Inga Abele - High Tide

“Do you want tea?”

“Bring it here.”

Ieva sighs. The hope that they could at least have tea at the table across from each other — even if in silence — bursts like a bubble. Ieva puts the teacup on the desk.

“Thanks.”

The screen flickers in the half-light. The lives of others. Her daughter’s messages — concerns, losses, gains — Ieva has no clue about any of them. A silver stud through Monta’s eyebrow. Small hoops and a few safety pins line her ears, spiked leather bracelets hang around her thin wrists, and her eyes are outlined in black. She’s checking her friends’ profile updates on Draugiem.lv. She’s inaccessible to her mother — simply offline.

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

Monta shoots her a look that clearly says “leave me alone.” Ieva goes back to the kitchen. After a while she calls out:

“Want to go to the theater next week? I have tickets.”

“No.”

A few minutes later:

“Do you want to come see me at work sometime? We’re putting together a new movie — it’s really interesting.”

“No time.”

“How’s school?”

“Fine.”

“Where do you work?”

“Sky City.”

“What do you do there?”

“Work with snowboards.”

“Do you snowboard?”

“You see any snow around here?”

“We could go to Switzerland.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got stuff to do.”

“What was your boyfriend’s name — Tomass?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s he?”

“Fine. C’mon, Mom, not right now.”

Ieva sighs.

“Hungry?”

“No, thanks.”

Ieva turns on the television. Something she hasn’t done in ages. But she has to pass the time somehow while Monta’s online. While she’s visiting.

For a long time, one sits in front of the computer, the other in front of the television. Ieva washes up and gets ready for bed. Suddenly, she gets an idea:

“I’ll draw you a bath!”

“What d’you mean, bath? I have a shower at home.”

But Ieva continues:

“A shower’s a shower, and a bath’s a bath. I’ll draw you one right now. I’ve got this new bath oil. It’ll be the best bath you’ve ever had.”

And she gives the tap a hard turn, so the water gushes out. So she won’t hear Monta’s objections.

Soon the bath is ready. Ieva sprinkles some jasmine blossoms into the bubbles and lights the candles at the foot of the tub. She puts a white cotton shirt on the chair.

“It’s ready, go ahead!”

Monta doesn’t answer. Ieva changes into pajamas, gets into bed and intently watches the hallway through the open door.

The teenager sits at the computer for several more minutes, then gets up with a sigh and goes to the kitchen to wash her teacup. The splash of water, the clinking of dishes. She comes to the doorway, looks at her mother as if she’s about to say something, then turns and goes into the adjacent room, where a bed has been made up for her. Ieva starts to think Monta will just go to sleep fully dressed.

But she doesn’t. She goes to the bathroom, then comes back into the hallway. She looks at the computer, then at her mother. Then she goes back into the bathroom and shuts the door with a bang.

The sound of belts and snaps hitting the stone tile can be heard through the closed door; the ringing of metal and sound of leather. Then silence.

It seems like Monta is in the bathtub for at least an hour. Finally the bathroom door opens again and a figure dressed in a white shirt tiptoes into Ieva’s room.

“You asleep? Thanks for the bath. G’night.”

“Maybe you can sleep in here tonight!” Ieva calls out sharply — too quickly. Monta starts and turns to leave.

“No way!”

“Then at least come sit with me for a bit!” Ieva begs.

“No!”

Monta goes into the hallway, but doesn’t turn the light out right away. She moves around the apartment like a cat, inspecting photographs and paintings, flipping through magazines. It’s already long past midnight.

“Please, come here, sweetheart! Can’t you just sit with me for a minute?” Ieva begs again.

“No!”

But after a few more minutes, Monta does come in. She takes a book from the shelf and puts it back, looks at the flowers on the windowsill, then finally drags herself over and sinks down onto the bed.

At first Ieva is afraid to move, as if some rare bird has just landed in the room. Then she frees a hand from under the blanket and reaches toward Monta. She can easily sense her daughter’s warmth in the dark, her pale face and long shadows under her eyelashes, her smooth and youthful skin. Ieva puts her hand on Monta’s shoulder. So thin, so fragile. She caresses the shoulder once. And then a second time. Monta says nothing, but her breathing is anxious and her heart thuds in her chest — the beating is easy to hear through the blanket. Ieva keeps caressing her daughter’s shoulder. She keeps telling herself the caresses are both strong enough and calm enough, the type of touch used to tame timid horses. Wild horses are tamed with a different type of touch. Monta is incredibly timid, not at all wild. She stays still. Ieva puts into these caresses everything she can’t say with words. They’re together again, sharing the same warmth; as if Monta were still only the hint of a person inside Ieva, as if she were still that earlier version — the three-year-old daughter Ieva could take into her lap. The harshness has fallen away, like the snaps and spikes in the bathroom. The imposing black leather and studs are gone. The makeup is washed off, all the foreign, abrasive scents scrubbed away. Monta smells like a child. Ieva’s child. Even the acrid smell of cigarettes is gone. She’s all freshness and warmth.

Her child.

This moment starts, lingers, and passes. Monta knows when it needs to end — she moves away.

“G’night, Mom.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Ieva replies gratefully.

The next morning they dress quickly and drink their tea in a hurry. They steal glances at one another.

Each day is completely different from the last, each day is a lifetime. And the night is something entirely different from the morning or afternoon. They represent numerous and varied thoughts.

Today is very matter-of-fact, and the morning is full of promises. Ieva puts some money on the table.

“For the apartment and for school.”

“Thanks, Mom… Mom?”

Ieva listens — something important is coming. Monta’s voice has changed.

“I might leave school. Tomass says it would be good to work abroad somewhere.”

She hurriedly pulls on her dark jacket and yanks the hood over her head, maybe so she won’t hear the answer, even though her own voice sounds unsure.

“Location isn’t important. If you want to do the right thing, you can do that anywhere. If you want to screw up your life, you can do that anywhere, too.”

Monta gets defensive.

“Who says I want to screw up my life?”

“So finish school and then go do whatever you want. You’ve only got a year left.”

As she rushes out behind Monta, Ieva feels like she’s tracking a fleeing animal. The thud of army boots as her daughter disappears around the next flight of stairs, and then again around the next one — Ieva feels she won’t catch up to her, like she’ll never catch up to her.

And yet there’s the next turn and then the door, and then the kiss goodbye. Life gives you time to catch up.

“You know I love you,” Ieva tells Monta.

Monta’s answer is unexpected:

“I’m not sure if I believe you because you’ve never had time for me.”

“You think? Things were different way back then, it’s not who I really am. Here, take this and read it later. I found it last night.”