Page 102 of Courtroom Drama
I follow her into the living room, where Genevieve lies on her belly in a playpen, arms and legs flailing behind her in a Superman-esque spread. When she notices us, she raises her head and smiles through a chinful of drool. I’m struck by how different she looks. I saw her just three weeks ago, but she’s noticeably plumper, her face having transitioned from uncertain newborn to chubby baby. I have the immediate sense that I need to see her more frequently—frequently enough that her daily changes have the chance to go unnoticed.
My mom and I sit on the blue-and-gray woven rug at the edge of the playpen.
“So, how was it?” she asks.
“It was... a lot,” I say.
She taps my shoulder. “I’ll bet.”
Gen makes a noise, something between a hiccup and a burp, and it draws my attention.
“Do you want to hold her?” my mom asks.
“Sure,” I say, recognizing that I very much do.
She leans forward and lifts Gen from her spot in the playpen. Gen coos and thrusts her arms stiffly about as my mom hands her to me. She’s noticeably heavier, her body sturdier than before, like a dense pile of dough rolled tight. Gen looks up at me and smiles, then thrusts her head into the crook of my neck. I instinctively inhale against the top of her head. The tears come as swiftly as they possibly can.
“What is it?” my mom asks, placing her hand on my knee. Her eyes are wide with alarm. This is not something I do. I’m not emotional around her. I work tirelessly to not be seen as a bother of any kind, still. I shake my head, needing a moment.
“It’s good to see you,” she says once I’ve collected myself.
This time and space with her feels different. Maybe it was the time away. Maybe it’s learning about Kara. Or maybe it’s Gen and the need to do it all differently this time. I’m not quite sure, but what I do know is that for the first time in longer than I can remember, the unease I feel around my mother is slightly dissipated.
“Mom, I need to tell you something,” I say. We’ve moved to the dining table, where Gen sits in Mom’s lap as she attempts to spoon mushed avocado into her mouth. “Damon Bradburn was on the jury with me.”
She shifts her attention from Gen to me. It’s not necessarily surprise in her eyes but a remembrance. Her discomfort shows as her neck retreats into her shoulders. “Wow,” she offers.
“Yeah.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“It was good to see him. Really good.”
“It’s been a long time,” she says, spooning mush into Gen’s mouth.
“It has.” I pick up one of Gen’s burping cloths and hand it to my mom to wipe a trail of avocado from Gen’s chin. “Do you remember his sister, Kara?”
“Yes, of course,” she says. “Sawbayees,” she adds with a smile.
I smile back. “Right. She...” I stop to swallow the lump in my throat so it doesn’t crack my next words. “She died. Not long after they moved away.”
She raises a hand over her mouth and instinctively looks at Gen. I look to her, too.
“That’s awful,” she says.
I tell her how—the real how—because Damon was right, people do focus on how. As I speak, I see it in my mom’s face, her release of any residual anger over what happened between my father and Mallory Bradburn.
“All this time has passed, and we never knew.” She shakes her head.
“I know. They cut ties with everyone after.” I’ve been thinking about it since Damon’s last note. How did we never hear about it? An eight-year-old girl goes missing for four days from the beach and then it’s confirmed she drowned? It certainly would have been reported on. How often have I seen a headline like it, not bothering to read the particulars? The thought that perhaps I did see it but hastily scrolled past the news without connecting it, without a second thought, makes my stomach roil.
“I should find Mal’s number,” Mom says, gently scraping excess avocado from Gen’s cheeks with the side of the rubbery spoon. “Tell her how sorry I am.” She looks at me. “You don’t think it’s too late, do you? To offer my condolences?”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think it’s too late.”
She gives me a smile that’s more like a frown before picking up the jar of mashed avocado.
There are more conversations to be had, of course. Many more. Ineed her to know how much it hurt me when she left. I want her to know I felt unwanted as a child. And I want her to know how sorry I am for all my father put her through. I don’t know yet if she can meet me where I am, but I am willing to try. In large part, for Gen.
