Chapter 11

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

Anya

O n Saturday, I dress in comfortable jeans and a light sweatshirt before taking the subway to Queens. I get off at the Union Turnpike station and walk the rest of the way to the center in Kew Gardens. The three-story house sits on a vast green lawn. Giant oak and beech trees line the path.

When I use the bras knocker, Bertrand opens the door, wearing his usual white scrubs. His compassionate, soft brown eyes and salt and pepper hair give him a wise, experienced look. The expression on his lined face is always friendly, but he bears the invisible marks of someone who's seen a lot in his lifetime. It's not something I can put my finger on. I just sense it. It takes one to know one.

His lips stretch into a wide smile. "Hey, Anya."

"Hi." I enter into the spacious foyer. "How's your daughter? Did she have the baby yet?"

"Any day now." He closes the door and leads the way down the hallway. "Come through. She's in her room."

He opens a security door with a magnetic card and holds the door for me.

Light spills through the double volume windows, basking the interior in sunlight. The rooms are warm and sunny. The cheerful brightness was one of the swaying factors when I decided on this center.

We pass the recreation room where a few people are gathered. A couple plays chess at the table. Automatically, I categorize the moves. The man has seven moves left before he'll checkmate his opponent. A woman reads a book in an armchair in a cozy spot while the man who sits next to her on the sofa watches television. In the corner close to the sinks, a small group does pottery. Someone is showing them how to use a pedal powered wheel. On the other side, under the skylight that lets in plenty of natural light, a painter gives a watercolor class.

Many artists volunteer their services to teach the patients new crafts. The workshops include gardening, sewing, knitting, and baking. I wish my mom would take an interest in an activity. It will be good for her to keep busy.

We stop in front of the second-last door.

"She's having one of her not-so-good days," he says as he knocks.

My smile is apprehensive. "Thanks for the heads up."

"Hello, Mary," he says in a bright tone, opening the door. "Look who came to visit."

He gives me an encouraging nod before turning, his Crocs squeaking on the floor as he briskly walks away to take care of his never-ending duties.

My mom sits in a chair next to the window, watching a sitcom on the wall-mounted television. By habit, I take everything in with a glance. I want to reassure myself that my mom is well cared for. The bed is made, the crisp white linen without a crease. As always, the hardwood floor shines, and the mirror is spotless. The crystal drops of the French shabby chic chandelier throw rainbows over the floor. The furniture is white with golden gilded edges. A vase of pink roses stands on the dresser. Their sweet fragrance perfumes the air. The room is homely and pretty. The flowers from the garden add a nice touch. I make a mental note to thank Bertrand.

"Hi, Mom," I say, going over.

She doesn't acknowledge me.

I pick up the remote and switch off the television. "It's a beautiful day. Would you like to have tea in the garden?"

Her mouth thins. "No, ‘Hi, Mom. How are you?'"

I drop my bag on the loveseat at the foot-end of the bed and blow out a quiet sigh. "I was coming to that. How are you?"

She turns to fully face me, her expression pinched. "I can't sleep. Haven't slept in days. These fucking people won't give me more sleeping pills."

Sinking down into the chair across from her, I say as gently as I can, "They can't exceed the dose the doctor prescribed."

She scoffs. "Don't speak to me like I'm a child. Did you bring my cigarettes?"

"You quit," I say a bit more sternly. "Remember?"

"Why the fuck must I quit? Why the fuck can't I have a fag when I want one? Or a beer? Or a fucking drink? You locked me up in this prison. The least you can do is bring me a fucking packet of smokes."

I groan. "Mom."

"What?"

"We're not alone in the house. Please mind your language."

"Now I can't speak? What's the matter? Do you think you're too good for me, Miss Goody Two Shoes?"

"Mom, please."

"Just say it. You think you're better than me."

"I only want you to get well."

She snickers. "I'll be fucking great if I can just have a fucking fag. What the fuck is wrong with you?" Her look is sly. "You've got a fancy job now, don't you? You're all hoity-toity in that new place where you live. Are you too stingy to buy your mother a lousy fucking packet of cigarettes?"

Already, a tension headache is building behind my temples. "We talked about this. The doctor explained why you shouldn't smoke. If you start again, your lungs will get worse. Besides, you're over the most difficult part already. You just have to hang in there a few more days. The craving will pass. How about some tea instead?"

"Will you stop with your fucking tea?" she yells.

I flinch at the outburst.

Immediately, she changes tactics, saying in a soft voice, "You're my little darling girl. My good little girl. Do you remember the fun we had on Saturdays? Don't you miss those days?"

Not even for a second.

"Why don't you run out and get us a six-pack and a packet of smokes?" Grabbing my hand, she giggles. "We can have a party just like in the good old days. Oh, it'll be so much fun. This place is so fucking serious. We can let our hair down and unwind a little. You're so stuck up. You can do with letting your hair down. Let your mama teach you how to have fun."

"I'm sorry, Mom. Alcohol is prohibited. You know you're not yourself when you drink. And even if I wanted to, I can't support your smoking habit any longer. I can barely take care of myself, and now—" I cut off, hesitating to continue.

My mom pulls away. "Why not? Why can't you afford it?"

For a moment, there's a flicker of something in her eyes, something I want so badly to believe is concern. Just for once, I want to be the child and not the adult. I want to confide in my mother so that she can tell me everything will be all right. She's been where I am now. Even if she can't help me, she can give me understanding and compassion.

Taking a deep breath, I admit, "I'm pregnant."

My mom stills. She stares at me with parted lips, surprise washing over her features. "Is he going to support you?"

My voice scrapes in my throat. "No."

She continues to look at me with bafflement, and then she bursts out laughing.

The reaction catches me so off guard that I give a start.

She throws back her head and slaps her thigh, laughing until tears run from her eyes.

Hurt tightens my chest. I hoped for a little sympathy even though I knew it was a stretch to wish for anything supportive from her, but I didn't expect her to make fun of me.

It takes a while before her hysterical fit subsides. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she says, "Imagine that. Getting yourself knocked up. You're not a very clever girl, are you? You'd think you would've learned from my mistake."

An old, familiar ache opens in my chest. "I'm not a mistake, Mom."

"Ha." She looks at the window and mumbles, "You were nothing but a ball and chain around my ankles, nothing but a fucking weight dragging me down."

No, I didn't drag her down. She was always down. You can't go lower from where she's been. I learned to vacuum, do the laundry, and wash the dishes before I was old enough to go to school because our house was a contamination hazard for the neighborhood.

I stand. "I'm sorry you feel like that."

"Stupid girl," she says, chuckling as she shakes her head. "You should've spread your legs for a rich man. At least you would've gotten good money for child support."

What she'll never understand is that my pride won't let me take money from a man who won't give it willingly.

That's the problem. We don't understand each other. We've never been close, but I always tried to put myself in her shoes, to imagine the hardships she went through as a single mother without a penny to her name. Yet, ironically, now that I'm in the same situation, her attitude and behavior make even less sense. I'll never understand how a mother can't love her child.

I take in her olive, wrinkled skin, her broad, flat nose, and the deep grooves that line her round face. Unlike me, she's sturdy and tall. The only thing I got from her is her hair. She's always kept it short. She dyes it now and brushes it back to hide the bald spot growing on the crown of her head. I study the woman who gave birth to me, searching for a shred of gratitude or love in my heart, but all I find is pity.

As if feeling my gaze on her, she turns her face toward me. Her lips twist in a sardonic smile as she watches me with sunken brown eyes. "I guess the apple didn't fall far from the tree." She laughs again. "For all your haughty airs, you're just like me."

No, I'm not like her. I already love my baby more than myself.

"What?" she says. "You got nothing to say for yourself? What do you want from me? To say that I'm sorry for you? Well, I'm not. I can't be sorry for you if you're fucking stupid."

I know when she's searching for a fight. The verbal abuse is an outlet for her frustration, but I long since stopped being her punching bag.

"I hope you'll feel better tomorrow," I say before taking my bag and walking through the door.

In the empty hallway, I lean against the wall to find my composure. No matter how detached I am from my mom, her words still inflict damage. As hard as I try not to let her get to me, her cruel statements do hurt.

Perhaps she hates my father for leaving her after she fell pregnant, and she's projecting the blame on me. Or maybe I resemble him, and every time she looks at me, I remind her of the man who abandoned her.

She never told me his name or anything about him. I won't be surprised if the reason she never revealed his identity is because she doesn't know who my father is. She's always had a string of boyfriends, and none of them lasted long. Whenever I asked her the question, she told me to mind my own damn business. She's always been tightlipped about her past. I've never met any of her family.

From the little she shared with me, I pieced together a haphazard history. At best, it's a vague story with a lot of holes. My mom grew up in the system. She never knew her parents. Her mother abandoned her at birth. My mom has no friends or colleagues because she never had a job and she only left the house to buy alcohol, cigarettes, or pills. She got a little money from Supplemental Security Income due to her hip dysplasia. I grew up in a house in the Bronx that belonged to one of my mother's boyfriends. When he died in a motorbike accident, his parents pitied us so much they signed the deed over to my mom. That's the only reason we had a roof over our heads.

"You okay, Anya?" Bertrand asks, coming toward me with his usual hurried stride.

"Yeah." I push off the wall and rub my hands over my face. "She's in one of her moods."

He stops in front of me. "When's your next appointment with her psychologist?"

"Not until next month. I just had one."

"It sucks, doesn't it, sweetheart?"

"You have no idea."

"Cheer up," he says. "The wheel is turning. You'll catch a break on the upside."

My phone rings in my pocket. I take it out and check the screen. It's my ob-gyn. "Sorry." I shoot him an apologetic smile. "I have to take this."

"Go ahead." Continuing on his way, he calls from over his shoulder, "You take care now, Anya."

I swipe the button and press the phone against my ear as I walk to the security door, praying that the check I gave the doctor didn't bounce. The bank extended my overdraft, but the manager warned me that it was the last concession as I already exceeded my credit limit.

"Dr. Chang?"

"Ms. Brennan, I got the results from your blood test. Can you swing by on Monday?"

My stomach clenches with worry. "Is something wrong?"

"Not necessarily. I prefer we talk face to face. It's easier to address questions and concerns."

"Of course," I say, turning my face to the camera and pressing the call button for a staff member to open the door.

"Shall we say nine o'clock?"

The door opens with a click.

"I'll have to ask time off from work." I enter the lobby. "Can I confirm this afternoon?"

"Sure. I'll wait for your call."

Just as I step onto the path, a dizzy spell hits me as if on cue.

Placing a hand over my stomach, I take a calming breath. "It's going to be all right, Baby."

It has to be.

What else can go wrong?