The First Time She Drowned (18 page)

I COME IN
still floating from my day with Chris to find Zoey carefully watering her plants. “Look!” she says, holding up the small pot with the broken cactus arm. “It’s growing!”

“Is it?” I say. From where I’m standing, it’s hard to tell.

“A little bit! Anyway, I’m dying to hear everything,” she says as I check the mirror to make sure there’s no mascara down my face or lipstick on my teeth that might retroactively ruin the date I’ve just had. “But first, your mother called. We’re having dinner with her at her hotel.” She walks over to her closet and holds up two hangers of clothes. “Which outfit do you like better?”

I point to the first. “I thought this was her last day with Pete.”

Zoey reexamines both outfits and chucks the one I picked back into the closet. “Apparently, she thinks we’re a better time.” She bends down to forage for shoes amid the chaos of strewn clothes and then glances up at me. “What?”

“Nothing! I’m . . . just surprised.” I’m still processing that my mother has actually chosen me over Pete, that she has chosen me over anyone, really. I turn over the thought that maybe things really are different now, even as my brain struggles with the adjustment, wants to throw doubts at my hope. I push them away. Tell myself I’m finally getting a chance at normalcy,
to be that girl whose mother comes to visit and takes her and her roommate to dinner and shares in her experiences. Still, I’m nervous.

“Anyway, I told her we’d head over as soon as you got back.”

“Okay, but I need to rinse off and do my makeup first.”

“What do you need makeup for? It’s your mother.”

Exactly,
I think as I disappear into the bathroom with my beauty supplies.

• • •

Zoey drives the five minutes to the hotel while I text my mother on Zoey’s cell to let her know we’re on our way.

“I really hope you like each other,” I say as I light a cigarette and take a deep drag to soothe my nerves. “I want this to be perfect.”

Zoey looks at me strangely. “I’m sure we will,” she says.

I roll down the window and the smell of the night ocean rushes into the car, making me think of walking on waves, of Chris. The wind is in my hair. I smile at my reflection in the side-view mirror.

The restaurant is dark, lit only by candle, with heavy curtains and leather chairs. The coat check smells of expensive perfume, mysterious and adult, and being there with Zoey I am conscious of the two of us standing on the precipice of a widening world, stepping into it, trying it on.

My mother hasn’t arrived yet, so we move to the bar.

“Two Diet Cokes, please,” I say to the bartender.

“With rum,” Zoey adds, and we wait, braced.

The bartender looks entirely bored with us, places two rum and Diets on the bar and does not ask for ID. Zoey and I exchange sly smiles.

“All right,” she says. “Let’s hear it. Tell me everything!”

I laugh and look into my drink, pleased and embarrassed. I imagine my mother having a conversation like this all those years ago after her first date with Pete.

“Okay, so first of all, he takes me to this deserted parking lot—”

“Oooh, I like it already!” Zoey says.

I give her a look. “So I’m—”

“Wait! Fast-forward a sec. Did you kiss him or not?”

I take a long slow sip of my drink to draw out the suspense. I consider the truth, which is that I was so chickenshit, I leaped out of Chris’s car before he could try, half certain that I inadvertently showed him my underwear as I fled.

“I don’t kiss on the first date,” I tell her instead.

“Oh, that’s, like, your rule?” Zoey says, rolling her eyes at me. “Fair enough.” She takes a sip of her drink and scans the crowd. “I also have a rule. No first dates before sex.”

My eyes open wide.

“Kidding!” she says. “Well, sort of.” Then she laughs so loudly at her own joke that other people turn to look at us. I try to act like I have no idea who this girl is sitting next to me. But when I look over at the bartender and see the curl of disdain at the corner of his lip, I can’t help but burst out laughing too. Zoey laughs even harder then, without attempting to muzzle herself, and soon the entire bar is looking over at us. I try to get control of myself, but the more I work to keep a straight face, the more we both collapse in a heap of giggling. I throw my head back, and at that moment, I catch sight of my mother at the door.

“Mom!” I say. My laughter is cut short by her expression. Something is not right. She is staring straight at us but doesn’t seem to have registered us yet. The maître d’ draws her attention back, and she nods at him in a way that looks like it takes effort. Instinctively, my mind starts racing with all the things I might have done wrong.

“That’s your mom?” Zoey says. “Wow, she’s so pretty.”

Before I can stop her, Zoey bounces over in her typical Labrador style. I follow. “Mrs. O’Malley!” she says too loudly.

My mother visibly winces, but quickly recovers with a polite smile. “You must be Zoey,” she says. “So nice to finally meet you.” Her voice is quiet and careful as if trying not to set off a bomb.

The maître d’ leads us to a table in the corner by a window.

“What’s wrong?” I mouth to my mother as the maître d’ pulls out Zoey’s chair. She shakes her head.

“Enjoy your evening, ladies,” the maître d’ says.

My mother’s smile is strained, cloud-covered. “It’s wonderful to have you girls with me tonight,” she says, and I feel the relief that whatever has caused her mood, it isn’t me.

The waiter comes over, tall and somber, more mortician than server.

“I think I’m going to have some wine. Shall we get a bottle, girls?”

I look at her with surprise.

“I’d love some wine,” Zoey says, and I can see that my mother has already won over Zoey with her permissiveness. I wonder if Zoey’s mom would be cool enough to let us drink.

My mother turns to me. Her fragility is a tangible thing. I can feel myself holding it like an egg. “You look like you have
some color,” she says, touching her hand to my cheek. “It’s very becoming.”

Something about this makes me feel guilty, like I shouldn’t be looking rosy while my mother is suffering. “Thanks,” I say.

“This is such a nice restaurant,” Zoey says. “I’ve never been in such a nice restaurant, I don’t think. And I’ve heard this hotel is amazing.”

I watch my mother’s face. She smiles. “Yes, it’s lovely. I’ll be sorry to leave.”

“Well, if your husband is anything like my dad, I bet he’s champing at the bit to have you home,” Zoey says.

I shoot her a look and watch her realize her mistake too late and turn red. The waiter returns with the bottle.

“Sounds like your parents have a good marriage,” my mother says.

“Yes, great!” Zoey says, and then glances over at me. “I mean, good. I mean, they don’t fight or anything. At least not in front of me. I guess for all I know they could fight all the time, but of course they protect me from that stuff.” She looks at me again and shrinks down in her chair, takes a huge sip of wine.

“And what does your father do?” my mother probes.

“He’s a gym teacher.”

My mother watches Zoey a moment too long and the light of her attention fades. “Oh,” she says, and picks up the menu.

I take a huge gulp of wine and look at Zoey, but she appears not to have noticed the palpable shift.

“Maybe we should make a toast,” I say, desperate to switch gears. They both look at me expectantly, but beyond the suggestion I’ve got nothing.

“Oooh, I know a fantastic toast!” Zoey says. “My friends and I used to say this all the time at home. It has a swear in it, though.” She glances at my mother. “Do you mind if I swear?”

My mother laughs, charmed. “Considering the language my daughter uses with me, I’m immune by now.”

It feels like a betrayal that she has said this, like she has gone against some unspoken agreement that we no longer look back, that we erase. “Used to use,” I say.

“Okay,” Zoey says. She raises her glass and leans in toward us. My mother and I raise our glasses as well. “Here’s to the men that we love. Here’s to the men that love us. The men that we love are NOT the men that love us, so . . . fuck the men and here’s to us.”

I glance at my mother. She sits frozen. My stomach drops. I can’t believe Zoey said that. An awful silence hangs in the air.

Then my mother bursts out laughing. “I love it!” she squeals. “Say it again.”

Zoey says it again and my mother tries to follow along out loud, committing it to memory. They are like two teenagers, and I am torn between gratitude and envy that Zoey has helped my mother find her laugh again.

“Of course that doesn’t apply to Cassie these days,” Zoey says, winking at me.

“Oh?” My mother raises an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“She had a hot date today!”

I try to nudge Zoey under the table, but hit the table leg instead.

“Oh, that’s right,” my mother says. “I can’t believe I forgot to ask. How did that go?”

They both turn and stare at me, and my stomach kicks like something is trapped in there.

“We last left the story in a deserted parking lot,” Zoey says ominously.

“Start from the beginning,” my mother says. “What did you wear?”

I look between the two of them. “Don’t we need to decide what we’re ordering? What are you getting, Zo?”

“The food can wait!” Zoey says. “Why are you trying to change the subject?”

I glance at Zoey and then to my mother. I feel cornered, don’t know what to do. I can’t shake the nagging impulse that the timing is wrong and also, that I should hold on to the story, not give it away to my mother.

“We don’t have all day!” Zoey says.

“Really,” my mother echoes, pulling her chair in as if she’s eager to listen.

“Okay, okay,” I say, both because I don’t know what else to do and because some part of me actually does want to tell my mother about my very first date, to have that moment with her, to make up for all the other rite-of-passage moments that I never got to experience and share with her: first crush, first dance, even first day of college. But more than that, a larger part of me wants her to know it’s possible for someone to find me worthy of their attention.

I begin to tell the story, cautiously and quickly, downplaying everything, but Zoey keeps elaborating, jumping in on the parts she was there for, teasing me for being so nervous, describing how cute Chris was when he arrived all freshly showered and scrubbed.

I watch my mother’s face. She is nodding and encouraging me to go on and things seem to be going well, so I start adding a little more detail, telling them about the struggle with the wetsuit and the way Chris waxed my board and attached the leash to my ankle. When I get to the part where I stood up and rode the wave and Chris cheered, I start to get carried away with the story, reliving the scary, wonderful thrill of it all. I’m embarrassed by how much I keep smiling, but at the same time it feels really good to be able to tell my mother that someone finds me pretty and appealing and likable, like I finally have some sort of proof to offer up.

“So that’s the end?” my mother says. She watches me.

I nod.

“Hmm.”

“What?” I say.

“Nothing.”

“No, what?” My stomach agitates like white water.

She sighs. “I just thought he would at least take you to lunch or something.”

“Oh. No. Nope. But, I mean, we spent the whole day together.”

The bread basket arrives and we each take a roll from it. Then my mother looks up at me and shakes her head.

“What?” I say again.

“Just a little advice for you lovely ladies. A man who is truly interested in you will take you somewhere nice. Spend a little money.”

My heart sinks.

“Oh, I doubt he has much money, being in college and all,” Zoey
says. “And he definitely really likes her. You should see how he acts around her. It’s very cute.”

My mother frowns at Zoey. “Well, of course he acts like that,” she says tiredly. “That’s the game men play to get you into bed.” To me she says, “I just don’t want to see you get hurt, Cassie.”

I stare down at the bread on my plate. I break it into little pieces, feeling confused and hot with the shame of having let myself believe that Chris liked me in the first place, that a guy would actually like
me
. He seemed so genuinely interested, but what did I really know about him, or about guys at all for that matter? I shouldn’t have been so gullible, should have known that he wanted something. “I don’t even like him that much,” I say. “Not at all really.”

“Yes she does,” Zoey says to my mother.

“No. I don’t,” I snap.

I stare at her. There is a hard, uncomfortable silence. My stomach feels like it has been filled with rocks.

“Well, excuse me, I need to go to the little girls’ room,” Zoey says to break the tension.

She gets up from the table and my mother and I both watch her walk away.

“I hate that term, ‘little girls’ room,’” my mother says. “It’s so low class.”

“I thought you would like her,” I say, angry on Zoey’s behalf. “You were acting like you liked her.” I had forgotten how good my mother was at pretending.

“Who said I didn’t like her?” she says. Her lower lip quivers like that of a child who has been scolded, and then she bursts into tears.

“Mom,” I say.

She puts her face in her hands. Her shoulders heave. “He dumped me,” she says. Now that we’re alone, her tears come raw and real and unstoppable, uncomplicated by anything other than grief. “He said he thought we were just having a good time.” Her breath shudders. “I had all these plans. I actually believed we would get married eventually. Oh God, I’m so ashamed.”

“Oh, Mom,” I say. I think of all the years she clung to the idea that there was one person out there with whom she had shared real love and now there was no one.

She looks past me and I follow her eyes across the dining room, where Zoey has reappeared. For the first time I notice how cheap and shiny Zoey’s blouse looks against the sophisticated lines of the restaurant, how unnaturally yellow her hair is. As she begins walking back toward us, I see that a small sheet of toilet paper is stuck to the bottom of her shoe. I stand up and go to her before she reaches the table.