I didn’t say anything, not knowing whether her statement was a compliment or criticism.
“But I guess you didn’t really have a choice,” she said. “I made that choice for you.”
I stared at the black edge of the water, trying to find the waves. “Yeah, probably.”
She shifted in the chair and I felt her eyes leave me.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I know,” I said.
“And I’m sorry that I’m always saying I’m sorry,” she said, her voice catching just slightly. “I wanted it to be different. I always did, but I could never get it right.” She paused. “I’d look at you and know that I was screwing up, but I just couldn’t fix it. I wanted to, you may not have known that, but I did.” She turned back to me. “And then you were eighteen and gone. My tough little boy out of my house and out of my life.”
I looked at her, not necessarily surprised by the words, but maybe by the sincerity. I remembered leaving the house the summer after I graduated from high school. I managed to talk my way into the dorms early at San Diego State, negotiating a move-in right after the Fourth of July. I’d taken two surfboards and a duffel bag full of clothes. I left the rest behind, not needing or wanting anything else out of that house or that life. I’d seen her twice since that day, both times inadvertent and uncomfortable.
“I am sorry, Noah,” she said, her voice catching again. “I really am.”
“I know.”
“I’m not asking to come back into your life,” she said. Then she laughed, the lines around her eyes tightening. “That’s a lie. That’s exactly what I’m asking for. But not all at once. I don’t want to come in and try to make up for lost time, for the years that I failed you. I can’t and I know that.” She stopped for a moment, then reached across the table and put her hand on my arm. “I just want to know my son again.”
I looked at her hand on my arm, surprised that I hadn’t pulled away. Her nails were neatly manicured and it was one of those obscure things that takes you back to childhood. I had loved the smell of nail polish as a kid and I remembered sitting next to her as a seven- or eight-year-old while she painted her nails.
“I can’t do the drinking thing,” I said, still looking at her hand. “I just can’t.”
“I haven’t had a drink since you brought me home the other day,” she said.
It wasn’t defensive and it wasn’t angry. She was just letting me know. And I’m not sure whether it was the clarity in her eyes or the sincerity of what I was hearing or the memory of the nail polish.
But I believed her.
I moved my eyes from her hand to her face. When she had come up the alley, I thought she looked as young as she always had. But up close, I could see the fine wrinkles on her face, the faint gray in her hair, and the exhaustion of someone much older in too many ways.
She wouldn’t be there forever.
“Alright,” I said.
She tilted her head, tiny tears in the corners of her eyes. “Alright?”
If she could try to give up the alcohol, I could try to give up the bitterness.
“The bruises,” I said. “I got them from a guy named Mo. And he’s the reason we’re at this restaurant rather than my place.”
I saw the tension that she’d been carrying in her shoulders since she arrived slowly inch away. She blinked twice, like she was making sure that whatever invisible barrier had been between us was gone. “Mo.”
I nodded and spent the rest of the night letting my mother get to know her son again.
Thirty-one
We walked back down Mission to where Carolina had parked her car and she left a little before eleven, before either of us had time to say or do something stupid and ruin the evening. I told her I’d call her in a day or two. No hugs, no kisses, no stiff gestures or insincere affection between us. Just small smiles, quick nods, and the hope that maybe we could figure out how to be something close to mother and son again.
I slept well for what seemed like the first time in months-my need for sleep finally overruling any concerns I had about skinheads, gang members, or Plutos-and woke up early with a clear head. I hadn’t checked in on Rachel in a while and called the hospital. She answered on the third ring. I was relieved to hear that she was doing fine-her shoulder was still sore, but she was healing. She told me that she was leaving later in the day-her parents were coming to pick her up and she was going to stay with them for a little while. I gave her my cell-phone number and told her to call me if she needed anything and then said goodbye.
I sat on my sofa for a few minutes, wondering if I could’ve done anything else for Rachel. I still didn’t understand how she was connected to everything, what she’d done to make someone shoot her. The more I thought about it, the more confused I got. Frustrated by the lack of any concrete answers, I finally gave up, pulled on my trunks, grabbed the Ron Jon, and headed out for the water.
The water was smooth and the waves were solid, rolling in at regular intervals, letting me work up a rhythm of riding and paddling back out, my muscles loosening with each movement. I was sharp, gliding down the faces, snapping through the lips, floating on the tops. It was effortless and it felt good. I lasted for about an hour beneath a clear sky and a bright early morning sun and I couldn’t help but smile as I walked back up the sand to my place.
I showered, dressed, and called Carter.
He answered with a grunt.
“You up?” I asked.
“Am now.”
“You missed good water this morning.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“Dammit.”
“Definitely sucks for you. Can you be over here in about an hour?”
I heard him stifle a yawn. “For the right price.”
“Breakfast will do?”
“Affirmative.”
“I need you to bring a couple things,” I said.
I told him what they were.
The line buzzed for a moment, then he said, “I’m assuming you’ll explain when I get there?”
“I will.”
“Breakfast better be hot.”
Forty-five minutes later I was wrapping the chorizo and scrambled eggs into tortillas when Carter strode in the door.
“I’ll assume there are at least three of those for me,” he said, his electric-white hair still wet, a wrinkled yellow T-shirt and long cargo shorts covering his frame. “I could eat a fat man.”
“Fortunately, the fat men will be safe today,” I said, placing two of the burritos on a plate and sliding it across the counter. “Two more for you when you’re ready.”
He sat down at the kitchen table, wolfed one down in three bites, and was halfway through the second when he asked, “How was last night?”
I sat down across from him. “Good.”
“Just good?”
I thought about it. “Yeah.”
The second burrito was gone and he walked into the kitchen to grab a third. “Yelling, screaming, any of that?”
“None.”
He came back and sat down again. “Wow. Sounds like you acted like an adult.”
“Shut up.”
He shrugged and started in on the burrito. I knew he was right, but I didn’t want to discuss my mother. If I
