The Talk

          I felt her eyes boring into me without even lifting my gaze from the pavement. I kicked at a pebble and watched it skid across the sloping path, willing myself to not be the one to speak first. I wouldn’t even be here right now if it wasn’t for Mark… if he had just let me keep this all to myself and stay mad at her forever… My mom was trying to figure me out; she always used to do this when I was little. Then, it was almost helpful. Now, entirely annoying.

          “Hunter? What are you doing here? We haven’t talked in months and now suddenly you’re just…here? Why now?”

          More like “why at all,” I thought as my fists clenched in my pockets. “I already told you; I am on “strict instructions to make up with your mom,” I raised my first and second fingers in air quotes at the mention of Mark’s purpose for booking me a ticket, driving me to the airport, and sending me back here to “figure it out.” Did he not understand that I was fine?

          The real problem was, though,—and Mark had figured it out long before me—I hadn’t been the same since the fight. My carefully curated and yet well-disguised protective barrier around everything I had ever known and trusted was shattered when, in a bout of frustration, my mother told me hastily that I “needed someone to care for you because I’m not sure you can do it on your own.”

          Now, a month later from that phone call that had abruptly silenced any communication I had with her, I was not only speaking to my mom again, but I was with her, in person. She looked at me, curiously. “‘Make up?’” she quoted, her voice questioning. “Hunter, sweetheart, I don’t understand. I don’t remember having a fight..?”

          I’ve never been good at opening up, but I also could never hide my thoughts from my face; my features always betrayed me and explained exactly what I was thinking. I pinched the bridge of my nose and inhaled sharply so as to not scream the list of obscenities fighting to escape the confines of my lips. “You.. you don’t remember the conversation?” It was hard to reconcile all the millions of things I was feeling. And, I absolutely did not wish to rip off a scab I had spent the last few weeks nursing, but if this woman seriously had no memory of what she said to me, I knew “the talk” was inevitable. I inhaled shakily, preparing myself for my own explosion.

*

          Jemma was at work when her phone buzzed. She glanced at her purse, but made no move to retrieve it from the dark depths of the giant bag. She went back to her computer, eyes growing heavier by the second as they darted to and fro her physical desktop and her desktop, recording and organizing all of her cliental crap into cohesive, coherent folders. Her purse vibrated again, only a few seconds after its first cry. Jemma was rarely contacted throughout her workday. David worked the same hours, Jill was in Italy, and Hunter…her heart dropped every time she thought of her. They still weren’t speaking. She had tried for the first two weeks of the strange month in which she and her eldest daughter weren’t speaking, but if she knew anything about her daughter it was that if she pushed, she would only make it worse (whatever “it” was).

          When her phone would not stop ringing, Jemma’s heartbeat increased; fearing the worst possible scenarios. As quickly as she could, she grabbed for her bag and tipped it; various lipsticks, tampons, car keys, and her wallet spewed all over the table. I know you’re in there, you “damned thing!” On the last two words she had reached her hand into the purse and grabbed the phone on the second to last ring; Jemma didn’t even pay attention to the name before sliding the screen open and raising it to her ear.

          “Hello?” She was breathless; fear always took over when she convinced herself of crisis.

          “Hello, Mom. I’m at the airport. Can you come get me?”

          The phone nearly slipped from her fingers upon hearing Hunter’s voice on the other end of the phone.

*

          I admired my new ring as I brushed my teeth. I loved the way the bathroom light reflected off the small stone framed by the gold band around my left finger. Mark came in to kiss me on his way out the door to work, but stopped in the middle of the bedroom, smacking himself on the forehead. He reminded me of a cartoon character when he did that and I had to hold in my giggle. “Oh my gosh, babe, I forgot to tell you. I, uh, booked you a flight home for tomorrow morning. I knew you weren’t working this weekend and since I’m going out of town…umm, surprise!” He trailed off and looked down at his feet, his confidence only slightly faltering as he purposefully avoided my glare.

          I gagged on my toothbrush and immediately dropped my left hand back to my. “You. Did. WHAT?” each word came out louder and stronger than the last as I spat my toothpaste and returned my toothbrush to its holder, barely even rinsing it off. Mark was a great guy; the best guy I’d ever met. I’d never let anyone so close to me—all of me, even though sometimes, I couldn’t even meet my own eyes in the mirror—before, which is how I knew I would marry him. He had asked me a week ago, in celebration of our two years together. Now, currently, at this moment in time, I wanted to throw the ring at his face. What on earth was he thinking?

          Mark had regained his previously slipping confidence and walked back to the bathroom, taking both of my hands into his. “Hunter. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met, but, you are also the most stubborn. I know you won’t tell me how much you’ve been hurting and I also know you cannot continue to wait for her to come to you because we both know she won’t. Don’t you want to prove her wrong? She doesn’t know how much she hurt you, babe; you have to be the one to fix things.”

          Fuck. I knew I wasn’t the marriage type, I thought as I tried to pull away from Mark’s strong hold. He pulled me to him, wrapping me in that hug that envelopes me like a blanket every damn time, even when I could kill him. I softened slightly under his embrace, feeling the tears that I try so hard to hide from everyone leak down my face. “But, I don’t want to talk to—”

          “Shh, babe. I know. But you have to. You know you do.” He glanced at his watch, muttered, “Shit,” and grabbed my chin to pull me in for a goodbye kiss. “I’ll see you tonight and we’ll get wine drunk as we pack.”

*

          Jemma looked at her daughter, replaying the previous hour’s events. When Hunter had called her to come get her from the airport, Jemma had nearly tripped over her feet to get out the door. The ride home was painfully awkward. Per usual, Hunter was quiet. Jemma had asked her as many easy, low-stakes questions as she could, but Hunter wouldn’t budge. She wasn’t necessarily impolite, but she was not engaging in conversation. When they finally reached their home, Hunter grabbed her bag from the trunk and went inside without another word. At first, Jemma thought the coldness was just… Hunter—she understood her daughter’s preference for silence, but this was ridiculous. She did not raise her girls to be rude.

          Hunter was in her room, lying on her stomach on her childhood bed, scribbling furiously in her journal, momentarily throwing Jemma back in time to Hunter’s teenage years. Jemma knocked on her bedroom door. At least she hadn’t locked it, she thought as she pushed the door open a crack.

          “Hi. I’m going on a walk; would you like to come?”

          Hunter’s eyes did not move from her journal, “No. I don’t. Thanks though.”

          It took everything in her to not ring her daughter’s neck. “Sorry, I will rephrase,” she tried coolly, but not altogether hiding her immense irritation at Hunter’s continued apathy. What the hell is going on with her? If she thinks she can come to my house and disrespect me…She tried again, remembering her trusty (but rusty) Mom Voice, “We are going on a walk. Right now. Grab your coat and meet me outside.”

          For a few minutes, they walked in silence, both instinctively pulling their coats closer to retain the escaping warmth. The October wind whipped their hair around their faces as Jemma stole glances at her daughter, an adult; a stranger before her eyes. She knew Hunter was just as stubborn as her, if not more, and if she wanted to know what in God’s name was going on, she was going to have to be the one to start the conversation.

*

          When I exhaled, I felt the tears forming again. Not in front of the woman who thinks I need to be a fucking lifetime babysitter… I thought as I furiously reached my hands inside my sweater and used the sleeves to wipe at my eyes. She stared at me like she couldn’t possibly figure out where this was coming from and that made me even angrier. “The last time we talked, you told me that I needed someone to take care of me; that you worried I couldn’t do it, that I couldn’t be alone…couldn’t be a sufficient adult. Do you know what that feels like, Mom?” I didn’t give her a chance to answer before I continued. “It feels like I haven’t done anything on my own. Ever. Like I am completely incapable of living and being independent because you don’t trust me to know myself or know how to like, live as an adult! Do you really think I am that useless?” …Do I think I’m useless?

          The thought made me cry harder; maybe I thought that, too. I buried my face in my palms and wished I was back home with Mark. God I would kill him for making me deal with my feelings like this. Without a word, my usually stoic mother crossed the distance and wrapped me in a hug. We had always been friendly, but we weren’t ever touchy and I felt myself stiffen under her awkward touch.

          “Oh, honey. No, no, no! I am so sorry that I hurt your feelings; you have to know that it wasn’t my intention! I guess, I…just meant that you’ve always been more guarded than your sister and I always felt it was my responsibility to take care of you; to make sure you’re okay.” As she said this, she reached to wipe a tear away with her thumb, I dodged her. She looked hurt, but I didn’t really care. I hadn’t realized till this moment how upsetting it was that she said something so heavy with implication, and couldn’t even remember it. Out of nowhere, I felt uncomfortable, out of place.

          “God, I knew this was a mistake.” I turned away from my mom, once again reverting to my teenage tendencies, as I ran as fast as I could. Back at the house, I bolted down the stairs to the basement bedroom I had claimed in my teens when I was fed up with the glitter and overwhelming Pinkness of my youth. I grabbed my journal—my most prized possession—and threw it in my backpack before pulling out my phone to call an Uber, squinting through my tears to find the black and white icon. I thought about calling Mark, but I couldn’t bear to let him down and I’m sure he wouldn’t be able to understand me right now anyway.

          I felt lost and frantic as I watched the tiny car on my phone get closer and closer, feeling what I imagined to be akin to running away…which, I guess, in a way, I was. Mark was absolutely right, that conversation had sparked something in me: something that had curdled my blood and removed any small amount of confidence and love and acceptance I did have. The bigger issue though, was that it went deeper. For whatever reason, that specific statement, more than any other in my twenty-six years of enduring my well-intentioned mother and her unsolicited thoughts, drew blood. It was as if some curtain had finally lifted and I was seeing myself from the outside for the first time, wondering what the actual fuck I was doing with my life. I’d never found anything I was particularly passionate about, I allowed myself to be content in just about every situation, and besides Mark, I had actively pushed everyone out and away my whole life.

          The Uber pulled into the driveway right as my mom was turning the block to our house; shock and confusion must have severely impeded her ability to run. I shoved my phone back in my pocket, wiped my cheeks, and threw my bag in the trunk. I looked over my shoulder at my mom now running, bewilderment and heartbreak clear on her face as I climbed in the car of a stranger. I felt my cheeks grow wet again, crying for her, for me, for us—for the brokenness I had just made worse. I watched her figure grow smaller until I couldn’t make out her shape anymore before I turned around to figure out my next move.

Written for Master of Arts in Professional Creative Nonfiction Writing at the University of Denver; Fall ’20