Free At the Water's Edge by Harper Bliss Page A

leaving out any criticism of our parents, and, before giving myself the chance to doubt—clearly remembering Kay’s hand on my thigh and her warm, supportive response—hit send.
    Of course, Nina is not Kay. I think of Kay’s confession in the woods, about her teenage crush on my sister. I don’t allow myself to acknowledge the pang of jealousy that shivers up my spine.
    My phone, which I left on my night stand before leaving for Kay’s the night before, only now pops up in my field of vision. Dr. Hakim would be proud of me for not being glued to it permanently. I have one missed call and a text message from my mother.

    I would really like to come and see you at the cabin some time. Whenever suits you. Love, Mom.

    It’s only a short message but by the time I’m done reading it, the screen of my phone is a blurry mess behind my tears. And I know that as long as I can’t read a text message from my mother without crying, I have a very long way to go.
    Physically, I feel only the tiniest bit hungover, but emotionally, I feel very tender. Exposed. My secret is out. I’m not sure I can face my mother today, but a text message like that is as clear an invitation as I will ever get.
    My mother, who used to be my hero—and whose fall from grace I witnessed with an incurable ache in my soul. I practiced the conversation I should have with her countless times in my head, and with Dr. Hakim, whose limitless patience, I suspect, is what makes him one of the best in his field. Most nights, I fall asleep reciting the words I should say. I know myself well enough to realize they’ll never leave my lips the way I intend them to. That connection—from brain to tongue—has never worked very well for me.
    It’s always easier to not do something difficult. I have a note on my phone containing many of Dr. Hakim’s parting words. I guess this one applies. I’ll need to talk to my mother sooner or later—after having put it off for about twenty years. It’s why I came here in the first place. I text her back, saying I will be at the cabin all afternoon. Immediately after I’ve sent it, a knot forms deep in my stomach.
    My mother and I never talk. On the few occasions that I made it back to Northville since leaving for college, I always went out of my way to make sure I never found myself alone in a room with her. I call her maybe once a month, the conversation dead after a few minutes, because, from behind the walls we have both put up, we have nothing to say to each other.
    * * *
    As soon as I lay eyes on her, it strikes me again that, at least physically, she’s not the same woman anymore. Emaciated frame. Eyes as dull as the blackness I know so well. Face puffed up in all the wrong places because of too many pills she shouldn’t be taking.
    We don’t hug, the courtesy embrace reserved for my return used up days ago. After she has sat down in one of the porch chairs, all I see is a woman gone wrong. A life wasted on all the wrong emotions. Hate. Bitterness. A twisted sense of duty.
    I did it all for you and your sister. Not that I expect any gratitude in return , she once said. The familiar hint of blame in her voice, a hard edge in her tone that clings to it like a stain that can never be washed out.
    As I pour us both a cup of coffee, I know that pity should not be the primary emotion bubbling to the surface when laying eyes on my own mother, but it’s what I feel anyway. At least it’s better than anger—the reigning sentiment in the Goodman house for as long as I can remember.
    We both sit there, not knowing where to start. Even small talk seems too much, and neither one of us is very good at it.
    “I’ve, uh, been seeing a psychiatrist for a few months now,” I begin to say. “We both agreed it would be a good idea for me to come here.”
    “Oh, Ella, just tell me one thing.” I know what she’s going to ask before the words leave her mouth. “Was it my fault?” The courage it must have taken her to