As much as she had loved Paris, big cities scared Maura Isles. The hustling crowds, the eerie uncalm of late nights, people up doing things they seldom should be doing, it all set her on edge. For every museum and university, there were countless crimes, accidents, and general chaos. She couldn't say that the fear was necessarily a bad thing – it jolted her heart into so many decisions that had shaped her. However, the jolt was never comfortable. In moments when given the choice, she often picked academics over people, solitude over socializing.
Yet, here she was, opening the last box in her Boston apartment, two weeks after moving the first one in. Boston, she had learned, was younger than Paris, and more rabid. It was the closest thing to home she supposed she would get, with her parents travelling the globe: her father, the anthropologist currently in Tibet, her mother, the artist showcased in London, Paris, Tokyo. Maura herself had just returned from a trip of sorts and hadn't technically lived in Boston since her graduation from BCU in premed. Even then, she spent her elementary through high school years abroad, at a boarding school in France. So, Boston was as new and as scary as she allowed her new life to be, at least for the time being.
Her apartment sat high above the city, overlooked skyscrapers and Boston Medical Center itself – her new professional home. Both buildings blew her old abode and workplace out of the water. She found it ironic that the box she left for last was the one filled with mementos from the previous twelve months: a coffee pot from Ethiopia with a wide black base and slender black neck, an unopened bottle of cheap wine, and other gifts from patients and families she had seen. She had avoided this box since she had packed it, and now she squatted in front of it, curling some of her honey colored, wavy hair behind her ear. The swish of her black slacks against cardboard punctuated the silence around her; it reminded her how much she really had left behind, and yet how much possibility and opportunity she had returned to.
The squawk of her doorbell nearly threw her when it reverberated off the walls minutes later. She had expected someone, but her sudden reverie left her skittish. She inhaled with gusto and imposed calm, moving the box into the storage closet, placing the coffee pot neatly on the counter and three of her most treasured patient gifts on the kitchen table, on a bookshelf, and on the slim desk in the front hall that had yet to be filled with pictures. She moved with elegance and good posture, hands in pockets, a perfect opposite to the jittery feeling in her gut.
"Mother," she said as she answered the door. The simultaneous crinkle of her eyes in a smile and the stiffening of her spine summed up the intricacy of her emotions regarding her guest.
"My darling Daughter," the refined woman in Prada, ears and wrists shining in the way only diamonds could, offered her own closed-lip smile until she was through the doorway. Then, they embraced, a kiss to each cheek. She lingered longer than Maura was used to, infusing her hug with joy at seeing the younger woman in a way she could not do with her words. "I'm glad you're home, Maura," was what she managed, but Maura felt the affection in the hands on her back.
She fought back tears. She had doubted it, but her mother had missed her. "Me too, and I'm surprised you're in town," she said. Her voice whispered, as it was wont to do whenever she experienced heavy emotion. She pushed all of it away for the moment, however, as the woman now releasing her had taught her to do. They stood on the verge of awkwardness for a few beats. "Would you like some tea?" Maura finally asked.
"Oh yes, that would be wonderful. Then I would like to hear all about your trip. Was Ethiopia just lovely?" Constance Isles asked in return as she smoothed her perfectly styled brown hair. Her hands had aged, and her veins stood out more against the skin in areas it had lost fat. As Maura put the water on, she noted the newer wrinkles on her mother's face. Despite it all, Constance made 65 look positively regal.
"It was. But also not, Mother. I spent a lot of time with the injured and sick," Maura qualified. Her mother, though artistic and grand, often walked through life unaware of the struggles of others.
"I can imagine. Your father boasted about you to his colleagues the whole time you were there. His daughter in Medicins Sans Frontieres, outclassing every over other child of theirs," Constance said through a breathy chuckle of reminiscing, as though it were years, not months ago, that this all occurred.
"Well, I did it to help people. Not for Father's approval, as lovely as it is," Maura smiled as she spoke, a diffusing technique she used in her childhood. She could have written a book on how to speak the truth without ruffling any feathers.
"Of course not. And I commend you for it, Maura. I do wonder, however, why you decided to lease this tiny space rather than buy a home near ours in Beacon Hill," Constance made the air of acquiescence, but moved to gentle criticism.
Maura began to sweat, though she rarely did. "I considered it," she buffered, "but I decided that I'm just not ready for a home quite yet. This apartment is palatial compared to the living quarters Ian and I stayed in. Plus, I'm much closer to the hospital this way; you can even see it from the window there."
"And how is Ian? I did love that man. Are we going to see him again?" Constance asked. She accepted the mug of tea gratefully.
Maura tensed. "He is… doing well. He still has three months on his assignment," she answered, a careful dance around the unsaid truth.
They sat together, mother and daughter, neither saying much for long seconds. Constance decided to break the silence. "You may not be my biological daughter, and it may be many years too late, but I have recently learned to see when you are hurting. Will you tell me about it?"
Floods of memories of emotional neglect rammed against Maura's chest wall – being eleven and sending away for her boarding school brochure, countless times her mother and father missed her birthday to work abroad. Newer memories of infant understanding and conversations that stumbled toward intimacy tempered the tears of sadness threatening to spill. "He… he is going to extend his assignment. When I asked him if he had any intentions of being with me outside of Africa, he said he had a duty to the people there."
"Mmm," Constance nodded, taking a sip. Simply listening was a task she had taken a lifetime to begin to practice, and now she put it to use with her daughter.
"I don't think he and I are the best fit for each other right now," Maura said quietly. At the brink of vulnerability, she turned back. "The work he is doing is important, and he is the best at it. But it is not the life that I want."
Her mother accepted it as a step in their process of learning one another. "I am sorry. I do hope that in my life I can see you happy, Maura."
Perhaps Constance meant well – the genuineness in her tone gave no hints of condescension or malice. But Maura heard the implication; her mother feared she would be alone not just for the time being, but also perhaps for the rest of her life. It dampened her enthusiasm about starting work in the coming days.
"I am excited about starting my life here, Mother. I am not going to let romance be my main concern when I am about to start a new, hopefully more permanent chapter. And I am happy about that," she countered, with grace, and yet, also with bite.
Constance smiled. She saw herself in Maura; maybe her daughter had more in common with she and her husband than she originally thought. "Of course. It is certainly reason to be happy. Are you a teaching surgeon?"
"Yes. And I'm starting on call in the trauma bay. Apparently trauma is where they refine the new hires," Maura said as she sipped her tea.
"Well, they'll be surprised when they encounter your competence, Maura. I'm sure of it," Constance reached out and patted the younger Isles' wrist. Her daughter smiled and blushed despite herself.