While I'm Falling (19 page)

When I walked back in, she was still wearing her coat, unbuttoned, the cream sweater and brown cords underneath. “Uh, can I…” She sat on the foot of the guest bed. Her legs were crossed, one hand resting on Bowzer. She’d taken off her boots, showing the pink socks she had borrowed from me. “I forgot my pajamas. They’re down in the van, I mean. Do you have something I could wear?”

“Aww.” She held it up to her chest, swinging her head from side to side, her curly hair brushing against her shoulders, her small, silver hoop earrings staying completely still. “I’m one of the gang now. This makes it all worth it. Really.”

I studied her smile. It was hard to tell if she was just joking around, or if something had actually happened to her attention span. In any case, she seemed to take my silence as a reproach—she looked away as she slid her coat off.

“I’ll tell you the whole story,” she said, pulling up her sweater with a quick yank. The T-shirt underneath came up with it, revealing a beige bra and, when both arms were fully raised, the faint outline of ribs.

I sat at my desk and opened my chemistry book, to a diagram of some chemical reaction, something to look at besides her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were having money problems?”

She said nothing. I did not look up to see her face, to find a clue in her expression. I heard a zipper unzip, her heavy sigh. I kept my eyes on my book, my eyebrows furrowed with feigned concentration. I could not say now, or even then, what kind of molecule I was looking at.

“If you need to stay up, I can sleep with the light on,” she said.

I looked up. She was in my leggings and my staff shirt, getting under the covers of the guest bed. Bowzer, lying at the foot of the bed, stood, stretched, and made his careful way up to her arms. “It won’t bother me,” she said. “Your father used to watch television in bed, and I got used to it. Really, I’m tired enough, I’ll go right out.”

It wasn’t true. They used to fight about the televison. My father liked to set it to a timer, so he could fall asleep with it on. My mother had a velvet eye mask, and headphones that played white noise; but she said she couldn’t keep the flicker of the television, the hum of it, completely out. She needed to sleep in the dark, she said. That last year before the divorce, I had twice woken up to find her sleeping in Elise’s old room.

“That’s okay.” I shut my book. “I usually go to bed about now.” I stood up, looking around the room. She’d left her bags on the floor by her bed. They were zipped up, arranged neatly, and pushed out of the way.

“Do you need anything?” I stood by the light switch, my eyes on her bags. “You want some water or anything? I can go get it. It’s no problem.”

She shook her head. She already had her head on the pillow, her eyes closed, Bowzer spooned up against her. “Thanks, though,” she said.

I turned out the light and stood still for a moment, trying to think if I should ask her to stop saying thank you. No, I decided. That would just make everything more awkward. That would make us both feel worse.

I had almost groped my way back to my bed when she started talking.

“I’m just out of money.” Her voice came out of the darkness, monotone, objective, a newscaster reporting misfortune that had happened to someone else. “That’s really all I can tell you. There’s no secret. That’s just all I know. I shouldn’t have taken on the house instead of cash. That was my first mistake. I thought I couldn’t bear to sell it, but then I had to anyway, and by then the market had slowed, and it took a long time to sell. I didn’t talk to you or Elise about it because I didn’t want to worry you. And then there was mold in the attic, water damage. Dan said that it happened after he left, that he wasn’t respons—”

Here she stopped, apparently remembering that Dan was also my father. For several minutes, we lay in silence. I could hear an engine revving in the parking lot, a muffled television in someone else’s room.
My mother is homeless,
I thought.
My mother is homeless and living with me in my dorm.
I was being dramatic. It wasn’t true. She just needed a place to stay for a while, and only because of the dog.

She cleared her throat and started again. The sum of it wasn’t anyone’s fault, she said. It was more a series of unfortunate incidents, one after the other, boxing her in. Or out. In September, she’d cracked a molar on a popcorn kernel and had to get a root canal, and she was no longer on my father’s health plan. She was still looking for a steady teaching job, she said, something with benefits; she was having a hard time with that, of course, since she hadn’t used her degree in over twenty years. But she was subbing, and she was putting in fifteen hours a week at DeBeck’s. She had thought she would be okay. She’d planned on just living simply until something better came along, or until the divorce settlement was adjusted.

“It sounds fair, just cutting everything in half.” She paused to yawn. “But we had so much debt. And my…future earning potential needs to be taken into account.”

Potential. Usually a good word. But here, it was turned around, as in lack of. I tried to think of something nice to say. “You sound like a lawyer,” I said. “I’m impressed.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m quoting mine.” She did not laugh. “Anyway, then I got evicted, because of Bowzer. I already found a place that will take dogs. I can afford the rent. But it won’t be available until next week. I need to wait until next Friday anyway, when I get a check, so I can pay the security deposit. I lost the last one because of the dog.”

She was silent for a while after that, but I lay awake, listening. Someone running down the hallway laughed, loud and shrill. And I could hear Marley’s French horn, the same three notes played over and over. She wasn’t supposed to play the horn in her room, not after ten o’clock. But it gave me some relief to picture her, oblivious to all the worry in this room, working through her music so diligently, those same three notes: one two three, one two three, one two three.

For some time, maybe minutes, maybe hours, I lay awake, eyes open, staring up into the darkness. Just two nights earlier, I’d ignored her calls. I was aware of everything shifting, new regret a sharp pain in my throat. The hurt felt real, and truly physical, and also, strangely, like something necessary and right. When I was young, lying in bed at night, the backs of my calves would hurt so much that I would sometimes cry out. Growing pains, my parents said. They were a myth, the doctor countered. But night after night, my legs hurt; until one night, they stopped hurting, and I was taller.

S
HE GOT UP EARLY
to take Bowzer out. She did not get dressed to do this—she only threw her coat back over the clothes she’d slept in and pulled her boots back over my pink socks. Her hair was messy, curls everywhere, but she didn’t bother with a comb. She didn’t even turn on the light, though it was raining out, and only the faint gray of an overcast sunrise glowed around the window shade.

“Why are you whispering?”

She was already buttoning Bowzer under her coat. He gave me one last confused look before his eyes and snout disappeared.

“Because you were sleeping.” She was still whispering. “What time is your first class?”

“Nine,” I said, lying. I only had a conference with my English professor at eleven, nothing before that. I rubbed my eyes and squinted at her, trying to think what other people would think when they saw her in the hallway, or down in the lobby. She didn’t look pregnant now. She looked like she was hiding something lumpy.

“You’ve got to be careful, Mom. You can’t just take him out on the front lawn. Seriously. I could lose my job.”

“I know.” She patted the pockets of her coat. “I’ll take him back down the stairs to the van, and then drive to a park or something.” She blew me a kiss. “And I’ll make my bed when I come back. I’ll make yours, too, okay?”

“It’s raining,” I said.

“I know.”

When she turned to go, she walked into my metal trash can, knocking it on its side. She put her hands to ears, wincing.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

Without waiting for my response, she stepped out into the hallway, shutting the door behind her so softly I worried she hadn’t closed it at all.

When I got back from the shower, there was a message on my phone from Tim. He got home okay, he said, and he wanted me to think about where I wanted to go for dinner, because anything was good with him; he just wanted to see me. His voice was always scratchy in the morning, deep and warm. “Love you,” he said, before he hung up. There was a pause before he said it, not a hesitation, but more of a deliberate wait, as if he knew very well what he wanted to say, but just wanted to think about it first.

I texted him. “
In hurry. 72 night is good. CU then.
”

I stared at the message before I sent it, making sure it was what I wanted. It was good: I wasn’t lying, but he wouldn’t spend the day worried. There was no need for a buildup. I would just tell him. And then I would lose my best friend and the only part of my life that, in the last year, had felt consistent and certain. I would feel better, maybe, after it was over, after it was all settled and done.

I was just putting on my coat to leave when she burst back into the room, the hood of her coat dripping wet and pulled up over her hair. The ketchup stain was front and center on the knot of her cream-colored scarf. She was pink in the face and breathing hard—worn out, I suppose, from climbing seven flights of stairs with a medium-sized dog under her coat. She also had a white paper bag, rolled over at the top, tucked under one of her arms. When she set Bowzer down, the bag fell on the floor. She looked at it and laughed in a way that seemed unhappy.

“Oh,” I said. Bowzer started sniffing around the bag, and I bent over to pick it up. “Thanks. But you know, I can pick up a bagel whenever I want at the dining hall, and it’s right on my way to class. You should save your money.”

She was still out of breath, not saying anything, but I could tell, just from her face, that I had said the wrong thing. My cell phone rang. I took it out of my bag and looked at the screen. My mother was calling, or not my mother, because she was standing in front of me looking miserable and humiliated. Jimmy. I closed my phone and put it back in my bag.

“Thank you, though.” I opened the bag and pulled out the bagel with strawberry jelly bleeding out. “This will save me time.” I already had my coat on, my bag over my shoulder.

“Your hair looks nice,” she said. “But I like it curly, too.”

“Thanks.” I smiled. She was standing between me and the door.

“You’ll be gone all morning?”

I nodded. I couldn’t tell if she registered this news as good or bad. She appeared to be making calculations, maybe adding up hours in her head.

“What…uh…” I kept my voice light, unworried. “What are you going to do today?”

She slid past me, farther into the room. “I’m not sure yet. I’ve got to go find a
KC Star.
I’ll go somewhere and read the want ads.”

I said nothing. She took off her coat and draped it over her arm.

“Do you want to hang that up?”

“I don’t see a hook,” she said. “You’ve got one for your coat, but…”

I took her coat from her and opened my closet door. I had another hook inside the door for my robe. I took my robe down, tossed it on my bed, and hung her coat on the hook.

“Oh…you didn’t have to do—”

She shifted her weight, but continued to stand in front of the door. I didn’t want to ask her to move so I could leave. She already seemed so uncomfortable, like anywhere she stood would be wrong.

“Anything you want me to do before I leave?” She looked around the room. “I could sweep or something. I could clean the windows. It would make it brighter in here.”

“They’re fine,” I said. “You don’t have to do anything.”

She looked at me. “I don’t work until Thursday.”

“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”

“My supervisor gave me some time off.” She pushed her hair behind her ears. “I worked on Saturday, after I had to pack up everything in the van.” She was speaking quickly, and rolling her eyes as if bored by her own story. “I was late, of course, and then when I got there, I guess I looked a little…unkempt.” She reached into the bag for the other bagel. “That was her word, my supervisor’s. She’s a little bit older than you are. Or maybe younger.” She paused to smile. “
Lindsay.
She suggested I take several days off.” She tore off a piece of bagel, leaned over, and held it out for Bowzer. “I don’t think I was allowed to say no.”

Bowzer turned his snout away from the bagel. She frowned, looked at the piece he’d rejected, and popped it into her own mouth.

“Anyway…” She chewed politely, her hand covering her mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll go somewhere for the day, a coffee shop or something. I’ll get out of your hair. I won’t come back until late.” She frowned. “You know what, though? I think I’ve lost my phone. Maybe it’s in one of the bags. Could you call it for me?”

I took a bite of my bagel, holding up one finger to tell her to wait while I thought of something to say. It would do no good to tell her Jimmy Liff had her phone. She would be better off just thinking it was lost until I could get it back to her. Also: if I started to tell her the whole story, I would never get out of the room.

“You can just call it from that,” I said, nodding toward the landline on the wall. “I’ve got to catch a bus.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to make you late.”

I wrapped my scarf around my neck and walked quickly to the door. When I opened it, there was Marley Gould. She was wearing her ruffled nightgown, but she also had on pink lipstick and blush. She moved her head, trying to see over me.

“Is your mom still here?”

“NO,” I said, stepping in front of her. “MY MOM IS GONE. SHE ISN’T HERE ANYMORE.”

Behind me, I heard my closet door open and the jingling of Bowzer’s collar. I kept my eyes on Marley’s, my smile wide, until I heard the closet door shut.

“Oh.” She looked at my door. “Who were you talking to?”

“I was on the phone. Do you need something?” She already had her hair braided for the day, a pink ribbon tied around each end. She smelled faintly of orange juice. I wondered if she had already gone down to breakfast. Some people made the trek in nightgowns and pajamas, as if they were still living at home, just traipsing downstairs for pancakes with their parents and not to an institutional dining hall that served four thousand people a day.

“I just thought I heard your mom,” Marley said. “I guess you sound like her.” She stared at me intently. “I met her last night. She was really nice. She asked me all about music. Did she tell you?”

“She mentioned it,” I said. I pulled up my coat sleeve and looked at my watch. A normal person would have seen this as a signal to move aside.

“She’s pretty, too. I can’t believe she’s your mom.” She shook her head and pulled one braid over her eyes. “Not ’cause she’s pretty, I mean. I mean she looks young.”

I stopped trying to get past her. I leaned back against my door frame, my arms crossed, still barring entry. But I smiled, more or less inviting her to keep talking. “Yes!” I said, my voice just a little louder than normal. “I agree. She is pretty. And she does look young!” I was still anxious to leave for the library, but I could picture my mother, well within earshot, crouched beneath my clothes with Bowzer. If there was ever a time she might need to overhear something good about herself, I guessed it was pretty much now.

Marley seemed pleased by my sudden enthusiasm. “She’s funny, too!” She nodded at me, as if I had just convinced her of something. “She played the saxophone when she was in junior high. I’m sure you know that. But she was making fun of herself—I guess she used to get in trouble with her teacher for bulging her eyes when she played?” Marley pantomimed playing a saxophone with bulging eyes.

I said nothing. I did not know that my mother had ever played the saxophone.

“She was out here for a long time,” Marley added. She tried to look over my shoulder again. “Waiting. Were you late or something?”

“No.”

“Hmmm.” She stepped back, studying my face. I took advantage of the space between us to step into the hallway. My mother had gotten whatever ego boost she was going to get from Marley, and it was time for me to go. I turned, shut my door, and searched my bag for my keys.
Configuration refers to the three-dimensional orientation of atoms around a chiral center. It can be designated R or S.

“She lives close by?”

“What?” I looked over my shoulder. “Yeah. In Kansas City.”

“Oh, you’re lucky. I bet you get to see her all the time.”

I had to laugh at that, a low, self-pitying chuckle. I wasn’t sure if my mother had heard. If she had, even in her present situation, she might think it was funny, too. Only Marley wasn’t in on the joke.

“I’m not laughing at you…,” I started.

When I looked up again, she was already walking away, her slippers silent on the floor. She disappeared into her room without another word.