My mother stood ramrod-straight, forcing Mason to walk around her on his way to the door. My own spine felt about as sturdy as dried spaghetti in comparison. He lingered in the doorway; his expression guarded.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to stay?” he asked me.
I shook my head. I could handle my mother alone; after all, I had six years of training under my belt. Mason sighed; his gaze wary.
“I’ll be in the apartment if you need me,” he said, then shut the door.
My mother and I assessed one another in the resulting silence. She was wearing the silk scarf I’d given her last Mother’s Day over a striped dress that emphasized her waifish figure.
“Have you been crying, Jett?”
I sucked in a loud breath through my nose. “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.” She looked me over with a small, sad smile. “Is that a new dress?”
I nodded.
“It’s nice,” she said. “You look good.”
My mother’s eyes appeared sunken, like she hadn’t slept in days. I wondered if she’d stopped eating, and if I asked her, would she tell the truth. She set her purse and the shopping bag on the floor and opened her arms to me.
“Can I get a hug?”
I remained rooted in place. I didn’t want her to touch me. I was convinced she’d be able to read the truth on my skin like Braille. She gave up on the hug after a few seconds, her smile tightening into a wince as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear—hair the same color and thickness as mine, only shorter.
Guilt rapped its knuckles on the back door of my heart. I pinched the inside of my wrist, both as penance for treating her coldly and to distract myself.
“Do you want to show me what you’ve been working on?” she asked.
It seemed like a safe enough way to fill the silence.
I shrugged. “Okay.”
Thankfully, I didn’t have to go far to gather my sketchbooks. My mother stepped up to the workbench, and I laid my drawings out for her perusal. She fingered the pages with care, her gaze drifting over depictions of clouds and random body parts, distant cityscapes.
“These are lovely.” She lingered over a series of sketches featuring my daddy’s hands holding and manipulating various objects: paintbrushes, bedsheets, flowers, my feet. “These are Mason’s hands.”
“Um...yeah,” I said. Apparently, time plus wear and tear in the studio hadn’t altered his hands so as to make them unrecognizable. I was glad I’d known better than to store the drawings of his cock with my regular sketches.
My mother cleared her throat but said nothing in response. You could fill volumes of empty pages with everything she’d left unsaid over the years. Grimacing, she pressed a hand to her stomach.
I had to ask. “When was the last time you ate?”
She breathed through what appeared to be an intense abdominal cramp. “I had coffee this morning.”
So, this was how she was going to punish me for not staying in touch. By refusing to take care of herself. I clenched my jaw. “I’ll get you something from the apartment—”
“No,” she snapped. Then, more calmly, she added, “I have a granola bar in my bag.”
Hands shaking with frustration, I snatched her purse from the floor and rifled through it until I came across a fruit-and-nut bar. She took her time opening the package, and even more time forcing herself to take a bite.
Her gaze flitted about the studio as she chewed. I counted my breaths. One. Don’t see the painting. Two. Don’t ask what Mason’s been working on—
“Is that Mason’s newest piece?” She pointed to the back of the large canvas by the window. The one that, on its front, depicted her teenage daughter masturbating with no clothes on.
“It’s not finished,” I said, trying to sound detached. “He doesn’t want anyone to see it yet.”
She took a few steps toward the painting. My heart kicked against my sternum. I shadowed her, grabbing her hand before she could reach the easel.