Memories in the Drift

by Payne, Melissa

  I scrape garlic skin into the trash, and the full bin taints the air with an overripe sweetness that makes me queasy. Thinking of how Mom was, what she could have been, permeates my mood, turns it blacker than the clouds that hang heavy with rain outside my window. When I was a very little girl, before her nightmares became more than she could handle, before alcohol replaced everyone who loved her, I wanted to be just like her.

  One particular memory floats to the surface. I am young, tucked under the covers, legs curled up and into my chest, pretending to be asleep. Mom leans over me; her thick dark hair swings past her shoulders, feathery across my cheek. Her breath is stale and sweet in the way that makes her eyes dull like the plastic ones on my doll. I keep my eyes squeezed shut and feel her lips brush my forehead. It’s not your fault, Claire, honey. Not your fault. Her words come out in a slur, and it’s hard to understand her. I’msosorry, Claire bear. Sosorry. She is crying but I don’t open my eyes, I don’t put my arms around her neck, because I don’t make her happy. I only make her sad.

  I turn to the cutting board, place my hands on either side, and breathe, ignoring how my chest aches with how much I longed for her to be better. How the feeling turns me into a little girl even now. But then Dad’s face appears in my mind—thick beard, brown eyes that crinkle when he laughs. At least I have him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A buzz from my phone reminds me that I’m getting dinner ready, so I reach for a green apron that hangs from a hook on the wall, and when I tie it around my waist, it barely hangs midthigh—more like a miniskirt. I snort; they don’t make aprons for tall women. The rain pounds the building, heavy and loud, so I open a music app and push play, and rock music fills the apartment, mutes the noise outside. I swing my hips to the music; it’s a Black Crowes tune, I think, and the rhythm of drums laced with the electric squeal of guitars soothes me with its familiar beat.

  From a cabinet labeled serving bowls, platters, and plates, I take my favorite turquoise salad bowl and set it on the counter beside the bamboo cutting board. The salad doesn’t take long to make, and I get it all on the table by 5:30. I sit and wait; fingers tap the wood surface, knee jiggles up and down. On the table in front of me is my notebook. I open it to a page in the middle with today’s date and review the activities I accomplished early in the day, each one with a thick black line drawn through it: breakfast, planning and note review for today, shower, lunch, trip to market and hydroponic gardens, planning and note review for tomorrow. I draw a line through make a chicken Caesar salad for the dinner party but leave dinner party unmarked. It hasn’t happened yet, after all.

  I read through the social-event file folder again and cross off the items I’ve already accomplished. Based on my notes, I still need to make a list of talking points for conversation, so I turn to the portable file cabinet and locate and remove files for Sefina and Harriet. When I was in college, most of my classmates laughed at my old-school ways: paper planner, pens and pencils, notebooks. I guess I was behind the times in that regard, but the smooth glide of pen over paper, the satisfaction of crossing off a To Do item, the crisp pages of a new planner—well, to me, tapping on a screen or keyboard never felt as satisfying.

  I read the first page in Sefina’s file. Her youngest daughter, Leilani, is graduating this year. My pencil hovers and I let the shock wash over me. The passage of time is cruel and unrelenting, especially for me. Once upon a very brief period, I was a teacher at the school in Whittier, and Leilani was my student. That was before, though, when I was normal, and before notebooks and calendars and smartphones fully dictated my every day. Fresh out of graduate school, armed with a degree and an unexpected surprise, I was excited to start my life back in Whittier, even if it devastated Dad.

  My hand rests on my flat belly, fingers pushing into softness. Dad always warned me that something bad would happen if I stayed in Whittier. I press the heel of my palm against my eyes, ignore the tightness in my limbs. There’s no point in feeling sorry for myself, so I move on to my next conversation note for Sefina. When I finish with her, I start a list for Harriet, who runs the building’s bed-and-breakfast.

  Rain pummels the window, and the constant thrumming combined with the music causes my head to ache. I put my pen down to rub my temples and stretch my neck when a light knock on the door startles me. I check my watch. They must be early.

  I remove my apron and smooth my shirt, but when I glance out the peephole, I pull back, knees weak, heart racing.

  It’s a face I haven’t seen since the day I graduated with my master’s in education. The day she ruined by showing up so drunk she stumbled and fell when she tried to leap into the aisle to hug me as I walked by, tripping me and three others. The corner of my friend’s graduation cap poked me just under my eye. It left a scar.

  Mom.

  My fingers are already flipping through my notebook, searching for an answer to why she is here. I take another peek. She’s different—older, obviously, since that day was, um, well, a long time ago, I think, even if I do remember it like it was yesterday.

  “Claire?” Her voice is the same, too, but missing something. “It’s Mom.”

  Is that a nervous lilt? I look through the peephole, see that she rubs the back of her neck, shifts her weight. Yeah, nervous. My face hardens with the memory of a different time when she stood outside the door, begging to be heard, wanting to come home.

  It was the summer before I left for college. Dad had fixed dinner, setting an extra place at the table that I’d assumed was for Ruth. But the knock that came a moment later was too soft for Ruth, and I nearly cried out when I opened it to find Mom, shorter and smaller than I remembered, and so skinny she looked frail. Her skin, once smooth and flawless, was riddled with shallow lines that tracked around her eyes and forehead. And her hair—her beautiful thick brown waves—pulled into a limp ponytail. Mom? My arms had hung stiffly by my sides, my face a frozen mask. Inside, I remember a storm of emotions battering my heart and chest and lungs like the wind and rain that pummel our coastline.

  I want to give you something.

  She’d handed me a small green token. It lay in my open palm, but I didn’t look down at it, because I was afraid that if I moved at all, I’d start to cry. And I didn’t want to cry. What is it?

  Dad stood behind me, a solid rock sheltering me from the elements, and I was able to breathe a little easier.

  It means I’ve been sober for ninety days. I just want you to know that I’m trying, Claire. And—she’d gulped in air—I’m sorry. I know it’s not enough, but I will make it up to you, honey.

  My forehead touches the door. If I had been older, less wounded, perhaps I would have noticed how proud she was in the way her shoulders lifted a fraction higher. But I was raw. First she left, then Tate, and their abandonment wrapped my heart in granite. I wouldn’t allow anybody to hurt me again. So I snorted at her and tossed the chip back. It hit her cloth bag and fell soundlessly to the floor, where it looked like nothing more than a small and useless token.

  Ninety days? You’ve been gone for five years, and you think I’m going to give a fuck about ninety days? I wasn’t frozen anymore; I was filled with a heated rage that had spread outward from my core, tingling my fingers and toes. All I could think about was every time she wasn’t there when I’d woken from a nightmare shaking and crying, the details she’d missed, like the time I kissed Tate and threw up because he tasted like chewing tobacco, or the first time I shaved and nicked every bony part of my knees, or when Tate broke my heart, all of it adding up to a towering height that wobbled in the air between us.

  Claire, Dad said in the same low warning tone he’d used for the bear he scared out of our lobby when I was seven. He was ready to welcome her with open arms. I was not. I shut my mouth and folded my arms, stared at my mom.

  She’d held my gaze for a long moment, her eyes soft, but her body caved inward like I’d punched her. Then she’d bent over and picked up the token, gray hairs threaded thickly through
the length of her ponytail. When she stood up she nodded, the token grasped in her hand.

  Alice, Dad said from behind me, plaintive, forgiving, gentle. My spine straightened at the weakness in it, and I balled my hands into fists. She would not hurt him again. I wouldn’t allow it this time.

  Mom had held up her hand. She’s right, Vance. It’s too soon. Claire, sweetheart, it doesn’t need to be today or tomorrow or even next year. But one day I’ll make it up to you. I swear I will.

  Then she’d taken in a deep breath and given me a smile that reminded me of Saturday mornings when the buttery scent of cinnamon rolls filled our apartment. I’d had to steel myself against a sudden urge to invite her inside, but I didn’t relent. Her apology had come too late. I was nearly an adult, heading off to college soon, and I didn’t need her anymore. We didn’t need her anymore.

  In the intervening years, Dad had tried to get me to reach out, said she was doing much better, but eventually he stopped asking. Likely because she’d slipped off the wagon, I’d guessed. And I was right, because the next time I saw her was at my graduation, when she had to be escorted out of the ceremony. But Dad had saved the token, put it into a large mason jar that he set on the kitchen counter. It sat alone in that jar for years, gathering dust, a pathetic reminder of her failed promises.

  And now she’s here again.

  “It’s Mom.”

  I grit my teeth, open the door a crack, and sniff the air for the familiar odor that always surrounds her, like the alcohol seeps from her pores. Instead, I smell something sweet like honey and vanilla, and a lump rises in my throat because those smells bring up unbidden memories from when she was the mom who let me lick cake batter from a spatula.

  “What are you doing here?” I say through the crack.

  Her eyes are soft. “I wanted to see you.”

  “Does Dad know you’re here?” I already know the answer because if he did, he would have told me and it would be in my notes. Dad never lies to me.

  Her shoulders relax with relief, maybe, or something else? I think I’m pretty good at reading body language and facial expressions. I should be because often it’s all I have to go on in conversations where I can’t remember who I’m speaking with or what we’ve been speaking about.

  “Vance invited me, Claire.”

  My nostrils flare. Now I know she’s lying—my father would never invite her to my home. And I know that the smell that infuses me with memories of the good days is nothing but a ruse, a perfume to cover the ugly truth of her addiction. When I was very little, she would cry out at night, her arms and legs thrashing around so hard that when I tried to crawl into bed to comfort her, she would elbow me. The sound still ping-pongs inside my head, brings back the coldness of the hallway on my bare feet when I ran to Ruth for help.

  She holds her hand out. “Claire, wait—”

  A buzz from my phone with a reminder. Make a chicken Caesar salad for the dinner party. I nod at the phone, thankful to have a job, and close the door without saying anything. Before I forget, I pick up a pad of sticky notes from the counter and write myself an important directive—Mom is a liar—and stick it to the refrigerator.

  I back away, reading the line once more and nodding to myself. She is a liar and an addict, and she’s too weak to change. I should know; I spent years thinking she could, and all it ever did was hurt.

  My thoughts drift to Dad in a memory scented with fish, mud, and tears. He was my bulwark in the storm that was my mom, and as she worsened I clung to him.

  I was ten and we’d been fishing all morning in our favorite cove. He was going back on the road the next day, and I knew that once he left, Mom would hide in her bedroom.

  The sun had been out when we’d first arrived at our favorite spot—a lemon color that made the sky look like I’d colored it with my favorite yellow crayon. Later it hid behind clouds, taking the shine from everything and making goose bumps pop up on my skin.

  Dad had thrown out a line. It plinked into the water, and tiny ripples bounced the bobber up and down.

  I’d puffed out my chest, tried to feel brave. Can I go on the road with you? My heart beat so fast, but I kept my eyes on the water, reeled in my empty line, threw it back out, never looking at Dad while the bobber rode the waves. I sucked in my top lip and stood a little taller. I’m good company, you know. Maybe you can even teach me how to drive a truck so I can be a truck driver like you. I bit the inside of my cheek and tried to see him from the very corner of my eye, but he stared at the water, moving the fishing line back and forth. I gripped the rod so hard my hands turned numb. He wasn’t answering and I was smart enough to guess why. My foot stomped down hard, but in the water my boot just sank into the mushy bottom. Mom doesn’t need me around be—

  Ho-ya! Dad yelled, and his bobber dipped underwater. He reeled in the line at the same time that he pulled hard on the rod. His big eyebrows looked like they’d climbed onto his forehead. He grunted and pulled harder on the rod, but whatever was on the end of his line pulled in the opposite direction strong enough to make the rod nearly bend in half.

  I’d jumped up and down on my toes and clapped my hands until my palms tingled. Wow!

  Claire! he called. Get the net! It’s a biggun!

  Got it! I’d stuck the end of my own rod into some rocks and picked up the net, running over to Dad but also trying to be careful not to fall on the sharp rocks.

  He looked at me over his shoulder, lifted one corner of his mouth, then turned back to the water.

  The net was heavy, so I stuck it between my arm and my side so I could jump up and down for Dad and not drop it. Get it! Keep going, Dad!

  He pulled so hard that his muscles moved like snakes under his skin and his face turned red. I squealed when he stumbled away from the edge of the water, his rubber boots slipping on the rocks, but he didn’t go down, because he’d fished his whole life. He tugged once more, and a giant fish flew out of the water, landing on the ground beside him. Dad crouched on the black rocks next to the fish, and I ran over with the net and plunked it right on top of its wiggling body, just in case it decided to grow legs and run back to the water.

  That’s the biggest damn salmon I’ve ever seen! I said and fell on my butt next to him on the ground.

  Dad looked at me and started laughing so hard he didn’t make much sound, and then I started laughing until my sides hurt and my cheeks felt wet. But then his whole face sagged like an old man’s, and he scooped me up like I wasn’t the biggest ten-year-old in Whittier, trapping me inside his tree-trunk arms and rocking me back and forth. The fish flopped on the ground beside us, and I tried to say something, except I couldn’t because I wasn’t laughing anymore; I was crying. Crying so hard that I was hiccuping and snot was running out of my nose and it tasted salty. He held me and hummed, and it made his chest rumble against my ear, and I cried even harder. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

  I think we sat like that forever, long enough for the fish to stop flopping. It lay beside us, still. Dad’s shirt was soft against my wet cheek, and I breathed in the smell of soap and water and fish. I don’t want you to leave, Daddy, I said into his chest.

  He laid his chin on top of my head; I heard him swallow.

  I don’t want to leave again either, Claire bear. But, hey, Ruth thinks the building manager job might open up soon, and when it does, you can bet my name will be in the hat.

  I hiccuped, but I didn’t cry again.

  He rubbed my back, rocking me back and forth, and we sat like that until the air turned cold and I shivered.

  I make Mom sad. My teeth chattered when I spoke.

  He squeezed me in his arms, and I heard him sigh. Never, Claire. Mom’s sad for reasons that have nothing to do with you. You make her happy, sweetheart. You’ve always made her happy.

  Then why does she sleep so much? And how come she hardly ever leaves our apartment anymore or bakes or does anything like she used to? And do you know what’s in her water bottle? Tate does. He s
ays it’s booze, and that’s what makes his dad so mean. I snuggled deeper into his arms. Mom’s not mean, but she cries a lot.

  Dad didn’t speak, and I burrowed my head against his chest, sure that I’d said something wrong. Eventually, when the silence was too much, I pushed out of his arms to see his face, and when I did, I wished I hadn’t looked. His eyes were so wet they were shiny, like he was crying, except Dad was too big and strong to cry.

  Oh, Claire, no, honey. Alice, she just . . . oh. He looked up at the sky as if he thought the answer was up there. But all I saw were thick gray clouds that hung down so low I thought I could stick my fingers into them like Play-Doh. His breath was a gentle wave that pushed my head up and down. Mom will get better, Claire, I just know it. All she needs is some time, okay? He looked down at me. I can’t think of anything I’d love more than you as my driving partner, but you need to stay in school, not drive trucks with me. I can’t make things different for your mom right now, sweetheart, so I drive trucks to make things different for you. Okay? And your job is to stay in school and learn everything you can and then go out there—he pointed in the direction of the tunnel—and share it with the rest of the world.

  My phone buzzes with a reminder. Make a chicken Caesar salad for the dinner party. On the kitchen table is my turquoise salad bowl filled with Parmesan-dusted romaine lettuce along with glasses of tea, with ice cubes melting on top, and a basket of bread that gives the air a bite of garlic. Dinner is ready. I swipe left and the reminder disappears.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When my clock reads 6:05, I open the door and stick my head into the hallway just as Harriet steps around the corner from the elevator with Sefina, who waves and smiles. Sefina moved here when we were both nineteen, but I was in college and she was a single mom of two young girls. Despite our differences, a friendship grew over visits home and summer breaks, a shared scorn for men, and a similar determination to be in control of our own lives. Even now, when everyone I knew from college has stopped calling, Sefina is still my friend. It’s all in my notes.