Part 10 (1/2)

I can feel my eyes narrowing. ”And you think I can help you out with that?”

”Claudia, dear. Please don't get defensive.”

”I'm not,” I say, well aware of how very defensive I sound.

”I want to capture your pain.”

”I'm not in pain.”

”Yes you are, Claudia. You're hurting over Ben. I heard about Tucker,” she says.

”I'm fine,” I say.

”No, young lady, you are not fine. You are not fine at all.”

Jess makes a face as if she's bracing for a traffic accident and then exits, likely to call Trey.

”You are hurting right here , Claudia,” she says, crossing her hands and placing them tenderly over her heart. ”I'm your mother. I know these things.”

”Mother. I really can't deal with this right now.”

She purses her lips, stares at me and shakes her head. Then she loads a fresh roll of film, fiddles with her monstrous lens, and raises her camera to shoot me.

I put my hand in front of my face, palm out. ”Stop it, Mother.”

Snap. Snap.

”Mother!” I say. Then I gather myself, recognizing that my mother probably loves having a pained and angry Claudia, and say more calmly, ”Why not photograph Daphne?”

I feel a bit guilty for the suggestion, but then consider that it was likely Daphne who spilled the beans. Besides, Daphne has a much higher tolerance for my mother. They talk nearly every day.

”Because of her infertility, you mean?” my mother asks, as if it is only a minor travail rather than a heartbreaking ordeal.

”It's not the same. There is no grief like heartbreak.”

I want to refute what my mother has just said, but I can't, so I just say, ”I'm not heartbroken.”

”Yes. You are.”

”What about Maura? She and Scott are in a constant state of turmoil,” I say, figuring that I might as well throw my other sister under the bus, on the off chance that it was she who spilled the beans about Tucker.

”Maura's not in love with Scott,” my mother says. ”They never had what you and Ben had. You and Ben were so in love. And I suspect you still are,” she says, raising her camera again. She squints, zooms in with a flick of her wrist.

Snap. Snap.

”Mother. Enough.”

Snap. Snap. Snap.

”I mean it, Mother!” I shout, and as she stands to capture another angle of my angst-ridden profile, I feel incredible sadness commingling with my anger. I put my face in my hands, telling myself not to cry, telling myself not to prove my mother right. When I look up, I see Jess in the doorway with a questioning look: Do you need me ? I shake my head, thinking that I don't need anyone. Jess retreats, looking worried. I watch my mother load another roll of film and sling her camera strap back over her head.

I am back to being only enraged as I say, ”Don't you dare take my picture again. I'm your daughter. Not your project.”

My voice is eerily calm, but I also hear something in my voice that almost scares me. I wonder if my mother can hear it, if she's listening at all.

I suddenly know that if this woman, who happened to give birth to me almost thirty-five years ago, takes my picture in this moment and seeks to benefit from my grief, I will be done with her forever. I will not speak to her again. I will refuse to see her under any circ.u.mstance, deathbed scenarios included.

Of course I've had this thought many times before, but I have never followed through. I always cave, not for her sake, nor because I need or want a mother, but because I don't want my mother to define who I am, and not talking to her would do that in some bizarre sense. Whenever I read of a celebrity estranged from her mother (Meg Ryan, Jennifer Aniston, Demi Moore; I know these women by heart), I think it says something about the mother and the daughter. No matter how atrocious the mother's offense, it still marks the daughter as unforgiving, self-righteous, cold.

My mother is a nuisance and a trial, but she is not important enough to write off in any bold terms. Still, despite my general feelings about avoiding total estrangement, I have the sense that I am at a crossroads. This time I mean business. If I can get a divorce from a man I love, I can cut off this woman.

I watch my mother furrow her brow and give me her standard look of sympathy. Her best funeral expression. I know what you're going through. I'm here for you . All of that bulls.h.i.+t. She has a deficiency of empathy, even for her own daughters, but has mastered the art of appearing to care. She is a fraud. People outside her family might find her engaging, intriguing, compa.s.sionate. Sometimes she even fools Daphne. But I know the truth about her.

My rage gives way, in small part, to curiosity. How bad is my mother? Will she take my picture again, even after I've come to the brink of tears? Even after I warned her in no uncertain terms? I almost want her to take one final photo. I almost want this to be our defining mother-daughter moment. I watch her as she freezes, then lowers her camera to her lap. n.o.body ever stops my mother from doing what she wants, and I can't help feeling triumphant. And very surprised.

She presses her lips together and says, ”I'm sorry.”

I am both relieved and disappointed by her apology. I can't think of a single time she's ever apologized to me for anything, despite scores of occasions she owed me one. At least she's never apologized without blaming someone else or adding a but . I don't want to let her off the hook so easily, but I am completely drained. So I say, ”Okay, Mother.”

”But is it okay?” she asks.

I roll my eyes and say yes.

We are both silent as she awkwardly packs up her camera equipment. When it is all stowed at her feet, she looks at me and says another quiet but sincere, ”I'm sorry.”

I look away, but can still feel her eyes on me. I can feel how much she wants me to say something. Absolve her. Embrace her.

I do none of these things. I just sit there in silence.

A long while later, my mother says, ”I need to tell you something, Claudia.”

”What's that?” I ask her, expecting something frivolous. The sun will come out tomorrow. The sky is darkest before dawn. Look for the silver lining . Why are there so many trite expressions involving the sky?

But my mother clears her throat and says, ”I want to tell you something I've never told you before.”

”Go ahead,” I say to my mother as I see Jess's shadow in the doorway. She isn't really eavesdropping; she's just saving me the trouble of repeating everything later.

”You were an accident,” my mother says. ”An unplanned pregnancy.”

”I know that, Mother,” I say.

She never tried to hide the fact, it was something I knew at a very young age. She'd tell people right in front of me, ”I thought I was done. But Claudia here was an 'accident.'” She'd whisper the word accident , but of course I heard it every time. And even if I hadn't heard all the whispers, I certainly heard her when she shouted the word at me after I told her I was boycotting her lavish wedding to Dwight and that she could shove my lavender bridesmaid dress where the sun don't s.h.i.+ne. (My favorite expression involving the sky.) ”Please,” she says now. ”Let me finish.”

I shrug, thinking that she sure has a h.e.l.l of a way of apologizing.

”So you weren't planned,” she continues. Then she raises one finger in the air as if poised to make a grand proclamation. ”But just the other day, I was reading the acknowledgments in one of your novels. The one about the guy with the harelip?”