Apologies

(A short-short story in which I reimagine my real life experiences)

“You don’t owe her anything,” Amy said as she brought her Camry to a stop at the light.

“I’m not doing this for her,” Kelly replied, staring out the window aimlessly.

“Then who are you doing it for?”

“I haven’t figured that out.” Kelly chewed on the inside of her cheek, an old habit she always fell back into when she was anxious. That and stress-eating had gotten her through many of life’s horrors so far.

“Anyway, I thought you were coming along as moral support.” Kelly nibbled on the end of a granola bar she had tossed in her purse earlier that morning as she was trying to decide whether to go through with it or not.

Amy harumphed. “I’m driving you. I held your hair back last night when you puked out practically an entire lasagna. That sounds pretty supportive to me.” She put on her left blinker. “We’re about five minutes from the hotel. There’s still time to back out.”

“No. I’m doing this. And thanks. I didn’t mean to say you weren’t supportive. You’re a great friend. I’m just stressed. And confused. And I think my right ovary dried up last week, so there’s that.”

The women laughed, but it didn’t bring much relief.

“You haven’t talked to your mom in how long?” Amy inquired.

“Three years. Except for the occasional phone call where she would ask me to call the manager of the last retirement home she got kicked out of because she was such a pain in the ass. Five homes in all!”

If there was one consistent fact about her mother, it was that she had always been a pain in someone’s ass. Four husbands, five children, two roommates, and a half dozen cats would agree.

“She sounds like a winner,” Amy said with a shrug. “Sorry.”

Both women took sips from their coffees, so the car’s cabin was almost silent for thirty seconds, except for the sound of Elton John singing something very quietly that came from the speakers in back. It was impossible to make out what song it was.

“Do you think I should have dressed up?” Kelly asked as she stared at her t-shirt and yoga pants. “Maybe something more serious?”

“I honestly don’t know, hon. This is not something I have any experience with.

“Maybe I should have baked some cookies or something.”

Amy shook her head. “That seems excessive. Just showing up is more than enough. It’s not like you’ve ever had a relationship with her.”

“Well, she was busy with her other families and trying to decide when to leave them. That can take up a lot of time. I think the 31 years she didn’t communicate with me may have been the best thing she could have done for me.”

Kelly smoothed out a wrinkle in her t-shirt. The truth is, no matter how hard she’d tried in the past five years to establish some kind of relationship with her mother, she had failed. Her mother canceled lunches and dinners, berated Kelly for not paying enough attention (or paying too much attention) to her most recent feline roommate, and was unable to have a conversation that wasn’t completely one-sided. She’d once screamed at Kelly in a mall parking lot for buying her a puzzle for her birthday. A puzzle! What had she been thinking?

Why then, Kelly wondered, do I feel any sense of responsibility or guilt? Her mom had hung up the phone on her mid-conversation because “she was done talking” at least a hundred times. If Kelly had been a more empowered daughter, maybe she would have gotten the message long ago.

Deep in thought and doubt, Kelly felt the car make an abrupt turn. She looked up and saw the hotel sign out her window.

“Well, we’re here,” Amy said with resignation. She parked the car and shut off the engine. “Good luck in there.”

Kelly felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. “You’re not coming inside with me?”

“No, ma’am, I am not.” She took another swig of her now lukewarm coffee. “But I will be here if there’s any fall out. But I do not promise to go through the whole lasagna experience again tonight.”

Reaching for the door handle, Kelly noticed that her fingers were damp. She wiped them on the seat of the car.

“Sure, clean your sweaty palms on my seats. I’ll just add it to the bill,” Amy said staring hard at her friend.

“Sorry.” Kelly seemed glued to the seat.

“I can turn the car around right now. We could be at the garden center shopping for plants in ten minutes.”

“No, no. I just needed a sec. Thanks for waiting for me. I don’t think I’ll be more than a half hour.”

“Whatever it takes. I’ll just be here listening to light rock and finishing off my coffee.”

Finally, Kelly got the door open and strode purposefully across the parking lot. At least she hoped she looked purposeful. Inside she felt angry, confused, sad, sleepy, grumpy and in need of a doc or maybe a gummy.

She noticed the hotel lobby smelled heavily of air freshener and stale cinnamon buns as she made her way to the front desk. It made her happy that she no longer traveled every week for work.

“Checking in?” the young clerk whose name badge read “Regina, she/her” asked.

“No,” Kelly replied. She took a deep breath and had to hold her hands to keep them from shaking. “I’m looking for Anna.”

“Sure. She’s just in the back. Let me get her.”

Before Kelly had time to chicken out, a young woman with red hair and long, thin fingers arrived at the desk. She wondered if Anna might be a pianist or play the guitar.

“I heard you were looking for me,” Anna said.

“Yes. I’m Kelly Pine. My mother committed suicide last night in Room 136. I heard you found her body and I’m here to apologize.”