One night—after a long period of silence between us—I asked what I might have done or said to make her angry with me.She sighed and said,“Mom,you haven’t done anything.It’s fine.”It is fine—just distant.
Somehow in the past we had always found some way to connect.When Allie was a toddler,I would go to the day-care center after work.I’d find a quiet spot and she would nurse—our eyes locked together,reconnecting with each other.
In middle school,when other mothers were already lamenting the estrangement they felt with their adolescent daughters,I hit upon a solution:rescue raids.I would show up occasionally at school,sign her out of class and take her somewhere—out to lunch,to the movies,once for a long walk on the beach.It may sound irresponsible,but it kept us close when other mothers and daughters were floundering.We talked about everything on those outings—outings we kept secret from family and friends.
When she started high school,I’d get up with her in the morning to make her a sandwich for lunch,and we’d silently drink a cup of tea together before the 6:40 bus came.
A couple of times during her senior year I went into her room at night,the light off,but before she went to sleep.I’d sit on the edge of her bed,and she’d tell me about problems:a teacher who lowered her grade because she was too shy to talk in class,a boy who teased her,a friend who had started smoking.Her voice,coming out of the darkness,was young and questioning.
A few days later I’d hear her on the phone,repeating some of the things I had said,things she had adopted for her own.
But now we are having two kinds of partings.I want the romanticized version,where we go to lunch and lean across the table and say how much we will miss each other.I want smiles through tears,bittersweet moments of reminiscence and the chance to offer some last bits of wisdom.
But as she prepares to depart,Allie’s feelings have gone under ground.When I reach to touch her arm,she pulls away.She turns down every invitation I extend.She lies on her bed,reading Emily Dickinson until I say l have always loved Emily Dickinson,and then she closes the book.