So I did. Three minutes before the library closed, and about thirty seconds before the librarian planned to call the police, my mom strolled through the revolving door, her hair a ratted mess and her lipstick faded and smeared onto her skin. She apologized and explained her shift at the restaurant ran late because someone didn’t arrive on time. I knew she wasn’t working. Her appearance told me all I needed to know about why she almost forgot about me.
I haven’t been to a public library since.
The library sure changed since the last time I was in one. I’m impressed by how they’ve moved forward with technology. There’s a self-checkout station, a big screen television showing events they’re putting on, and even a security checkpoint so books aren’t stolen. Do people steal books? Is this an ongoing problem?
In my sightline, I notice a four-tier shelf with books for sale at a quarter apiece. A woman with a backpack searches through the DVDs to the left. It seems you can find everything here.
A librarian sits behind the circulation desk typing on the computer. I wonder if she’s checking in books, or surfing the internet. I’m not sure what else she could be doing.
“Excuse me?” I interrupt her.
Without a second thought, she stops typing. “What can I help you with today?”
Her name tag says Sophie. She’s younger than me, and her hair is short and in spikes. “Hello. I want to speak with someone about teaching a class here.” I swallow and my saliva catches in my throat. Approaching people comes naturally to me, so why is this so difficult?
She smiles widely. “Sure! I’ll page Mr. Lin. He’ll be excited a community member wants to help out.”
She’s too perky for my taste, but I’m glad she thinks this Mr. Lin man will be on board with my teaching a class. Sophie picks up her phone and pages for him to come to the circulation desk. I wait patiently until a middle-aged, Asian gentleman approaches me.
“Good evening. I’m Bryan Lin. What can I do for you?” He has a welcoming smile and a full head of graying hair. I touch my hand to the back of my hair. Are my grays noticeable yet?
“I want to discuss the possibility of volunteering some of my time here.”
“I’m always happy when someone wants to help out.” He turns and waves me with him. “Walk with me.”
I meet his stride and he leads me up the stairs. I don’t consider myself out of shape, but the two sets of stairs do me in. I catch my breath when we reach the top. Bookcases go on for ages to my left and to the right a few tables are set up on a balcony overlooking the circulation desk where Sophie sits. Directly in front of us is another librarian.
“That’s Kiki, our Adult Fiction librarian.”
When I was a kid I remember there were children’s books and novels. Now everything is divided into juvenile, middle-grade, teen, young adult, upper young adult, adult, new adult. I can’t keep up. Since when did we feel the need to segregate all the books? In my eyes, a book is a book.
“We have a lot of different programs here. Since I took over as director, we have added reading sessions for children, story building courses for young writers, and genealogy instruction, which is probably our most popular course. They’re all free to library members.” Mr. Lin continues his tour as we move past Kiki.
Before moving through the aisles of books, we pass a roundtable filled with computers. Almost every station is occupied. I glance at the screen of a young man as we walk and he’s playing some sort of a game. People come to the library to play video games?
We reach a large room with double doors. “This is one of our community rooms, which is handicap accessible via the elevator. We try to hold children’s programs downstairs and adult upstairs. This way it’s quieter.”
The library has an elevator? Why didn’t we take that? My legs are begging me to use it on the way back down.
We enter the room and it’s clearly set up for the genealogy class. Poster boards are scattered around the room with different old-time pictures, and a white board lists different search engines. Computers outline the area.
“This is a huge room. How many are in this class?”
“About twenty. We can’t have more than thirty in the room. So, what sort of skill do you want to volunteer?”
I walk the room observing everything around me. All I need access to is a computer. “I’m not certain. I work in IT and would like to do something with that.”
“We receive a lot of requests for teaching the Internet to those over sixty-five. Most people want to use Facebook.”
Facebook. I’m a high-level manager and I’m supposed to teach old people Facebook? Why are they on there anyway? What is there for them to do?
“Well, I know the ins and outs pretty well, but do you receive any requests on how to use spreadsheets or anything like that? Maybe even security issues?” I’m a whiz at Excel and enjoy showing others the incredible things you can do with the program. I can’t think of what someone in his or her seventies would use Excel for, but learning it may be a fun experience.
He thinks for a moment, crossing his arms and running his thumb against his jaw. “I’m sure we receive some, but I’d love to utilize you where your skills are needed most. This is what our patrons have requested. Do you think you’re interested?”
Shannon is in my ear telling me to do it. I’m patient (for the most part) and I know I should. But teaching old people to use social media? I’d have an easier time giving up technology altogether. Yeah, right. Who am I kidding?
My mind wanders back to the office and Lucas is barging through my door, pulling me out of my chair, and demanding my desk. If I don’t do this, I’ll let the anger fester on the weekend and may blow up at work. This will pass the time, and, who knows, it could be fun. “Sure. When do you need me to teach?”
“Saturdays. Either from 9:00 to 10:30 or 1:00 to 2:30.”
Hm. Yoga is in the afternoon. I like the late session because in the off-chance I go out the night before, I can sleep in and work off any hangover I may have. But, this is all about helping others. I can move my yoga to the morning and be mindful in the evenings so I don’t stay out too late. I can do this. I need to do this, or Shannon will have my head on a platter. “How about the p.m. session?”
“Great. You can start the first Saturday in July.”
We shake hands and as he leaves the room I’m left standing amongst these photos of older generations — people who never experienced a computer in their lives. The people I’ll be teaching aren’t far behind them, really. I hope I didn’t put myself in a situation that will frustrate me more than I can handle, or I may finally break.
Chapter
Four
I return home to an abundance of mail overflowing in my mailbox. Did the post office hold everything for the entire week and decide to deliver it today? I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and sit down at my kitchen table to begin sorting.
A bill, another bill, junk mail. Does it ever end? I should pay everything online. The fact that I don’t doesn’t make much sense. I’ll add that to my running list of things to do along with this work project.
Beyond my bank statement and balance due notices, I toss aside credit card solicitations. A donation request hops to the top of the pile. I love sending money to charities I support, so I set it aside to write a check later.
I’m surprised when an envelope with my cousin’s return address is buried among the bills. I can’t believe Sasha sent her thank you’s this soon. No one in my family is that fast at something like that. Heck, over half my relatives don’t even know what an RSVP is, much less a thank-you note. I’m sure she returned from her honeymoon not too long ago. I think writing thank you cards would be last on my priorities after a few weeks in Italy. Lucky girl.
I peel open the envelope, pulling out a small letter instead of a thank you card. She never sends me letters. I recall she mailed me one once when she was a little girl as part of a school project, but that’s it. I even wrote back. Who w
rites letters anymore? Doesn’t everyone text or email these days? I think if I sat down and attempted to use a pen, my brain would go haywire from the confusion. I rack my brain trying to recall the last time I used ink for something longer than a grocery list. Heck, I even use my phone for that now, too.
I wonder what requires a handwritten letter. Perhaps she wants to thank me for being in the wedding and her three-hundred dollar monetary gift. I’ll admit, a handwritten thank you is nice.
I unfold the paper, anticipation winning out. I’m anxious for what this is about. Before I can begin reading the words, my eyes divert to the signature. “Mom.”
My heart tightens and stomach gurgles. I suck in air as I try to expand my lungs. Breathe, Cassie. Breathe. I remind myself to push the air back out to exhale. Pressure builds in my chest as I work my way through my yoga breath, or ujjayi breath as my instructor calls it. If yoga is teaching me anything, it’s importance of steady and rhythmic breathing.
I close my eyes and my nose whistles as I breathe in and out. Why is my chest aching so much? Is this what a heart that’s already broken feels like when it shatters even more? My mom hasn’t crossed my mind in more than a passing thought in years. Why is she writing me? And why is this coming from my cousin’s house? I keep inhaling and exhaling, allowing my breath to take control. Finally, after about five minutes, I’m ready.
My eyes open and my attention immediately goes back to her signature. I can’t do this. I slap my hands on the table as I rise and march to my corner cabinet. This is where I keep the good stuff. The cabinet door slams against the one next to it as I yank it open. Damn it. I put the chocolate up high so I wouldn’t be tempted like I am now. Out of sight, out of mind, right? When you’re short like me, everything is out of sight. I wipe my sweaty palms against my pants, grip the countertop, and hoist myself up. I start to slip but balance myself before plunging to the floor. Once I’m on my knees, I have a better view of the top shelf. Snickers, Milky Way, Twix. Where is my Butterfinger? This is what I need right now. I push bar after bar aside and then remember that I ate the last one right before Sasha’s wedding.
What am I doing? I can’t go down this rabbit hole. I press my hand to my stomach and imagine myself 40 pounds heavier. That wasn’t a good time in my life, and I don’t want to go back there. I know I shouldn’t even keep the temptation in the house, but I’m usually fairly good at allowing myself to treat in moderation. I know very well this wouldn’t be in moderation. I want more than anything to devour every single piece of chocolate in that cabinet. I shut the door and hop back down. I’m better than this.
I pull the kitchen chair out farther and take my time sitting back down. A couple of deep breaths later, I think maybe I can do this. I may be better off not knowing what she wants. This woman, who has the audacity to sign something to me as “Mom,” hasn’t done anything good for me in my life. How I survived my childhood is beyond me. If I even knew who my dad was, maybe he could’ve been a better force in my life. But nope, my absent dad is one of the random guys she hooked up with in her teens. I don’t have a clue if he’s alive, healthy, or in jail. I’m sure my mom doesn’t, either.
I gulp down the rest of my water, my hand shaking as I set the bottle on the table. I close my eyes and open them again before turning the letter over and beginning to read.
Dear Cassie,
I’m very glad you’re reading this, if you, in fact, are. I’ve struggled for years deciding if I should contact you. I realize it’s been a long time. I hope you’re glad I’m writing. I’ve been wondering about you.
I stop reading. She’s been wondering about me? No contact in over twenty years and she’s wondering about me? That’s rich. I barely think about her. Life is better that way, honestly. My palms start sticking to the paper, some of the ink transferring to my skin.
I used Sasha’s address so you’d open this. I want to tell you I’m clean now. I mean it. Six years now. I checked myself into rehab and I’m done.
She’s said that before. Not to mention it’s been six years and she hasn’t thought once to contact me in that time? Really, Mother? Contact from her is the last thing I want, but waiting this long to reach out is unbelievable to me.
I hope you’re proud of me. I am. I’m so sorry for all the years I put you through so much pain. I should have been clean and sober and taking care of you and spending every minute with you. Instead, I lived my life high and with any man I could find. That’s why I’m contacting you.
So she’s not writing to tell me she’s clean? She has a sick desire to tell me everything wrong she did in my life like I don’t have a running list in my head.
I’m sick, Cassie. With all the drugs and rendezvous, I got sick. HIV. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s under control. I don’t have full-blown AIDS or anything. But I don’t know how much time I have. I want to see you.
See me. No. That requires me to be in the same room with her, to acknowledge she exists. I made my way through life since I was eighteen without her just fine. I graduated college, acquired a job, even rented my first apartment and now own my own home. I don’t need her.
This isn’t about me. It’s about her. She needs me. This is some attempt to get something. She must be desperate for money. There’s no other explanation. For what, though? If she wants money, fine. I’ll give her a thousand dollars and send her on her way. I can afford that. She doesn’t deserve it, but it’s not like me to turn away anyone in need, even it if is my mother.
Is Sasha aware my mom is using her address? How does she know where Sasha even lives? Once I turned eighteen and cut myself off from my mom, the whole family realized I wasn’t some teenage girl causing drama for the sake of drama. She became a ghost to everyone. Mom was a drug addict. She did leave me for hours on end by myself. Everyone thought she worked so hard and never invited anyone over because she wanted to spend time with me. The truth was she didn’t want anyone coming to our one-bedroom apartment that housed a mattress, a table, and a bean bag chair she picked up at a rummage sale.
My phone number is below. Please, call me. I’ve considered stopping by your house, but I don’t want to barge in like that. Please don’t text — call. I want to hear your voice, and, more than ever, see your face. I’ve heard you’re quite successful now and a beautiful woman, and, I hope, a forgiving one.
Pfft. A forgiving one. What gives her the right to even suggest I forgive her? Yes, I am forgiving, but under the appropriate circumstances. This is not one of them.
A normal daughter would cry tears of joy after her long-lost mother wrote a letter begging for a new beginning. She’d pick up the phone and call her, excited to reconnect with her after all these years. She would be so grateful to God that her mom wants to be a part of her life again.
I’m none of these things. I’m not sobbing. My eyes are dry and tearless. My hand is, for once, far away from my cell phone. I’m not grateful to anyone this letter found its way into my mailbox. Rather than weeping and jumping off my chair in bliss, cement fills my stomach, and I’m trembling.
Damn her! I ball up the paper and toss it across the room, slamming my arms on the table. That’s not good enough. I stand up, march over to the corner the paper landed, pick it up, and rip it to pieces. There’s only one thing I’m sure of.
I’m not a normal daughter.
Chapter
Five
“Now this man has come in and because he’s related to my boss, I’ll probably lose my job.” I’m spilling my guts to my Dating for Decades group, which I don’t normally do. Usually, I listen and offer advice, or judge quietly in my head. I need to get this off my chest, though, and to a party other than Shannon, who knows me much too well. And I’m not ready to discuss the letter from my mother, so I’ll share this in its place.
“Is he attractive?” Cheyenne interjects from the left side of me.
“Yes, but that’s not the point.” What do his looks have to do with anything?
“It
’s exactly the point.”
“What?” No. The point is this boy – yes, boy – is related to my boss, so, I think, he is more than likely to overstep me and make me look bad to his uncle. He’s new to the game and power-hungry. I was that way once. Hell, I still am, except now I’m aging as well.
“She’s right.” Luna gives her unsolicited opinion. “You’re not freaking out about this because you think he may take your job. You’re afraid of hooking up with him and jeopardizing your career because of it.”
I raise a finger at her as she takes a potato chip out of the bag sitting on her lap. “First off, I’m not freaking out. Second, I’m genuinely concerned about my job. This guy’s a kid. I’m not hooking up with anyone.” Although now I’m picturing him naked, and I’m impressed. A smooth chest with rock hard abs, a rounded ass I can hold onto, and legs like a soccer player. I’ve spent the night with my fair share of men, but never someone so young. I’ll admit the idea does intrigue me.
Luna drinks her bottled water and rolls her eyes at me. “I give it a month before you’re dating this guy.” She speaks at a rapid pace and always with such a knowing attitude.
“Two weeks,” Cheyenne pipes in, holding her fingers like a peace sign. She waves her hand at the group like she’s Chuck Woolery.
Everyone places their bets and for the first time in a long time, I’m offended. My life is a game of roulette and I’m the ball whipping around the wheel, the crowd cheering and hoping I land on their number. In this case, the number of days or weeks until I succumb to sheer horniness. This is what my life has become.
Dating For Decades Page 3