“You know who’s not fine? Your father. He’s depressed. He’s lost another two pounds.” He’s catatonic. “The doctor said he could snap out of it any day.” She ashes on my floor and looks out the window. “If you’re so famous, why live here?” I like this building. “What’s to like? Where’s your husband?” Working, I scribble, though I don’t know where Taj is. I saw him at another art opening last night, held onto his arm and waved at people I didn’t know while they marveled at me. He and I would see each other again in a couple days for a morning show interview. “How do you both fit in that bed?” she asks. She’s in my bedroom. Now she’s in my closet. “Where are his clothes?” She closes the closet and leaves a jet stream of cigarette smoke trailing behind her as she comes back into the living room. My mother never looks at me. But since she never takes off her sunglasses it’s hard to tell. “Are you in a sham marriage?” I shake my head. “You are. You’re in a sham marriage. He’s exploiting you.” Her crimson lip trembles. She covers it. “How could you do this to yourself? How could you be taken advantage of and put yourself in such danger?” I’M NOT IN DANGER MOTHER I’M A GROWN WOMAN— But she looks away from me, out the window, and dabs at her eyes with a tissue from her alligator skin purse. “First it was college, all those boys and girls you said ‘liked you for who you are.’ You were a goddamn revolving door. Where are they now, kiddo? Where are they now?” I stare at the floor, the dirt that falls into impossible holes in the hardwood. “Then you moved here, to this dangerous city, and became a hand model. I mean, congratulations, but—but since then, my blood pressure has been through the roof and your father’s been despondent. I always hoped you’d settle somewhere low profile, maybe even wear a burka, work at a library, I don’t know.” My mother’s mascara is in rivers on her face. “Marry a nice blind man.” I imagine my mother stabbing me in the heart with a fork. I have to remind myself she loves me. She loves me. Sometimes this is love. “But they’re going to hurt you, kiddo!” Spastic fist in the air. “Don’t you know someone’s going to hurt you again?” There’s a knock on my door. I am thankful for the sound, the way it breaks the tension. I go to the door and open it a sliver. It’s Jada. “Are you okay?” she whispers. She’s in her scrubs, her hair is pulled back, keys and purse in hand. “I came to say bye but then I heard the weepy yelling from the hall.” I don’t have my pen and paper. I want to tell her, nothing is okay. Mother is here. Save me. All I can do is shake my head.
32 · The Woman with No Face