Free Rain Dance by Joy DeKok Page B

of her voice the day she requested that I use her first name stood out. I prefer you call me Eve at all times now, Stacie. Then you won’t slip in professional situations. I was twelve at the time.
    She chose to overlook my mistake but I couldn’t miss the sarcastic edge when she responded, “Lovely.”
    I’d forgotten this kind of elegance was her daily experience.
    When she spoke, her voice washed over me like cold water. “There’s an opening in my office that will make maximum use of your education and research skills. The position includes a generous wage and the opportunity to make important connections for the future that will give you considerable advantages in most political circles. If you insist on staying with your husband, you can commute.”
    I watched her scan the room, one shapely brow raised. That was part of her job—to seek out opportunities to recognize a constituent, shake a hand, compliment a potential donor, or catch a competitor on what she considered her turf. Something she saw didn’t pass her inspection and a frown crossed her brow. I pitied the manager.
    In my lap, my hands grew damp, and I bunched the linen napkin into a tight ball. My pulse throbbed and a line of sweat broke out across my upper lip .
    Why do I always feel this way? She’s my mother and will understand.
    I took a drink of ice water. My shaking hand caused the ice cubes to tinkle a bit louder than normal. They sounded like church bells in my head. Setting the goblet down, I shook out my napkin and touched it to my lip, wiping away the perspiration.
    “Eve, I need to tell you something.”
    “Of course. What?”
    “Mike and I are separated.”
    A slight smile curved her lips. “I’m not surprised. What is his problem?”
    She irked me, but the waiter arrived with our food before I could reply. How can my mother gloat when my life is breaking apart?
    Tiny pink shrimp nestled into a bed of greens with vinaigrette dressing on the side. Our politically correct lunch. No woman could be too thin or too powerful.
    Eve sipped white wine while I gulped ice water. My empty stomach gurgled. We ate in silence. I finished first—I mean really finished. Only the olive oil I couldn’t get to coat my lettuce was left shimmering on the plate.
    “You shouldn’t devour your food, Stacie. You are an adult—you don’t need to clean your plate. Manners are an important part of success in the political world. I trained you better than this.”
    “It was a very small salad, and I was hungry.”
    “A little self-control goes a long way. You do, however, look thinner. New diet?”
    “No. I haven’t felt well lately.”
    “Have you seen a doctor?”
    Her little bit of concern undid me. Hope rose in my chest.
    Maybe she really wants to know.
    “I’m . . . recovering from an abortion.”
    She stabbed a shrimp with her fork, and I jumped. “What do you mean recovering?”
    “I hemorrhaged. It takes time to recover from the loss of blood, and I’m a little depressed.”
    “When did you have it done?”
    “A couple of weeks ago. I can’t sleep or focus at work. Mike is upset because I didn’t tell him before I went ahead with it.”
    We talked about “it.” A nameless entity. A legal right shrouded in shame.
    “I didn’t raise you to be weak and out of control. It’s a simple procedure. You need to get over it.”
    “Did you ever have an abortion?”
    “Of course not.”
    Her sarcasm and disdain chafed me, but I couldn’t seem to stop confiding in her. “There’s more. I feel sad. Empty.”
    “You need a change. A new job—a new place to live. A city with a pulse.”
    “I need Mike.”
    As soon as the words left my mouth, I trembled at the power they held over me. When I glanced at Eve, my trembling turned to shakes. I watched, fascinated, as she set her fork down beside her plate, wiped the corners of her mouth, and folded her napkin, placing it with exaggerated care beside her plate. I was secretly glad I’d