16
Angela puts the call in to the real estate company, who says we can get a view of the building Tuesday afternoon. We'll be meeting up with a woman named Irina at 1 p.m. There's an air of excitement between us the rest of the day, but also nerves. This is a big step for us, one that could either spell big things or cause us to crash and burn.
When I get home, my mom is in the kitchen, standing over her Mickey Mouse crock pot, the smell of her pot roast wafting toward me, making my mouth water.
"Hey," she says, looking over at me and giving me a smile, and I try my best not to react to her eye being almost swollen shut. The bruise had migrated further down her face since I'd seen her this morning. "Dinner is almost ready."
"It smells amazing." My mom had perfected pot roast a few years ago, and it had become my favorite thing she made. She'd stopped cooking carrots in with the meat, which prevented everything from tasting like carrot, which is why I didn't like the dish when I was a kid. That simple change, along with the addition of onion soup mix, made it downright delectable.
"By the time you change, it will be ready." She tells me, handing me an Arnold Palmer from the fridge.
I take the can from her and say, "You spoil me."
"Not nearly enough." She says it off-handedly, almost to herself. Some of the high I was on deflates. When she made comments like that, insinuating that she owed me for helping her out, it irritated me. She was my mom; she didn't need to find ways to pay me back for something I was gladly doing.
I'm about to remind her, yet again, that I'd volunteered to do this. It had been my idea for her to move in, but she must see where my mind went because she's speaking before the words are able to leave my mouth.
"Now, go change so I can finish dinner." She hits me on the backside with a dish towel, causing me to yell, forgetting completely that I'd been irritated seconds before, which was clearly her plan.
I glare at her placing my drink on the counter as I leave the room. "Fine, I'm going. I'm going."
Her laugh is reward enough as I go to my room to change.
True to her word, dinner is ready when I re-emerge, with two plates sitting on the coffee table. The dining area of the apartment was crowded by my easel and art supplies. When it had been just me, I'd taken to eating in front of the TV, something that my mom didn't seem to mind. We'd made a ritual of binge-watching shows together, each of us taking a turn picking out what we'd devour next. At the moment, we were worming our way through House, MD. My mom loved House's irreverence, which mirrored her own in many ways.
"How was your day, baby duck?" she asks when we're settled in, the opening sequence of House playing in the background.
I finish chewing before I reply. "It was good. Angela and I are meeting with a realtor tomorrow to look at a new space."
"You two have been needing that for a while." She takes a bite of mashed potatoes. "Are you excited?"
"Yeah, I am. This has been a long time coming." I played with my potatoes, and even I'm able to hear the less-than-enthusiastic tone in my voice.
"You don't sound very excited." She places her fork down on her plate, giving me her undivided attention as House argues with Cuddy on the TV.
"I am." I meet her eyes, one of her brows lifting. This has turned into a much deeper conversation than I'm equipped to handle right now. "I am excited." I reiterate. "It's just a lot of change all at once."
"Mhm" is her only reply.
"What is that 'mhm' supposed to mean?" I asked, a little irked.
"It just means I'm not surprised. You've always struggled with change, particularly after your dad and I separated. It just takes you a little longer to warm up to things."
I'd never given it much thought, but when I think back, I know she's right. When I needed to get a new debit card a few months back because I'd lost the envelope with my new one in it, I'd put off calling about it for as long as I could, convincing myself I'd find it, because I hadn't wanted a new number. It didn't have anything to do with the hassle of changing my card information on my accounts but had everything to do with the fact that relinquishing the number I'd had for over a decade made me anxious. I'd had an unexplainable attachment to something completely useless that, other than making those initial updates, would never affect my life.
That was just one of many examples. There'd been too many to count. It was the same reason that I hadn't found a new apartment yet, even though it was the best thing for my mom.
Because… I didn't like change; I didn't like feeling like I was being uprooted.
After the whirlwind my mind went through, I pushed my plate away, curling up in the corner of the couch and pulling the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my hands.
"I am excited." I play with a loose thread on the cuff. "I'm just overwhelmed. It feels like everything is changing all at once."
"Mhm," she hums again, but it's more contemplative now because she knows what I'm not saying. "Well, I think you'll be just fine." She pats my leg. "I'm so proud of the woman you've become and what you've accomplished."
"What if I fail?" I asked, admitting out loud only to her the source of all of my anxiety and fear. The expansion was exciting and terrifying at the same time.
"I don't think you'll fail." She tells me, the sureness in her tone telling me she means it as more than just my mom. "Even if you do, at least you tried."