ROOM ENOUGH

We wear the same gardening hat, wide brimmed, straw.

We share the same taste in home décor.

We share the same smile.

A smile I didn’t see in my youth, I was always trying something new to change the way I looked. Always trying to coerce my DNA to transform me into a different person. But as I stand here, I see twin smiles in the photo taken three months ago at the pier on the coast.

I look at the photo and smile. Boy, have we come a long way I think as I hear a small voice behind me, “Whatcha doing?” Mother slowly walks into the doorway of my open office. She holds onto the door frame for stability.

“Oh, I’m just looking at a picture of us.” I hold up the photo and show her. “We look great! Don’t you think?”

She smiles a brightly and says, “We sure do.” There is a twinkle in her eyes. I only suspect I see a twinkle. Perhaps what I am really seeing are tears.

She turns and walks away.

I look away.

I can’t bear the emotions these days.

It feels… smothering.

It makes my chest feel tight.

Panic attacks.

Please God not now.

I’ve never experienced a panic attack in my entire life. And now I’ve had several in the second half of my life. Thank you very much aging body.

I shake my head, place the photo on my organized desk and walk out of my office.

Mother made her way to the fridge and asks me what I want to eat for supper.

I don’t know I tell her.

And I really don’t.

It’s noon and I’m not very hungry.

“Mom, don’t you think you should be resting?” I ask her. She had only moved in two weeks ago, a slip and fall that landed her in the emergency room. But there’s room enough here for the both of us.

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” is her standard answer.

So, she is here with me, and I with her - two single broads, living it up in my lakeside cottage, feeling all the aches and pains of life.

I love this cottage.

It’s a Cape Cod style, covered in gorgeous weathered wooden shingles and light blue shutters. It’s my dream home that I made happen for myself after my divorce from my husband of 25 years.

I know what you are thinking. Why after twenty-five years?

My short answer is, well, sometimes people aren’t really meant to be with each other, but they make decisions and stupidly stick it out for the children. And once the children are grown up, they realize they don’t like each other very much they end up single at fifty-five and live with their eighty-eight-year-old mother.

That’s me.

Single.

Fifty-five.

Living with my mother.

Life is good.

I couldn’t always live with my mother.

She had her ways and I had mine when I was younger. I really tested the boundaries of the parent/child relationship. We hardly saw eye to eye and when I was barely legal, I ran off and met a man, got pregnant, then married. She lived 600 miles from me and flew to our home for the holidays.

That was the extent of our relationship.

So how will we be able to live together now?

Well, I guess we shall see. She doesn’t take up much space in her older age, so there’s room enough for her.

I bought the land to this house right after my divorce and started the building process a year after that once the plans were drawn up by my architect.

That was seven years ago.

I wanted a small, charming home - one with mahogany wood, ivory linen drapes and pale blue walls. I wanted fresh blue hydrangeas resting in a Chinese blue and white vase, giving the space an extra feminine touch and an office overlooking the lake.

And I got it all.

I wanted the view for when I worked from home, a quiet space to think out my thoughts. I could have done that from any part of this house, I was living alone back then, but now I’m even more pleased with my charming office with the lake view. There is room enough for two here.

In my twenty’s, my mother was living life to the fullest with my father. Traveling, dancing, socializing. They went to Europe at least once a year, knew everyone in the small town they lived in and were, nine times out of ten, not heavily involved with my life. I was newly married raising one child that quickly turned into two. I was very much wrapped up into my life, from the boys to my husband, to my new career. But my parents were there for me if ever I picked up the phone.

Which was hardly ever.

My mother sits in her blue and white stripped wingback chair, her steaming tea inside a Royal Doulton teacup. Probably a pattern that had been discontinued decades ago.

Lavender honey.

Lavender honey is her tea of choice.

I sit on the other side of her on the couch. My own beverage in a stemless glass – a chilled pinot grigio. I flip through a magazine as she sits there cautiously blowing on her tea before taking a small sip.

I smile as I watch her place the floral teacup back down on the round mahogany side table and get back to her wordsearch puzzle.

I take a sip of my own chilled wine and place it on the coaster on the coffee table. I place the magazine next to my wine and pick up a home and garden magazine. I start flipping through the pages.

I reach for my glass of wine.

My eye catches movement.

My mother reaching for her cup of tea.

At the same time, we both raise the cup to our lips and drink, then simultaneously our arms move to place the drinks back down.

I hear myself clear my throat.

And at the same time, I hear her clear her throat.

The sound is identical.

Indistinguishable.

I think to myself sweet Jesus, thank God we are drinking different drinks (because that is what makes her and I different, of course). It differentiates the young from the old.

I hope I never have a taste for lavender honey tea.

I roll my eyes, stand up and slap the magazine down on the coffee table before walking away.

My life is great!

I am not the average of the people I hang around as the statistics claim.

I’m not an old lady.

Jesus have mercy, I’m only fifty-five!

I need to befriend younger people.

I shake my head and think as I walk away, see, a young person would never say befriend.

***

I drank a little too much pinot grigio last night and wake up with a headache. I get out of my bed and shuffle down to the kitchen; my hair is like a bird’s nest and bouncing all over the place.

I find my mother dressed, lipstick on, red, of course, and every hair in place.

The bread is in the toaster and the bacon is just about ready to eat.

My beautiful home is smokey with smelly bacon grease.

“Hello, mother.” I croak out.

“Well, good morning, darling.” She was chipper and cheery as ever. Her painted red lips curl into a smile as she reaches for the evenly toasted bread. “I heard you snoring last night. Maybe you should rethink the second glass of wine.” I look at her with a snarky look momentarily reverting to that defiant teenager. She still had that red smile plastered on her face but this time I didn’t see the pretty lady, I saw big red wax lips.

Remember those? The big, oversized wax lips we used to cover our own with?

“I’m not in the mood.” I sound like I’m whining. I hear her chuckle from behind me as I turned to get a cup of coffee. She sits down at the table with her toast and bacon and coffee.

“Mom, when you went through the change, what did you feel?” My curiosity peaking now. Lately I’ve been getting random aches and pains. And just the other day I was simply walking when it felt like I twisted my ankle, hobbling back inside the house.

I want to know what’s going on with me. She had gone through this already. Was I suffering from a type of crazy unknown illness or is this the change of life?

I sit next to her.

Fully awake now.

Fully engaged.

Ready to hang onto every word she was about to say. Those big, red, wax lips parted and I’m waiting on the words of wisdom that were forming in that brain of hers. I longed to hear the words of reassurance that I wasn’t going completely insane. When she spoke, her words hit me hard like a bag of bricks – “Oh sweetheart, I breezed through it. I didn’t feel a thing.”

I groan.

She smiled again – big, red.

***

The day was lovely.

Cool and breezy.

We sit together out on the patio. It’s a beautiful patio. Smooth concrete floor surrounded by balustrade railings. The verdant grass is nice and thick and freshly mowed.

The lake is busy.

We both sit in white Adirondack chairs facing the lake. The sun behind us dappling through the canopy of trees above.

We sip homemade sweet tea.

“Do you remember the time you and your sister entered the horse show?” She laughed a short laugh before taking a sip of cool tea against the warmth of the late afternoon.

I groan again. Something I find myself doing more of with each passing day.

“Yes.” I try to refrain from an eye roll.

She swallowed her drink and started laughing as she retold the story for the one millionth time. “Your sister had been training hard for months preparing her horse. She did everything right, and her horse looked absolutely gorgeous!” She waved her hands in the air to express exactly how gorgeous the horse looked.

She took another sip of her tea before placing it down. Her legs were crossed as she rested her back comfortably against the Adirondack chair and continued the story, her foot swinging back and forth. Mother stared at the sparkly water.

“You on the other hand,” she started laughing a little too long. She could hardly get out what she wanted to say. “You were just so competitive and wanted to do everything your sister did, you just had to enter that contest.”

“Yes, mother I know the story. Remember, I was there.” I tried to stop her, tried to not sound annoyed.

But she continued. “You trained the old gal for two weeks before the show. Only two weeks!” She laughed some more, “Your sisters horse entered the arena so flamboyant, so flared, so ready to go.” She made dramatic motions with her hands and shoulders and held her head high as her long, elegant neck stretched upwards – elongating it. “And then here you come, with probably the oldest mare there, with your oversized glasses.” She laughed some more at my expense, “Oh goodness how I hated those glasses, but you loved them.” She looked over at me amused. “That old mare did her own thing and refused to listen to you! Remember she knocked those huge glasses right off your face and you were left standing there blind as a bat?” She roared out in laughter, slapping her knees.

When she caught her breath, she said looking pensive, “You won third place though and your sister’s horse didn’t.” She shook her head, “Imagine that.”

I just sat there leaning my head against my hand, waiting for her to finish.

Her face became serious. “Those were the days, weren’t they?” Her laughter had vanished, and she went back staring at the bright sparkles dappling the lake.

After a few moments she said, “Time has flown by. Sometimes it scares me how life slips away each day.” Tears glossed her eyes, “I wish I could go back to those good times. With your father again. With you girls as children.” She choked out the words, “You two were the best girls a mother could ask for.” She reached over and squeezed my hand; her mouth was a solemn line on her face.

I look over at her. I don’t see the big, red, wax lips anymore.

“I love you mom.” I say as I grab her hand.

Old memories are so bittersweet.

I swallow down all that once was. My stomach feels nauseous.

I think we are all getting older, and time is passing at rapid speeds. It’s a stark realization that hits me hard.

We stay there, silent, just holding hands watching the boats whizz across the lake.

I don’t express my fears of aging to the women who will go before me.

How selfish would that be? So, I say nothing and just enjoy this moment with her.

***

It’s now been a month since mother has moved in with me. We wake up early and make our normal rounds to the food store, the local farmers market, sometimes the donut shop, and back to the lake house with our goods.

“You know, dear, you should really think about dating.” Her red lips were back, lovingly smiling at me.

“I’m enjoying my alone time, Mom.” I say as I take things out of bags and put them away in the kitchen cupboards. The sun is reflecting off the water and through the large windows casting shards of light on the ceiling and walls.

Ducks float near the dock.

“I’m writing more these days and just about to finish a novel. I’m good, really.” I say with pure conviction. I felt like a used car salesman in that moment trying to convince someone that hey I’m a nice guy and hey this car is the best one for you!

How dastardly of me to try to sell my contentment to my mom. Problem is she’s not buying it.

“The man at the butcher shop was nice. I noticed he gave you a good cut of meat for very little cost.” She gave me a little wink.

“The butcher!” I scoff out a laugh. “Oh, please, Mother! That man is as stout as the Wagyu!” She started giggling at the comparison and then I start to laugh at my own words. “No thank you.” I say as we both paused for a moment reflecting then we both laugh at the butcher’s expense.

The same laugh.

Indistinguishable.

“Ok, maybe not the butcher. He’s not your type. But the man at the Farmer’s Market seemed pretty keen on you.” She rubbed her shoulder against mine egging me on. He wasn’t as robust, and he had blue eyes.

I thought for a moment. He was nice-looking and his eyes were striking.

I shook the thought out of my head. “No thank you. I need to stay focused. I my editor needs the book finished by next month.”

Mother turned and grabbed a banana, peeling the yellow skin back one by one. With a mouthful, she raised her eyebrow, “Suit yourself.” She walked over to her wingback chair and sat down.

***

Today is a rough day for me.

I feel all over the place emotionally.

Damned menopause.

I heard a song playing on the radio and it set me in a reflective mood. Bringing back memories of when I was young and just figuring life out. Memories of my father when he was young, my aunts, my grandparents, all people who have gone before us. I can’t lie it puts me into a funk each time I hear these old songs. Blasts from the past that force me to think about my future.

I crank up Journey’s “Send Her My Love” and sing at the top of my lungs.

The tears roll down my face:

“It's been so long
Since I've seen her face
You say she's doin' fine
I still recall a sad cafe
How it hurt so bad to see her cry
I didn't want to say goodbye”. My voice quivers and I close my eyes swaying with the music.

“Send her my love
Memories remain
Send her my love
Roses never fade
Send her my love”

I shout the lyrics to the song at the top of my lungs seeing my aunts face, my father strumming his guitar, seeing my grandmothers smile. The pain hurts so badly. It hurt so badly to remember. I wish I could see them again. To talk to them. To laugh with them again. Steve Perry continues…

“The same hotel
The same old room
I'm on the road again
She needed so much more
Than I could give”.

It was at this point in the song that I wonder how I could have helped them better, so they didn’t have to suffer or struggle. What could I have done better to make their life better? But the truth is back then when they were sick, old, struggling, I couldn’t help them – I was only a child. I could only support them with encouragement. But how does encouragement help when someone had a physical need like a needing a new kidney?
“Broken hearts can always mend”.

But do they really, Steve Perry? I think to myself as I sing softer now, ready to fall to pieces.

“Callin' out her name, I'm dreamin'
Reflections of a face I'm seein'
It's her voice that keeps on haunting me”

Hearing the last bit of the lyrics breaks me down. My face is wet, my nose is red and stuffy, and I cannot stop sobbing. I grab a paper towel and soak up my tears.

The lake looks calm now.

Like glass.

I walk over to the side table next to Mother’s wingback chair and grab the Chinese blue and white porcelain container and walk out to the back patio. I sit down in the Adirondack chair and look at my garden filled with beautiful flowers. I sit and stare holding tightly to the blue and white container.

“Today’s not a good day for me mom.” I say as my lip quivers again. The tears puddle my eyes. I look over and see her sitting next to me, reaching out her hand and smiling her red smile.

“Don’t worry darling. This too shall pass.” She tapped my hand as I looked down at the blue and white Chinese container and read what was engraved on the brass plaque.

“Motherhood: All love begins and ends there.” Robert Browning.

I look back at my mother in the chair, but the chair is empty.

E.J. Wells is a debut writer living in North Carolina. With a background in psychology, she spends her days among books, gardens, and the quiet pulse of the natural world. Her work turns toward the sensitive and overlooked aspects of society, illuminating what often goes unspoken.