Light Conversation

 "I worry about you sometimes," my mother says from across the table. 

She had driven down and we went to get lunch. She does once in a while, and we do. We talk over whatever our family is up to. Plans for the future. She is looking for the perfect property in the woods near water and away from everything and I think it's funny that that is also my dream. To be alone in the forest. To live and slowly die in a home that wants me, painting, reading, taking care of my small corner of the world. Drive into town once a month for groceries and to sing at an open mic. Each time she describes her property, I think it's funny.

I always try to keep the conversation light. We both do. She had caught me off guard then.

"I'm okay."

"How long has it been since you came back?"

"A year and a half."

"Look how well you've done in a year and a half. You've come a long way."

"I got very lucky. You know, the apartment, this job. It's not me. I just got lucky." I take a bite and with my finger push a meatball back into the sandwich.

"Maybe. You should take more credit. I'm proud of you. You should be too."

I'm having a rough time lately. I was okay for a little while but not anymore and when she says that I can feel a pressure in my eyes and I look away. Stare at a large neon "S" affixed to the wall near the counter. It woudn't look right to put my sunglasses on now. It's a tell. I stare at the S.

"Are you still in therapy?" she asks.

"Yeah. Taking my medication. Doing all the things I need to do." 

"Good."

I nod. Take another bite. I'm almost finished. I ate too quickly and I wonder if it's because some part of me wants to just get home and hide. 

I know I have to try to stop over-analyzing every moment and word and look. Even sitting here, eating with my mother who is showing a legitimate and justified concern, I am oscillating between total detachment and running math on what these words really mean. Why is she telling me she's proud? Because she isn't. How could she be? I am nothing. Wasted potential. Wasted years. Wasted opportunities. She could only see me as the alcoholic. The addict. Desperate for attention. Unmotivated. Lazy. Stunted. Delusional. She can't be proud. The math doesn't work.

I've been told it's projection, and maybe it is, but I've been right so many times. Even if it is projection, it doesn't mean I'm wrong. 

She looks at me and I am ashamed.

"I have a lot to be grateful for," I say. "I think about it a lot."

"You do. It's important to remember that. You have a good home. A good car. A good job. Do you have groceries? Do you need help getting groceries?"

I am ashamed. I look away again. 

"No. Thank you though. I appreciate it. I have food. I have some money."

"Okay. I just want to make sure. While I'm in town, if you need anything, I want to help."

"I know, Mom. Thank you."

"You know you can always call me, right? Always, but I mean, you know, if you need to. When..."

She's having trouble saying it. I've done this to her. 

"I know. I'm okay. I promise."

She takes a bite of her food and she keeps looking at me. "Do you have people you can call?"

"Yes." It takes me a second to figure out if I'm lying. 

I'm not.

"Yeah, I have a support system. I have one or two people I can talk to. That I would talk to."

"Good. That's important." She takes a few seconds. "I just worry sometimes."

"I know. But I'm okay. I promise." 

She gives a small smile and I try to read it. She knows she's done as much as she can do. Said all she can. I don't know if she believes me, the smile says she doesn't, but maybe it's projection. 

"Your niece doesn't want to go to Columbia," she says. "She saw the campus and just said 'no'."

"That's it? Why?"

"Who knows. She says she wants to go to Oneonta instead."

The tone has shifted. We're out of the forest now. Into the sun.

"That's ridiculous. I'm texting her," I say.

"What are you going to say?"

"Go to Columbia you dork."

"She's not going to have any idea what you're talking about."

"I'll say it twice."

We finish our food. We talk about schools and futures and plans. We throw away our garbage, wipe the table. Leave. 

She drops me off at my apartment. We hug and she kisses me on the cheek. 

"Thanks for having lunch with me," she says.

"Thank you, Mom. I appreciate it."

She gets in her truck and as she leaves I go inside. Hide.