Page 15 of Gone Tonight
Tick-tock, tick-tock,the broom whispers.
Even after I hurry down the street, a phantom echo of the noise chases me. It’s a gut-wrenching reminder. No matter how busy I stay or how hard I fight, there’s no escaping the fact that my time is slipping away.
CHAPTER NINECATHERINE
Here is what I know of my mother’s history.
She was born Ruth Mary Sterling on the second of August, forty-two years ago.
She grew up in the Virginia suburbs, not far from Washington, D.C. Her parents were very religious, hence her Biblical first and middle names. When they kicked her out, she moved to Pennsylvania because it was an easy bus ride, plus she’d gone to see the Liberty Bell once on a school field trip and liked the state.
She gave birth to me at eighteen.
The only guy she ever loved was my sperm donor, and he shattered her heart.
The list is so scanty I can hardly believe it.
My mother has never told me the names of her parents—though I’ve asked many times. She didn’t pack any photographs when she was thrown out. She has never pinpointed her hometown for me, or described any of her extended family members, or named the church her family attended.
I can’t believe I never got her to open up.
I can’t believe it hasn’t deeply bothered me before.
But maybe it isn’t my fault. My mother has a temper. It doesn’tsurface often; but when it does, it’s a tsunami, rising with almost no warning.
The few times I’ve pushed past the lines she drew, I’ve felt her fury gathering force. I usually choose to retreat rather than meet it head-on.
As a child, I learned the consequences of not backing down. I still remember the way she yelled at me and the bruises she left on my arm when I once defied her as we stood by the side of the road.
Now I sit across from her at our table with a folded index card shoved under the wobbly leg, inhaling the delicious aroma of spicy tomato sauce and baked dough.
My mother had music playing when I came through the door after meeting with Tin, and she didn’t turn it off when we sat down to dinner. The upbeat pop songs fill the silence between us, disrupting my plans for a free-flowing conversation.
It’s as if she senses what I’m up to and is trying to outmaneuver me.
“I’m a little tired.” She stretches her arms over her head. “I’m going to turn in early.”
My goal for this evening is to extract one new detail about her past. Even a tiny one.
I reach for the knife and cut through the warm, cheesy layers of lasagna pizza, then I serve myself another square.
“Want seconds?” I offer.
My mother shakes her head.
I’ve planned my approach meticulously. Rather than trying to pierce the armor my mother has erected around her early years, I’m going to look for an opening in her teenage years.
The next song on her playlist provides the inspiration I’m seeking. It’s “Everybody” by the Backstreet Boys. They were huge in the nineties, so it probably came out while my mother was in high school.
It’s impossible for my mother to sit still when she hears a song she loves. Gentle waves seem to roll through her body in time to the beat.
My mother and I have very different tastes in music. As a teenager, I’d sigh theatrically and try to change the radio station in ourBonneville when Lynyrd Skynyrd or Boyz II Men played. Sometimes I won control of the dial, sometimes she did.
But here’s the odd thing about the way memory works. I know there were dozens, maybe even hundreds of times, we engaged in this mock battle. When I won, I’d flip the dial to Adele or Taylor Swift.
What happened when my mother won?
I assume she swayed to the music, like she’s doing now, and maybe sang along under her breath. But I didn’t pay attention. I usually opened a book or stared out the window and lost myself in a daydream.
