Absolute Brightness Read Free Page B

that she had to explain a thing to the folks in Neptune; everyone knew the whole story.
    For a while, Mom was big news and the regular customers of Hair Today salon were privy to a ready supply of fresh details about the breakup. But even after all the screaming and the fighting, after that morning when we woke to find all of Dad’s belongings sitting in a pile out on the front lawn, after all the lawyers had served the legal papers and the whole thing was officially over, Mom fought against the idea that she was the type of person who could get a divorce. If asked, she said she was “separated.” She once told Deirdre and me that if word got out about the divorce, it would ruin her as a hair stylist. But really, word was out, and she was in denial.
    There are photographs of my mother from when she was a younger version of herself, and no matter what was going on, she always managed to smile for the camera. She smiled as she entered the room with the knotty-pine paneling; she smiled as she looked adoringly at her father, who was holding up a raw steak and wearing a KISS THE COOK apron; she smiled when she was caught with pink curlers in her blue-black hair and not a hint of makeup; she smiled in her wedding dress standing against an obviously fake autumnal backdrop; she smiled as she pointed to the Motel 6 outside Phoenix where she and Dad stayed on a cross-country road trip; and she smiled as she sat by the ocean with pint-size versions of me and Deirdre playing in the background.
    In each one of those pictures, it was plain to see she had no idea that her life would later become such a sad and sorry soap opera. Back in those days, when she was still drop-dead gorgeous and full of potential, she probably woke up each morning, put on her makeup, fixed her hair, got dressed, had places to go, stuff to look forward to, and plenty of things to smile about. But by the time I came along, smiling was how she’d trained herself to meet every situation, no matter what. Smiling had become a habit. No, smiling was more than a habit for my mother; it was who she was.
    I knew other mothers, mothers of girls my age, who had fabulous lives, working husbands, nice houses, clothes, cars, Cuisinarts and microwaves, the whole split-level deal, and quite honestly they didn’t smile half as much as my mother did. Even after my father announced that he was leaving us and taking up with Chrissie Bettinger, Mom kept smiling. And she smiled long after he was gone.
    â€œIt’s okay, Aunt Ellen,” Leonard said, leaning over and fingering the diamond center of her wedding ring. “I guess it kinda turned out different for all of us. How many carats is this, anyway?”
    I can’t remember the last time my mother cried, but right there at the kitchen table over a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, tears came streaming down her face. She was quiet about it. No sobs or choking back. It was as if Leonard had found the on/off switch to her tears. And no one was more surprised than Deirdre and me. We both sat there with our mouths hanging open. I think if I hadn’t been chewing and trying to swallow a meatball, I would have burst out crying myself. But as it happened, I didn’t want to add the Heimlich maneuver to our dinnertime activities, so I just closed my mouth and kept chewing as if nothing were wrong. Deirdre, on the other hand, excused herself from the table, went upstairs, and didn’t come back.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Mom said into her paper napkin. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to … It’s just … I don’t know. I’m exhausted. This week and all. There’s been so much. I don’t usually … Why am I explaining?”
    â€œMy mother used to cry at holidays,” Leonard offered as a way of comforting Mom and making her feel like it wasn’t anything to apologize about. “Also anniversaries.” And then as an afterthought, he added,