A Mother's Goodbye

The ‘if that’ catches me on the raw. She sounds so accusing, so judgmental. ‘You weren’t aware of this, Mrs. McCleary?’

‘No.’ My jaw is tight, my hands clenched in my lap. Mrs. Bryant is one of those stern, iron-haired teachers who looks down on pretty much anyone, at least anyone she suspects is stupid. Maybe she knows I didn’t finish high school, never mind that I have my GED now. And then there’s Kev too, with his straight D average through all four years. Maybe she thinks I don’t help Lucy with her homework; that I don’t read to her before bedtime. And I don’t always. I don’t even often. But still, I care.

‘I’m surprised it wasn’t caught earlier—’

‘Caught?’ She’s making it sound as if Lucy has some disorder, some disease. ‘What do you mean exactly?’

‘I mean the severity of Lucy’s learning disability is such that it should, ideally, have been flagged up when she was younger, so she could get the help she needs.’

My mouth is dry. ‘And now?’

‘Now it’s important that we start giving Lucy that help. We have a specialist on staff who has one-on-one sessions with children who are having similar struggles. So, with your permission, I’d like her to start attending these sessions as soon as possible.’

‘Okay.’ That seems easy enough, but I still feel deficient, as if this is somehow my fault. ‘Is there anything I should be doing…?’

Mrs. Bryant proceeds to list all the ways I could and should be helping Lucy – reading to her as much as possible, helping her sound out words, using letter and sight word flashcards, modeling the ‘joy of reading’ myself. I stare and nod, numbly realizing how little of this I’ve ever done, or, if I’m honest, will probably do. Who has the time?

‘This is important, Mrs. McCleary,’ Mrs. Bryant says severely as we both stand. ‘Good reading skills equip a person for life. And of course the opposite is true, as well.’

So if I can’t help Lucy to read, she’s screwed. I nod stiffly and say goodbye.

When I get home things only become worse. Kev and Amy are having a standoff in the living room, and Emma and Lucy are hiding in the kitchen.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask even though I don’t really want to know. Amy’s body is vibrating with rage and Kev is standing with his fists clenched.

‘I caught her stealing money from my wallet,’ he states flatly. ‘And I told her she’s grounded for a week.’

My stomach drops. ‘Amy…’

‘I was borrowing it,’ she sneers, not remotely sorry. My temples start to throb.

‘Yeah, right,’ Kev sneers right back at her. ‘Sure you were.’

‘You never believe me,’ Amy shrieks. ‘You never think anything good about me.’

‘That’s not true, Amy,’ I say tiredly, even though it sort of is. I’m always suspecting her, always afraid, usually powerless. ‘But why didn’t you ask first?’

‘Because he wasn’t here—’

‘I was here,’ Kevin returns in an iron-hard voice. ‘I was in the can. You chose your moment well, but not well enough.’

‘That’s not fair—’

I take a deep breath. ‘Amy, if your father says you’re grounded, you’re grounded.’

She looks wildly between the two of us and then squares her shoulders. ‘Oh, whatever,’ she snaps. ‘I’m not listening to you.’ And before Kev and I can so much as blink, she is pushing past us and out of the house.

Kev lets out a roar of anger and springs after her, but he’s not fast enough. By the time he gets outside she’s already run down the street, hair flying. She tears around the corner and then she’s gone.

Kev slams back into the house, and everyone backs away, waiting. ‘We’re canceling her phone,’ he growls. ‘What else can we do?’

I shake my head, speechless. I don’t know what else we can do for Amy. She defies us at every opportunity, even when she doesn’t need to. It’s like a challenge for her, either that or a compulsion. Fighting with her only makes it worse.

Kev goes to the fridge for a beer, and I walk into the room Amy shares with Emma. Emma’s side is pin-neat, but Amy’s is a mess – clothes all over the floor, a spill of make-up across the dresser. I pick my way through the clutter and sit on the edge of her unmade bed.

How did it get like this with her? When did it become so bad? When did mere naughtiness tip over into something darker and more volatile? I gaze disconsolately around the messy room and for a moment I long for those days when my girls were little, three beds crammed into a tiny bedroom, soapy angels in a tub, all elbows and knees. I thought I had problems then, and I did, but these feel more dangerous. I’m scared for Amy, and that feels far worse than being scared for myself.

More out of curiosity than any real suspicion, I open the drawer of her bedside table, hoping for some clue into the complicated mind of my angry teenaged daughter. I blink down at a stash of make-up – expensive stuff, some of it unopened. I pick up a shiny red compact, a gold-plated lipstick. My stomach feels hollow. There’s no way Amy could have afforded all this. There are at least a dozen different tubes and bottles and boxes in this drawer – eyeshadow, lipstick, pencils, powders. I barely wear make-up, but even I know all this stuff must cost hundreds of dollars. Amy’s only money is from babysitting, and she does that rarely, because Emma is far more reliable. This stuff must be stolen.