Some Things I Know and Some Things I Don't Know

My eyes open.  I am lying on my back, or maybe my side, warm between the mint green sheets my mom bought when we redid my room for my 16th birthday.  It's dark, and my eyes slowly adjust to where I can make out the rectangular shapes of closet, door, dresser.  My breath is short, my body paralyzed. I am afraid for no knowable reason, although I imagine a man has broken in, and is coming up the stairs to hurt me, rape me even.  Or maybe it's a ghost -- although our condo is brand new and we are the first people to have lived in it, my mom and me.  Still, what did the land hold before the new construction?

I know I need to move, to get to my mom's room, but my limbs are frozen by fear.  I also know that if I am touching mint green, I will be safe.  I don't know how I know this, but I do. For some of us, magical thinking doesn't end with childhood. So I sit up, stuff my pillow with its mint green pillowcase under my left arm, rub the satin edge between my thumb and forefinger as if it were a rabbit's foot, and push off, being sure to clear the bottom of the bed by at least a foot or two.  You know why.

With my left arm clutching my pillow like a football, and my right arm straight out as if I'm the linebacker running the ball down the field, I begin. The journey to my mother's bedroom isn't far, just through the door and across the hall, but I take what feels like a hundred baby steps before I finally arrive, where I can see the lump of her on the right side of her bed. It's the King she never got rid of after the divorce, even though she doesn't need the space. It takes up half the room. She never sleeps in the middle. There is always room for me on the left.

Softly, I peel back the bedspread, the blanket, the sheet, like origami. I remove the pillow that is there, replace it with mine, recline as slowly and quietly as I can, and re-layer the sheet, blanket, bedspread over me.

I am safe.

I don't know how long I lie in the dark before falling asleep.  But I do know I am on my left side, facing away from my mother, unable to acknowledge that I need her.  Perhaps she is snoring, or breathing the regular deep breath of the dreamer.  She might even be faking it. I don't care. All I know is that I don't want her to know I am here.

In the morning, while we maneuver around each other awkwardly in the kitchen, she could ask, "What happened last night?" or "Why did you come in my room?" or "What were you scared of?" or "Are you okay?"

But she doesn't.

And I am glad.

As a mother of a teenager now, I know that all we can do sometimes is hold space for them.
It is enough.