Page 5 of Gone Tonight
So I reach for the radio with my free hand. “Thunder Road”—the best version, the haunting, acoustic one from Brisbane—comes on and I exhale, feeling some of the rigidity leave my body.
“What kind of monster doesn’t like Springsteen?” I ask.
Catherine doesn’t immediately recite her usual comeback and I hold my breath. Then: “A monster with taste.”
I leave it there, not replying with my usual: “I should’ve given you up for adoption.”
A thin line can separate laughter and tears, and I don’t want to push her in the wrong direction.
Catherine turns onto the highway, heading toward home, and I give her hand a squeeze, then let go. She needs both on the steeringwheel. Catherine drives too fast. What’s more, she expects everyone on the road to be as quick and decisive as she is, and she isn’t grateful for my helpful tips, even though I’ve been driving a lot longer.
I’m not one of those mothers who deludes myself her kid is an angel—or who flutters around, gushing that I don’t know what I did to deserve a daughter like Catherine.
Of course I deserve her. I’ve devoted my life to raising her well.
Catherine is a competent cook—probably out of necessity—and she’s smarter than me, except for her taste in music.
She’s a hard worker. She got that from me.
She’s not a shouter. She didn’t get that from me.
My daughter is tall and fine-boned and graceful, with delicate features that bely her grit and determination. It’s like someone waved a magic wand when she was born, gifting her with her grandmother’s thick, wheat-colored hair with the slight widow’s peak, her grandfather’s golden skin, and her father’s blue eyes.
Sometimes when I look at my girl, I’m awed that I created something so beautiful.
And sometimes I wonder how different my life would be if I hadn’t.
I lower my window a few inches, closing my eyes as fresh, cool air sweeps across my face.
I expect the whole drive home to be silent because Catherine always gets quiet when she hears bad news. It’s her pattern. When I tell her something she doesn’t like, she slips away, hiding inside herself. You can be right there in the same car, close enough to smell the sweet traces of the shampoo she used this morning, and have absolutely no idea what’s going on in her mind. The worse the news, the longer her silence.
I’ve asked her to tell me, more than once:You’ve got plenty of words, can you use some of them?
I’m just thinking, Mom!
Funny how you can’t get your kid to be quiet sometimes, but when you actually want to hear what’s going on, they act like you’ve barged in on them while they’re in the bathroom.
The quiet between us isn’t so bad right now, though. It’s actually a relief.
This appointment was every bit as horrible as I expected—I don’t think I’ll ever get over watching Catherine’s eyes shatter—but now that it’s behind us, I know exactly what I want and don’t want.
I’m not going to get a CT scan, or a lumbar puncture, or any of the other tests Dr. Chen and Catherine talked about.
I’m not going to see another expert.
I’m going to keep waitressing at the diner and living in our apartment.
And maybe this seems selfish, or narcissistic, or whatever term is in fashion these days, but what I want more than anything is for Catherine to put off her dream of moving to Baltimore and working at Hopkins.
I need my daughter to stay close to me.
CHAPTER FIVECATHERINE
I see my mother every single day, which is to say I don’t truly see her at all.
She has always been a touch distracted, but I missed the demarcation line she crossed when she slipped past ordinary forgetfulness into something infinitely darker.
I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself, even though it isn’t like she has cancer. Early detection won’t make a difference in how this turns out.
