CHAPTER 1

Chimére

If it weren't for the ever-present text messages, I could pretendyou don't exist. That's the only way in which we've communicatedfor the last three months. There is a slight tug at my conscienceonly because of those silly titles that will forever bond us. I am yourdaughter. You are my mother. I should be calling you at least threetimes a day to make sure you're doing well. You should be able to setyour watch by the actual time of day I call just to say, "I love you."You should expect a quick call to check your clothing size so I canrandomly pick up a special gift for you. In a perfect world, sendingyou a text message would be a last resort when my phone simplywon't work on the subway or a plane.

But I don't need another reminder of the fact that this isn't aperfect world. For if it was, I would not feel this pang of guilt fornot communicating with you as often as I think I should. I'm nottoo busy taking care of my own children; I'm not too tired froma long day's work; and yes, my phone is working better than itever has. I'm almost glad you stopped calling me. I'm hoping thetext messages will soon come to an end. I want to live in a worldwhere people don't feel this insatiable need to ask if I have or haven'tspoken to you. I wish I could stop myself from telling people, "Oh,she's fine," when I have no clue how you're doing—unless we countthose few text messages you send informing me of your aching kneeor of the latest book you bought written by Marvin Gaye's sister.And truthfully, I don't even know if I really care.

I'm sure I won't receive the `Perfect Daughter of the Year Award.'There won't be any articles in our local papers profiling our greatrelationship. There are no photographs of us together that chroniclemy changing hairstyles or your wrinkled smile. The last time wehugged was during the Christmas holiday. Someone recently invitedme out for Mother's Day, and I actually contemplated going. Then ithit me: on this day, which is carved out for the mothers who make theworld go round, I should at least consider spending time with you.

I keep trying to make my head, heart, soul, and spirit align whenit comes to you. I have tried to will all four to work well togetherso we can have the perfect relationship, or at least the kind I canbe proud of. But each time I think I can pick up the phone to callyou or even drop by, I remember something repulsive you've said orhow much you irritate me, and I quickly press the end button on myphone and shake thoughts of you away.

My brain screams that I should just make peace with you. You'rethe only mother I have. Unless some freaky switcheroo occurred atmy birth, I am almost sure you're my biological mother. We havethe same eye shape, and when we smile, our cheekbones try to reachthe sky. My legs are long, just like yours, and our voices sound alikewhen we speak. Just because we are genetically related, I shouldwant to love you. Yes, I know life can be hard, but loving you shouldbe easy. It's only right that I acknowledge your role as my mother.You gave birth to me, for God's sake. You could have died havingme and the least I could do is respond to those text messages or callyou every now and again. Compared to the horror stories aboutmothers drowning their children in large bodies of water or placingtoddlers in ovens to die, you are a stellar mother.

But I know better. And you do too. No physical damage existsto show the effects of our scarred relationship, but my emotionalwell-being is certainly bruised. The last time I checked, the only timethe brain really shuts off is during sleep or death, so I think of youmore than I care to only because my brain doesn't allow me to domuch else when I consider what my family should be but clearly isn't.

I'm thinking of the people I love right now. Your name neverappears first. I've been in some pretty intense love relationships withmen that have set my heart on fire. When I love someone, you cantell. I move heaven and earth for them, or at least I sure try. Mylove consumes my every thought, action, and word. You knew howmuch I loved Kevin, my first love, because after finding secret loveletters I had written to him in tenth grade, you spent hours on endtelling me not to bring home a baby at sixteen. You knew I lovedAunt Tenie because even though she was seventy-five and I wasthirteen, I enjoyed spending every summer with her without beingforced. You even knew I loved Pastor Willie F. Wilson because whenI was nine—even when you tried to block me from leaving the pewwith your knee—it was his voice begging me to come to Christ thatI ran to. And everyone knew I loved Earl; if it wasn't the fact that Italked about him all the time that gave away my secret, it becameapparent in the twenty-five pounds I lost when he left.

My love is pure, raw, and real. It stretches past faults, mistakes,lies, and flaws. As a young woman not yet hardened by too manylife experiences, my love is intoxicating and infectious. But youwouldn't know this, because for the last twenty-five years, you haven'texperienced the purity of my love. I think of the few times I've heardmyself tell you I love you,...