Free A Simple Distance by K. E. Silva Page B

the end of an unbearable summer.
    It came, his palm that night, hard and fast and whole, into my chest; only after his face was all I could see, as if that was the important thing: that I knew it was him knocking me off balance, up against the kitchen wall.
    Zzt, zzt, zzt , went the light, my mother and I marching like mosquitoes into his path.
    I know she was relieved when I finally went to college. Early admission. She had already given up one man for me; was not about to lose another. Not voluntarily, at least.
    The month I left, Harold kicked my mother out and kept the house she half paid for. When I visited her that Christmas, she was living in a one-bedroom apartment in Palo Alto, working in a department store selling clothes, again, to her better-off neighbors.
    Years later, my mom would pay a lawyer thirty-three percent of the settlement she got from the lawsuit, which in the end was less than she’d originally put into Harold’s house. But at least they didn’t go to trial, because then she’d have had to pay her lawyer forty percent. The money left over was just enough for her to buy a brand new jeep and ship the entirety of her belongings back to Baobique. I helped her pack, just before starting law school.
    The thing that frustrated me most about my mom was that she never learned, she didn’t pay attention when life left her clues. I told her when she moved back to Baobique, started fixing up Godwyn, I told her point blank, so she couldn’t misunderstand: Remember what happened with Harold. Don’t do anything with Godwyn until it’s yours. But she never listened.
    * * *
    As I pulled into the drive on Mira Vista, the stranger with the gentle telephone voice opened the front door. He waited patiently for me on his porch as I cut the engine, smiled wide and fake, and stepped into the cold morning air toward what was once our home.
    From the top of the stairs, the man smiled back, whispered loud, but not loud enough to break into voice. She’s fallen asleep on the couch.
    After I woke my mom and shepherded her into the passenger seat, the man looked deep into my eyes, placed his hand on my shoulder, and confided, My mother had Alzheimer’s, too. It’s okay.
    I looked at him. And left. Waited until we were safely in the car. What, in God’s name, was that? That man thought you’d lost your mind, Mom. And right now, I’m inclined to agree.
    She puckered her lips in disgust, sucked her teeth, and looked out the passenger window. No one is ever on my side. I feel I have no family left, she said.
    We took the alternate highway back to San Francisco. Edgewood Road. San Mateo. Half Moon Bay. Designer houses perched on their very own crests, peering past the highway to the reservoir, and the other way, to the bay. The wind combed the hair of the matted perennials thick, thick along the hillsides, just like in Baobique, the knit of the tree cover buffering our anger.
    * * *
    As soon as we walked through the door to my studio, she was at it again, picking up the phone, dialing long distance straight to Baobique, straight to Granny.
    Mama, it’s me … I need to know when I can come back home …
    I couldn’t hear my grandmother on the other end of the cables, fiber optic, buried far below her ocean floor, that brought her words to Oakland, the receiver pressed against my mother’s ear with a hand beginning to tremble. But my mom started to beg: We’ll do anything you want …
    That did it. I grabbed the phone from her limp wrist, demanded an explanation from the other end. Granny, this is Jean. I need to know what’s happening. What is my mom talking about? Why can’t she come home?
    The receiver to my ear, I heard her even through the distance. As skilled a politician as Uncle George ever was, Granny ignored my questions and answered instead with her own agenda. Apparently, the two of you don’t care that you have dragged this family’s name through the dirt. But I do. And I will not stand by to see you