Before I Forget by Tory Henwood Hoen - 52

“Oh thank god,” my mother says as she comes through the door and sees my new hair. “I wasn’t going to say anything before, but…”

“I know,” I say. “I needed it. I hadn’t had a haircut since before I moved here.”

My mother puts her hands up as if she can’t bear to hear any more on the topic. We gather in the dining room for a simple dinner—pesto pasta and herby green salad—and afterward, we retire to the great room. Nina arranges herself on the couch to nurse Anders, my mother takes my usual chair, and I sit down in my dad’s favorite chair, where Dominic hops onto my lap.

“I can’t believe that cat is still … with us.” My mother is more at ease now that we have all had some wine, and she seems to be opening up. She picks up a photo from the side table—one of the four of us in a rowboat, many years before the divorce. “Arthur never took this down?”

“Why would he? It’s not like he wanted to cancel you,” I said. “On the contrary, he still loved you.”

My mother looks skeptical, so I relay a story that makes me smile while also breaking my heart. A few months ago, my father had been studying the same photo. When I walked in, he pointed to my mother’s face and asked, “Who is this? I recognize her. She must be an actress or a singer.” I answered, “That’s Tish. You were married to her.” He looked closer and said, “I was? I must have done something right.”

My mother smiles when she hears this, and Nina pouts her bottom lip, saying, “That’s so sweet.”

“You guys look as though you actually like each other in that photo,” I say.

“We always liked each other,” my mother counters. “That was never the issue.”

“What was the issue?” I press. “Did Dad have an affair or something?”

My mother throws her head back in laughter. “Who would he have had an affair with—a trout? No, if he ever had a mistress, it was this place.” She waves her hand, indicating the house, the whole property. “Catwood Pond was his great love. He always hoped I would acclimate, and I tried as hard as I could for as long as I could. For twenty-five years, I hauled myself up here!”

“But didn’t you know what you were signing up for? Didn’t you talk about your expectations before you got married?” I ask.

My mother looks at me as though I’m crazy. “You don’t understand. It was different in the eighties. There wasn’t all this…”—she waves her hand as if conjuring something—“emotional awareness stuff. We fell in love, and we assumed everything would work out. Well, it didn’t.”

I take a breath and finally ask outright: “I’ve always wondered if I was the reason that you got divorced. Was it because of Seth’s accident and all the stress it caused?”

“Of course not,” my mother answers without hesitation. “I just … wasn’t satisfied. I wanted to reboot my career, expand our life. Your father always seemed so complacent.”

“Complacent?” I ask. “Or content?”

My mother thinks for a moment, as if she hadn’t considered there might be a difference. “I really don’t know. But I wasn’t content. I wanted more, and I didn’t handle that well. I’ll admit it. How do I say this without sounding like a bad mother…”

Nina and I ready ourselves for a revelation.

“It just wasn’t what I expected—marriage, motherhood. And at some point, I realized I only had one life. So why shouldn’t it be the one I actually want?”

In a way, it is strange to hear my mother articulate that having children was not the culmination of her life’s work. But in another way, it is liberating. I think back to the divorce and the years of dissonance that preceded it. It wasn’t all my fault—it never could have been.

“And what about now?” Nina asks. “Do you have the life you want now?”

My mother purses her lips. “Still working on it, but getting there.”

I look at my mother who, by all means, has everything anyone could want: a nice husband, a beautiful home, a vibrant career, a grandchild, and two daughters whom she presumably loves. But she is still going for it, still grasping. You could call that insatiable, or you could call it intrepid.

Complacent or content? Insatiable or intrepid? Or perhaps all of the above, depending on whom you ask—and when.

Having said all she intends to on the matter, my mother deftly changes the subject. “So do you know a good realtor? When will you list the house?”

“I don’t want to sell it,” I say.

My mother puts her hand to her chest. “You’re not thinking of staying here…”

“Why not?” I ask. “Where else would I go?”

“I thought you didn’t really like Locust anymore,” says Nina, surprised. Anders raises his tiny fist skyward, like an activist with an unknown cause.

“Things evolve,” I say. I point in the direction of the clearing where my imaginary animal hospital once stood. “Do you remember what I used to do over there? Near the stumps?”

“Of course,” says Nina. “You dragged all your stuffed animals out there and operated on them. It was bizarre.”

“Well, I think that’s what I want to do,” I say.

Nina looks at me with concern. “What do you mean? Like another prophecy thing?”

I laugh. “No. I want to open up my own animal hospital—but for real this time. I want to go to vet school. But first, I need to finish my degree.”

“Now there’s an idea,” says my mother, lighting up. “Where? Maybe in London?”

“Here,” I say. “For now, at least. I can finish my credits at the community college, and then apply to vet schools.”

“Okay,” my mother says gingerly, liking the concept if not the details. “And do you have enough money to pay for this?”

“Not yet,” I say. “But I’ll figure it out.”

My mother waves her hand. “Enough with the pride, Cricket. I will pay for it. Just get going already.”

“Really?” I look at her skeptically.

“Of course. You have a goal, finally. Let’s make it happen.” My instinct is to resist her offer, but she cuts me off before I can speak. “Don’t fight me on this. I regret that I couldn’t pay for your undergrad, but the timing was tough with the divorce. Things are different now. Frankly, I have more money than I know what to do with.” Nina and I look at each other, happy to hear this, before my mother adds: “I may not have always been the mother you needed, Cricket, but all I ever wanted was for you to find a passion and pursue it.”

I am moved by her generosity, but before I can thank her, she adds, “I can’t imagine why you would want to finish your studies here , but we’re different, you and I.”

A more obvious statement has never been uttered, and yet this is the point I’ve been trying (and failing) to convey to my mother for my entire life. After twenty-seven years, we seem to finally be speaking the same language.

She turns her attention back to the photograph, and I see her eyes glaze with tears for the first time since she arrived. “He might not have been the right husband for me, but Arthur was, without a doubt, the right father for you.”