Escape Velocity (6 page)

“You had that angio thing? The stent?”

“Yeah. It went fine; I'm tired, that's all. Don't worry about me, okay?”

“Course I will.”

He laughs. “Lou, I'm okay. Damn left leg isn't working now, but the old heart will be fine. Have fun in Victoria and don't stress, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You can call me. Dana Leigh's coming tonight and she said she'd bring your cell phone for me.”

“I will. I love you, Dad.”

“Love you too.” He clears his throat. “Look, I know you weren't very happy after your last visit with your mother, but that was over a year ago. You're older now. It'll be good for you to get to know each other.”

I'm not convinced, but the last thing I want to do is cause him any stress. “It'll be fine,” I tell him. “Don't worry about me.”

Six

I
get a window seat on the plane, but it's too cloudy to see anything. Within seconds of takeoff, the plane is flying through a thick opaque whiteness. I strain my eyes, trying to focus, but there's nothing there to focus on. It's like my brain can't figure out exactly where the whiteness is, like I've lost my depth perception.

Two days ago I was in class, daydreaming about escape—about flying through the clouds—and now here I am, doing it.

And then I think, Did I make this happen somehow? Does the world work like that? It seems about as likely as anything else.

Then again, my dreams of escape never led to my mother. I stare out at the clouds and wish this plane was going to land anywhere but Victoria.

A flight attendant—tall, dark-haired and smiling broadly but vaguely—hands me a plastic glass of Coke.

“Cookies or pretzels?”

“Can I have both?” I can't even remember the last time I ate.

She hands me two tiny pretzel bags and a package of two cookies, those ones with a layer of cream and a red circle of sugar-sprinkled jam in the middle.

“Thanks,” I say, dropping the snacks in my lap and looking up at her. Her lipstick is the exact same shade as Dana Leigh's. “Um, do you like being a flight attendant?” I ask.

She nods. “Very much.”

“Is it hard? I mean, to become one?”

“Well, there's a lot of training. But I'm sure you could do it if you wanted to.” She is still smiling as she moves past me to the next row, and I wonder if the smile is something they teach you in the training, if you have to practice a great deal for a smile to become your natural expression. I wonder if after a while you would smile all the time even when you weren't working.

I tear open the plastic wrapper and slide out a cookie, dropping crumbs on my lap. I press my finger against the sugary specks, lift them to my mouth and lick them off my fingertip. I'm so nervous about seeing my mother that I can hardly sit still. I keep picturing that photo of the two of us in front of the Empress, her arm around my shoulders.

Despite everything, I guess some stupid part of me thinks that perhaps it will be different this time.

Halfway to Victoria. Halfway between my mother and my father. I turn away from the snow-covered mountains below and stare down at the magazine I snagged from an empty seat in the airport.

I read through an article on the latest trends in makeup (smoky eyes and pale lips), a review of a movie I haven't seen, and some readers' letters confessing their most embarrassing moments. Then I turn the page and find a quiz:
How Well Do You Know Your Mother?
The very first question has me stumped:

1. Would your mother prefer:

a) A day at the spa.

b) A glamorous party.

c) A quiet afternoon alone with a book.

d) A hike with the whole family.

Not the last one, clearly. I move on to the next question.

2. You buy a fabulous new outfit and show it to your mother as soon as you arrive home. Does she:

a) Tell you how wonderful it looks?

b) Pretend to admire it but somehow manage to let you know that she thinks it is hideous?

c) Say that she hopes you aren't planning to wear it outside the house?

d) Ask if she can borrow it?

I have no idea. None of the above. I am failing this quiz. I flip to the end to see what it says if you get the worst possible score, but it's one of those stupid quizzes that doesn't even interpret your answers. Whatever. What could it say anyway?
0-5 points: You don't know your mother at all, you freak
.

“I guess you don't miss having a mother,” Dana Leigh said once. “Seeing as how you've never really had one.” At the time, I probably just nodded; but Dana Leigh was wrong. You can miss something you have never had. You can't help it, not when the thing that you miss is all around you, when everyone you meet has a mother, when every story, every
TV
show, every movie reminds you of what you should have.

Seven

“W
e are beginning our descent,” the pilot announces. My stomach clutches tight as a toddler's fist around the cookies and pretzels I ate earlier in the flight. The smiling flight attendant hands out candies and reminds stragglers to buckle up and stow their bags. With a bump and the roar of engines, the plane lands in Victoria.

My mother has said she will meet me at the airport. I have no checked suitcases, only my carry-on bag, so I walk straight through the crowd and out into the Arrivals area. I don't see her right away. I fix a half smile on my face. I don't want to look anxious in case she sees me first. I don't want to give her the advantage.

Then I see her. She looks different than she did last time I saw her, different from the photo in her book. Her hair is shorter, barely brushing her shoulders, still white-blond and smooth as glass. She is wearing dark-framed sunglasses that hide her eyes. Jeans. A plain white T-shirt and a soft suede jacket. It's a look that says
I just threw on some old clothes, but I can't help looking gorgeous anyway
.

She's walking toward me but hasn't seen me yet, and I suddenly wonder if she will recognize me. It seems awful not to be recognized by your own mother, so I wave frantically, not wanting to find out whether she would or not. “Mom! Here I am!”

She stops walking, turns toward me. “Lou?” She gives a low laugh. “Look at you! You've grown so much.”

Well, yeah. It's been a year. “Hi, Mom,” I say. Last time I visited, she suggested I call her Zoe. In some ways, it fits our relationship better. Why pretend she has been a parent to me when she has never even wanted to be one? But calling her Zoe feels like letting her off the hook. Every time I say
Mom
, it's like I'm reminding her that she is my mother whether she likes it or not.

She shakes her head. “You look so much like your dad.”

What she means is,
It's too bad you look so much like your dad
. It's true I've got his dark hair, his nose and his small square teeth that everyone says look like baby teeth, but I don't think I look that much like either of them. Anyway, she hasn't seen my dad for fifteen years. “You look different too,” I say.

“Do I?” She looks down at my hands. “No suitcase?”

“Only my carry-on bag. I didn't pack much.” It seems dumb, now that I'm here, but I didn't want to admit that I might be staying for longer than the weekend.

My mother drives a white Toyota, not new, but so clean and empty it feels like a rental car. It's a half-hour drive to her condo downtown. We exchange a few awkward sentences and then give up and drive in silence for a while. I turn my face to the window: farmland, a field of still-tiny pumpkins, a dark lake half hidden by trees. The air in the car is charged with tension, the emotional static so intense that lightning bolts might flash between us any minute.

“Do I have to start school right away?” I ask desperately.

“Well, you can't hang around the condo all day. I can't work with someone hanging over my shoulder.”

“I wouldn't be—”

“So I called yesterday, right after I booked your ticket. You can start Monday.”

“Today's Saturday.” At least I don't have to go tomorrow. Or today.

My mother gives me a funny look but says nothing. My sense of reprieve dissipates as I realize that a day at a new school might actually be easier than spending a day with my mother.

My mother's condo is smaller than I remembered, but every bit as elegant. It has honey-colored wooden floors (bamboo, she says), big windows and a view of the harbor. She shows me into her spare room, which she makes a point of telling me usually doubles as her office. Pine bookshelves line one wall, and the foldout couch has been made up as a bed, with a pale blue comforter and big pillows. A painting hangs low on the wall. “Always hang your artwork at eye-level,” my mother told me last time I was here, as if I had artwork to hang. “Most people hang it too high.”

“You like it?” she asks.

“The room? It's fine. Great.”

“The painting.”

I look at it again. Swirls of gray and black. No doubt it should mean something to me, evoke some emotion or other. I feel a flicker of anxiety—she always makes me feel incompetent, foolish, childish—followed by a flash of anger. “It looks like an oil spill,” I say flatly. Let her think I'm shallow. I don't care.

She doesn't say anything for a minute, just studies the picture. “He's an up-and-coming artist; everyone's talking about him.”

“Yeah? What are they saying?”

She shrugs. “The reviewer in the Globe said his paintings were ‘disturbing, demanding, and infinitely rewarding.' Personally, I think you're right. It does look like an oil spill.” She gives a short laugh. “He was awfully good-looking though.”

Was
instead of
is
. I figure that means she slept with him once or twice and now it's over. “Well,” I say. “I don't hate it or anything.”

Zoe pulls a fading yellow tulip from the vase on her desk. “So,” she says, “I'm doing a reading tonight, from my new book. It isn't really appropriate for your age though. I thought we could rent a couple of
DVD
s for you if you like.”

“I've read it already.”

“You have?” She shakes a drop of water from the tulip and folds the stem with a soft snap. She looks as if she isn't sure whether she should be pleased that I'd bother or taken aback that I've read something other than vampire novels. “What did you think?”

My heart is suddenly beating faster. “It's good.”

She tilts her head, as if she is wanting more from me.

When I say nothing, she shrugs. “Well. If you've read it anyway…I mean, I suppose you can come tonight if you want to. But don't feel you must.”

“I'll come.” I can feel myself smiling in the stupid way I do when I am nervous.

She looks at me intently and frowns. “Is that a chip? In your front tooth?”