90
2 Bridges Review
The Important Thing Dan Leach When she showed up on my doorstep with one arm in a sling and a suitcase at her feet, I almost didn’t recognize her. For one thing, she must have gained about sixty pounds. The slim, determined jaw line–in my memory incessantly flexing itself over two sticks of Juicy Fruit—was buried beneath a roll of wrinkled flesh and her cheeks, each one bearing a subtle touch of rouge, sagged like certain plastic grocery bags that get over-loaded with heavy cans and threaten to burst. She had gone gray too in the seven years since I had last seen her. The ash that had dotted her temples was now sprawled out across her scalp, leaving only a couple of rogue strands of brown to swim in a tangled mess of hairspray and sweat. Her floral-scented perfume was losing out to the menthol aftermath of her last cigarette, which itself was being eclipsed by the unmistakably sour presence of sweat that has yet to dry. I held my breath as I leaned in for a hug. “Hi, mom.” If any of my neighbors had looked over long enough to observe the scene, they would have noticed how nonchalant she was when she scooped up her suitcase and slipped past me into the house. They would have no choice but to assume that this was something we did, that her being my mother and all, I had seen her for brunch just last Tuesday when we had arranged this little meeting while eating salads and talking about traffic. Not so. But who would see something like that and guess that I had not seen my mother in seven years, that the duration of our last phone call was about five minutes—just enough time for her to apologize for missing my dad’s funeral and ask if she had been mentioned in the will. Who on earth would guess such a thing? Once inside, I took her suitcase and, out of habit, nearly delivered it to the guest room before deciding that the hallway would be a more appropriate place. She mumbled something about the humidity and ducked into the kitchen where I had an oscillating fan propped up on the counter. When I heard the muffled suck of the refrigerator door, I realized it would not be necessary for me to offer her a drink. I took a seat at the kitchen table and watched as my mother—her bloated smile wreathed by frosty vapors— pried the tinfoil off two separate dishes and peeked inside each