Maya's mother arrived on a Tuesday.
The bus was on time for once. Maya waited at the terminal, her hands in her pockets. The air smelled of diesel and old coffee.
Her mother came down the stairs. Same duffel bag. Same purse. Same tired smile.
"You came," Maya said.
"You invited me."
"I know."
They hugged. Her mother was thin. Her shoulder blades pressed against Maya's hands.
"Where's Leo?" her mother asked.
"Work. He'll be home later."
"Does he work too much?"
"Yes."
"Good. Lazy men are useless."
Maya almost smiled. "You haven't changed."
"Neither have you."
They took the subway to Crown Heights. The train was crowded. Her mother stood holding a pole, looking at the tunnels.
"This is where you live now," her mother said.
"This is where we live."
"It's not Brooklyn."
"It's Brooklyn. Just a different part."
Her mother didn't respond.
---
The apartment was small. The living room had the painting on the wall. The kitchen had the lopsided ceramic bowl. The studio had sketchbooks stacked on the floor.
Her mother walked from room to room, touching things. The doorframe. The windowsill. The edge of the desk.
"It's clean," her mother said.
"I clean."
"You never used to clean."
"I never used to have anything worth cleaning."
Her mother sat on the floor. The hardwood was cold. She didn't seem to notice.
"Can I see your drawings?" she asked.
Maya brought her a stack of sketchbooks. The most recent ones. The courtyard. The garden. The morning glories.
Her mother turned the pages slowly. Her fingers were rough. Calloused from years of work.
"These are good," she said.
"You said that before."
"I meant it before."
She stopped at a drawing of Mrs. Patterson. The old woman on the milk crate. The garden behind her.
"Who is this?" her mother asked.
"Mrs. Patterson. My neighbor. She died."
"How?"
"Stroke. Heart problems. She was eighty-one."
Her mother looked at the drawing for a long time. "She looks kind."
"She was stubborn."
"Same thing."
Maya sat next to her. "She was like a grandmother to me."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too."
They sat in silence. The radiator hissed. The city hummed.
---
Leo came home at 6 PM.
He stood in the doorway, his briefcase in his hand. He looked at Maya's mother. Then at Maya.
"Mrs. Reyes," he said. "It's good to see you."
"Call me Elena."
He set down his briefcase. "Elena. Welcome."
He hugged her. It was a brief hug. Awkward. But real.
"I brought food," Elena said. "From the city. Empanadas."
She opened her duffel bag. A plastic container. The empanadas were cold. The dough was soggy.
Leo heated them in the oven. They sat on the floor of the living room, eating.
"These are good," Leo said.
"They were better yesterday."
"Still good."
Elena looked at the painting on the wall. "You painted that?"
"Yes."
"You're talented."
"I'm practicing."
Maya watched them. Her mother and her husband. Two people she loved. In the same room.
---
After dinner, Elena went to bed. The couch folded out. Maya gave her a blanket and a pillow.
"You don't have to sleep on the couch," Maya said. "You can take the bedroom. Leo and I can sleep out here."
"I'm fine. I've slept on worse."
"Mom –"
"I'm fine."
Maya kissed her forehead. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, baby."
---
In the bedroom, Leo lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
"Your mother is nice," he said.
"She's trying."
"We're all trying."
Maya lay next to him. "Thank you for being patient."
"Thank you for inviting her."
She turned off the lamp. The room was dark. The streetlight came through the window.
"Leo."
"Yeah."
"I'm glad you're here."
"Where else would I be?"
She closed her eyes.
---
The next morning, Maya woke to the smell of coffee.
Her mother was in the kitchen, standing at the hot plate. The single-cup maker was leaking. Elena had her back to Maya.
"You're up early," Maya said.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Bad dreams?"
"Same ones."
Maya sat on the floor. "What do you dream about?"
Her mother didn't answer for a long moment. Then she said, "Your father. Leaving. The door closing."
Maya's throat tightened. "I dream about that too."
"You never told me."
"You never asked."
Elena turned around. Her eyes were wet. "I'm asking now."
Maya looked at the floor. The hardwood was scratched. "I dream that I'm twelve years old. I'm standing in the hallway. He's walking out the door. I want to stop him, but I can't move."
"What do you feel?"
"Angry. Sad. Scared."
"That's what I feel too."
They were quiet. The coffee maker dripped. The radiator hissed.
"I should have talked to you," Elena said. "After he left. I should have held you. I should have told you it wasn't your fault."
"You were working. Two jobs. Three."
"That's not an excuse."
"No. But it's a reason."
Elena sat on the floor across from her. "I'm sorry, Maya. I'm sorry for all of it."
Maya took her mother's hands. The hands that had worked. The hands that had cleaned. The hands that had held her when she was small.
"I forgive you," Maya said.
Her mother cried. Maya held her.
---
That afternoon, they went to the courtyard.
The garden was full. The tomatoes were red. The basil was tall. The morning glories climbed the brick walls.
Elena stood in the middle of the garden, looking at the flowers.
"You grew all this?"
"Maya did," Leo said. "I just helped."
"She's always been good with plants. When she was little, she had a cactus. She kept it alive for years."
"What happened to it?"
"I killed it. Overwatered."
Elena laughed. It was a real laugh. Loud. Unselfconscious.
Maya smiled. "You're not funny."
"I'm not trying to be."
---
Elena stayed for a week.
She cooked. She cleaned. She sat in the courtyard and watched the garden grow.
She and Leo talked. About his work. About her job. About the city.
She and Maya drew. Maya taught her mother how to shade. How to hold a pencil. How to see the light.
"It's not good," Elena said, looking at her drawing.
"It's practice."
"I'm too old to practice."
"You're never too old."
Elena looked at her daughter. "You sound like your grandmother."
"She died when I was ten."
"I know. But she's still in you."
Maya leaned her head on her mother's shoulder. "I love you, Mom."
"I love you too."
---
On the last day, Elena stood in the doorway of the apartment. Her duffel bag was over her shoulder.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For letting me in."
Maya hugged her. "Come back anytime."
"I will."
She walked down the stairs. Maya watched her go.
Leo came up behind her. "She's going to be okay."
"How do you know?"
"Because she has you."
Maya closed the door.