemorrhage. Time of death: 8:52 p.m. The patient was delicious. He will be remembered as a good citrus. My phone lights up with the university email sound.

I groan and almost don’t open it. Sundays from 9-11p.m. are for not doing work that can wait until Monday. It’s my primary ‘relax’ window in the week, where I usually end up re-watching The Vampire Diaries. Again.

From: Dr. Priya Ahuja

I sit up ready to read. Dr. Ahuja is my pre-health advisor, aka she’s the woman who will be writing my committee letter in Spring. Aka aka she is the woman who could make or break my application to med schools. She’s very keen on “well-rounded” medics, and has emphasized to me in our few meetings prior that she believes a good doctor is not only one who knows the textbook, but who knows how to teach another person. It’s why she heads the Learning Assistant program at our school, and strongly encourages all her students to sign up. Like we don’t have enough on our plate this semester.

Subject: Your Spring Tutoring Assignment

Hi Beatrix,