The Year My Mother Came Back by Alice Eve Cohen Read Free Book Online Page B

breasts gives the pair a cock-eyed look. It amuses me.
    I remember my mother’s body, when it was beautiful. At three years old, I would play on the floor in the warm, steamy bathroom while Mom took a shower, her curvy silhouette visible through the translucent vinyl shower curtain. She turns off the water, opens the shower curtain, and reaches for the white towel. I look up to admire her large, round breasts as she leans over me, eclipsing the ceiling lamp, steam emanating from her body like a halo of light. She dries herself, wraps the towel around her chest. She’s so young, much younger than I am now, lovely and sexy. My breasts are the same size and shape as hers were. Except that my left one is now a little smaller.
    I WAKE UP early the next day to make eleventh-hour revisions to
Oklahoma Samovar,
typing slowly with one hand, holding an ice pack in the other. It hurts, but I skip the pain meds, because they make me sleepy.
    As five p.m. approaches, I type FINAL DRAFT on the cover page. Have I actually finished it?
    My finger hovers over the keyboard for an inordinately long time.
    I hit send. I sit with the finality of it.
    I wait for a sense of euphoria.
    Fulfillment? I’d settle for contentment.
    Instead, I feel deeply unsettled. Why? Don’t I want the play to be finished? I’ve been working on it for such a long time. Could it be that I’m not ready to end my relationship with it? Maybe writing this fictionalized story of Mom’s family is my way of searching for my mother. Working on it all these years kept her with me, and hitting
send
is sending her away.
    I’m troubled by a vestigial belief that I’m not allowed to complete it, that I’ve betrayed my mother’s tradition of working on a book forever and never finishing.
    Is that it? Are you mad at me, Mom? Envious that I finished my play, even though it took me twenty years?
    Are you angry because my cancer isn’t as bad as yours was? Do you resent that I have it easy, just a simple lumpectomy? That my cancer is stage zero and entirely curable, whereas yours disfigured and almost killed you?
    Or am I unsettled because my breast hurts?
    â€œMom,” says Julia, startling me.
    â€œOh! Hi, Honey, I didn’t hear you come in.”
    She’s fresh from a shower, wrapped in a white terrycloth robe and brushing her wet hair.
    â€œAre you busy?”
    â€œNo. As a matter of fact, I just this minute finished the play I’ve been working on for—well, forever, it seems—so I’m done for the day.” I take off my reading glasses and emphatically close my laptop, to illustrate how
not
busy I am.
    â€œHow are you feeling, Mom?”
    â€œGood. I mean. Only okay. Pretty sore, actually.”
    â€œCan I get you a new ice pack? That one’s melted.”
    â€œAh, so it is. Thank you, that would be lovely.”
    I try to get comfortable on the sofa, propping myself up with strategically placed throw pillows. Julia hands me a new ice pack, which provides some relief. She sits across from me and folds her long legs under her. Her face brims with an emotion I can’t identify.
    â€œWhat’s on your mind, sweetheart?”
    â€œDid my dad mention to you that he found Zoe?”
    â€œYes, he did. I’m so excited for you. How do you feel about it? Do you want to contact her?”
    Julia parts her lips, about to answer, pauses, grins, takes a deep breath. “Actually, I talked to Zoe on the phone last night.”
    â€œWhat. Um. Wow! I. You already called her. You. Wow. Wha-wha-what? Did—Wow,” I babble, rendered temporarily incoherent, “Wow. What was it like?”
    â€œIt was really great!’
    Ouch! I’m losing Julia. I’ve pushed her away and now she’s found another mother. Her first mother. She leaves for college in two days. She’s so out of here. I was so focused on taking care of Eliana’s needs that I nearly forgot about Julia.