Fracture

Leila’s stomach clenched as the plane touched down at RDU. It had been a smooth flight, free of turbulence, but storms raged inside her just the same. She had flown down two years earlier for her dad’s funeral and hadn’t been back since. She would have been fine extending that absence indefinitely had it not been for Maggie’s recent call. Leila had heard about their mom’s hip replacement the year before though the broken ankle weeks ago was new.

“She’s been falling lately,” Maggie said, her voice tripwire tight. “I think you should come.”

Left unsaid: you’re the oldest, and this shouldn’t be all on me.

“All right,” Leila agreed. She wasn’t sure if it was affection or guilt that compelled her. Possibly both.

Trevor, Leila’s boyfriend of five months, asked if he could tag along, leaving Leila scrambling to find the best way to shoot down the suggestion. That her hometown was devoid of joy and culture abetted her cause. “You’d be bored out of your mind,” she said, and thank God he went for it. She had been tightlipped about her family, but she imagined that the impression she let form was not a positive one, and she did not want to leave that open to challenge. Her mother could be gracious when she wanted to be, or at least gracious enough to make Leila seem callous for staying away. Alternatively, her mother could be a font of embarrassing anecdotes and secrets accidentally-on-purpose divulged, of tiny barbs or open condescension depending on what suited her mood. The possibilities were endless.

After clearing baggage claim, the shuttle, and the Enterprise lot, Leila drove out to an AirB&B, the I-40 traffic seeming positively quaint compared to her daily commute up north. Maggie was only thirty minutes away, but her house held the chaos of kids and dogs. Leila had let her childhood friendships wilt, and staying with her mother was a no-go, so a rental in town seemed the best option. She could freshen up, take in an early dinner at the sushi spot that opened up since her last visit, maybe drive out to Arcana if she wanted to make a night out of it. Either way, she owed herself a bit of fun as the next day promised none of it.

***

The world, it seemed to Leila, was shrinking. Microbreweries and microroasteries, some financed with microloans, had proliferated since she’d been gone. Leila was generally a fan – who didn’t like more local options? – but she felt for anyone who stood to be out of a job if the area passed the point of one artisanal coffeeshop too many. She did not think that the cafe where she met Maggie for a half-reunion, half-debriefing was that tipping point even if it was overpriced and trying too hard to seem cute.

Maggie was a mess. Sleep-deprived and anxious, she rambled about the house needing a new roof, her youngest starting on an IEP, the crazy man running for governor. Their mother’s injury and feared decline were only the newest layers of the stress cake. Occasionally, Maggie would catch herself, apologize, and throw a question Leila’s or give her a moment to speak. Ten years ago, Leila would not have been shy about telling Maggie what, in her estimation, she should have done and should be doing. Now, she tried her best to just listen. A sympathetic ear, a hug, and a latte were the least she could offer.

“Mom’s looking forward to seeing you,” Maggie told her once their conversation had settled. “For as down as she’s been, she cut all that ‘Why bother?’ talk when she heard you were coming.”

Leila considered this while licking a stray puff of whipped cream from the side of her little finger. “Maybe she misses the idea of me more than the actual me,” she said.

“Just give her a chance,” Maggie said. “Please.”

Leila nodded, wondering if her assent could be a lie if she didn’t actually say it out loud.

***

The street was as she remembered it. Some houses had gotten makeovers, others boasted Under Contract signs in their yards, and she suspected there were fewer trees, but it otherwise seemed untouched by the world’s calamities. Leila eased her rental into the driveway behind her mom’s aging silver Buick, a car that she suspected would soon be sold. She parked, sent Trevor a “Wish me luck” text, got out, and walked up the pavestone path to the door. If she still had a key, its whereabouts were long forgotten, so she knocked and waited.

“Just a moment!” came the strained reply. Had Maggie not filled her in, Leila would have wondered if there was something performative about the time it took her mother to reach the door, a heavy clomp marking her progress, a spectacle that could have been avoided had Leila bothered to ask Maggie for her key.

The door opened, and Leila was hit with a wave of shock and pity that she instantly tried to mask. Her mother’s hair, iron grey when last they met, had thinned and whitened. She seemed both bigger and smaller at the same time, shorter and doughier, a resized image in the flesh. She leaned uneasily on a quad cane, and as she gripped it, Leila could see the thick veins in her hands.

“It’s good to see you, dear,” she said. “Come in, come in.”

Leila did so wordlessly, grateful she wasn’t asked to proffer a hug. I don’t owe you this, she thought. I don’t. I don’t. And yet she felt what she felt just the same.

The inside of the house, like the street that enveloped it, seemed unchanged. Leila recognized the sofa and the recliner that had been her dad’s favorite, both still intact. The same Bless This House needlepoint hung on the wall by the stairs. Only a thin layer of dust on the television cabinet – her mother had been a militant cleaner – betrayed a break with the status quo.

Both women sat on the sofa, Leila trying not to wince as her mother eased herself slowly, slowly down. Part of her wanted to reach out and guide her. Another part of her still remembered.

“So how have you been?” her mother asked.

“Fine,” Leila said, which was in her estimation three-quarters true.

“Good, good. And are you seeing someone?”

Somewhat reluctantly, Leila told her about Trevor and awaited the inevitable commentary. A musician? But what does he really do? she imagined her mother saying. Or, You’re being careful, aren’t you dear? I’m in no condition for a rushed wedding. Or maybe even, Well, at least it is a man this time.

What her mother actually said was “That’s nice,” and Leila wasn’t sure how to take it.

“And how about you, mom? How are you with…all this?”

“Managing,” she said. “One day at a time. God willing.”

God willing, Leila remembered, had been one of her mother’s favorites. They’ll run that awful man out of office, God willing. A school? Never again, God willing. You’ll come to your senses one day, God willing.

They then fell into a silence that Leila would have relished in her younger years but now found unnerving. Her mother had never been one to shy away from offering an opinion no matter how unwanted, not in her own home and not to her own child. And yet she seemed to be doing exactly that.

“You know,” her mother finally said, placing a hand on her knee. “Your father and I, we just wanted what was best.”

“For you or for me?” Leila asked, watching her hand retreat when she posed the question.

The silence returned, and Leila saw the rest of the visit play out in her head. More pleasantries and more tongues held. A nice lunch: salads somewhere with a patio, her mother insisting she was fine to go out. Goodbyes and promises to stay in touch. She’d be back down for the funeral.

*****

Zac Goldstein holds an MFA in fiction from the University of North Carolina-Greensboro. His work has appeared in The Jewish Literary Journal, storySouth, Heater, and Jersey Devil Press. A New Jersey native, he lives and teaches in North Carolina.