Free Unbound by Georgia Bell

was up last
week.
    My
father pulled a chair up to the table.
    “When’s
the bike fair, Rabbit?”
    “Friday.”
I said the word like an accusation.
    “That
gives us three days to get you riding your bike without those training wheels.
That’s a lot of practise, don’t you think?”
    “But
I can’t.” The tears began building and my throat ached, but I was determined
not to let her see me cry.
    “Sure
you can. Listen, pack up your schoolwork while I go get changed and we’ll
practice before dinner.”
    My
eyes on the table, I nodded as my father left the room.
    Sitting
in silence, I refused to look up, knowing my mother still stood in the doorway.
    “Rachel,”
her voice was gentle, “none of the other second graders have training wheels.
Don’t you want to be like the other kids?”
    Schooling
myself to statue- like stillness, I counted by threes in my head.
    “Suit
yourself,” she sighed and went back into the kitchen.
    *           *           *           *           *
    Almost
all of my childhood memories were of my mother in her scrubs. She would come
home from her shifts in the ER exhausted, but after a short nap, she would
tackle the laundry or housecleaning before showering or changing. She had
always seemed grimly efficient, taking little joy in either work or home, but
accomplishing the tasks that were required of her.
    My
father would “help” by taking me outside to play. We built tree forts and splashed
in the creek that ran though our backyard while my mother made our beds. My
relationship with her had never been easy. Whereas my father was unabashed in
his affection, my mother, like me, was more reserved, introverted. She wasn’t
cold, only more distant, and as a child, I hadn’t the ability or the awareness
to know the difference. When I think of her back then, it was as if some
transparent barrier separated her from us, allowing us to see her and hear her,
but never truly feel her presence.
    Older
now, I understood better how deeply my brother’s death affected her. She never
truly rejoined my father and me, after he died. What must it have been like for
her to be the outsider in our family of three, when instead, there should have
been four? Did she imagine that if Jacob had survived, he would have been hers,
as I was my father’s? Saddened, I realized that my mother’s life, like my own,
had been shaped by death, first by my brother’s, and then by my father’s.
    Stomach
heavy with guilt, I finally recognized this link between us where I had long
assumed none existed. Thinking of her, I dialled her cell, wanting in some way
to reach out to her, to feel connected.
    She
answered on the third ring, sounding harried. “Hi Rachel, what’s up?”
    “Nothing...just
calling to say hello,” I said, trying to sound casual. It didn’t work.
    “Is
everything okay?” her tone became worried.
    “Everything’s
fine, Mom, really.   I just haven’t seen
you in awhile.”
    “Oh,
okay then.” The silence stretched. “Any plans for tonight?”
      “It’s Friday, Lacey’s coming over.”
    “Oh,
no dates?” she asked, “Have you spoken to Adam?”
    My
shoulders tensed. My mother had been pushing Adam on me since the tenth grade
after he had called once to ask about homework. Like a dog with a bone, it
didn’t seem to register when I tried to tell her we were just friends now.
    “No,
I haven’t talked to Adam in months.” I tried to keep the exasperation to a
minimum.
    “Okay,
just wondering,” her voice was high with pretended indifference. “He’s really a
nice boy, Rachel,” she added lightly, but I could hear her disappointment.
    I
refused to take the bait. This conversation was very old.
    More
silence.
    “Did
you see Alex this week?” she asked.
    “Yes,”
I said quietly, annoyed now. “I’m still seeing her.”
    “Is
it working? Are you feeling better?” I suppressed another sigh. My mother had
somehow gotten the idea that my