Exercise #4

We are sitting in the back of a crowded bus. It's hot. The air conditioner is broken and the windows are open and we don't catch the breeze. Other people's hair and clothing move in the breeze, but the draft gets swallowed up by the large man in front of us and you can only catch a whisper of wind that bounces off his shoulder if you lean your head close to mine. Our daughter lays curled, sticking to my chest, the space between us wet with sweat. We are on the way to your mother's house.

The last time you were there, I was home, pregnant. My sister came over and I sipped on lemonade in the sunlight outside our beach house in Florida while you stepped out of the plane and took a taxi to the apartment in Minneapolis your mother now lives in alone. That was before I'd realized how hard it is to have a child.

You told me when you got back that she was doing better, that your father was healthy, that they were looking forward to meeting the baby. You said your brother had moved to St. Paul but was still visiting often and you got to meet his finance. Beyond that, you didn't say anything. I didn't question. You are often quiet after trips.

I know that you lied.

You get off the plane at 9:30 pm, groggy, at first, since you normally go to bed early. The cool autumn air wakes you up once you got out of the airport and stared out at the confusion of cars, buses, taxis. It's easy to get a taxi driver to take you into the heart of the city – past houses, restaurants, and night clubs – to her apartment above the taco shop downtown.

“Downgrading,” she told me once on the phone.

You find the building stuffy and covered in dust. It smells like taco grease and Tabasco. When you knock, she looks through the peephole before opening the door, three separate locks sliding open before the door swings in.

She is wearing a pink sweatsuit. Her hair, half brown, half gray, is shoved into a sloppy ponytail.

“What are you doing here?” You'd told me she was expecting you. She has drool down her cheek.

“Mom.” You feel chilled. You're not used to the cold anymore and there is no heat in the hallway here but what radiates from the walls of the three small apartments.

“Yes? What?” she asks, sounding annoyed. She has deep wrinkles and she is not smiling.

“I just needed to talk to you.”

She doesn't know what this means.

“You could have called,” she says. “What do you have that fancy phone for anyway?”

You had called. You'd gotten a busy signal for days. You'd booked the soonest plane you could get. When you told me you were going, you'd acted like you thought you'd told me before. You acted like you'd booked the tickets ages ago.

You're just standing there in the doorway, your bag in your hand.

“Well?” she asks. “Are you going to come in?”

The apartment has four rooms: bathroom, bedroom, living room, kitchen. You place your bag by the couch, the one covered in floral patterns from the 70s we tried to get rid of but she refused to replace. She says it's still the most comfortable couch there is. You hate sleeping on it. It's lumpy.

She goes into the kitchen, puts a kettle on the stove. She turns the knob for the gas and it click, click, clicks. She turns it off, opens the cupboard above the stove, pulls out a lighter, turns the knob again, flicks on the lighter, the blue flames flare, she puts the lighter back in the cupboard and shuts the door.

“Your father says the Twins don't stand a chance this year.” She says it as she riffles through a basket of tea packets.

Your father ran off to Canada with another woman. They talk on the phone every Sunday. She doesn't tell him he is living in sin. She doesn't think about it that way anymore. Her first son is married and having a child. Her second son is engaged. She does yoga every Friday with members of her church.

“How long are you planning on staying?” she asks.

You shrug. You have not bought a return ticket. You could not decide what date. I have just begun my third trimester. You have told me you will be gone for a week.