Chapter 13: Subtraction of Shame

The alarm sounds at 5:47 AM.

I rise. I shower. I do not dress. I make coffee. I drink it standing at the counter. I drive to work. I run the numbers.

But today is Sunday. Today I did not drive to work.

I know this because I calculated it. I noted the date. I noted the time. I ran the numbers.

Miriam arrives at 2:00 PM.

She is thirty-four years old, my oldest daughter, my responsible daughter, my daughter who has spent her life trying to understand me and failing. She is five feet five inches tall, with lighter hair and softer features; she takes after her father’s side. She is wearing jeans, a sweater, and a coat. She is carrying a purse and a small bag, a week-long bag, not a weekend bag. She is nervous. I can see it in her eyes, in the way she holds her shoulders, in the way she exhales slowly.

She sees me. She does not react. She does not stare. She does not look away. She simply walks toward me.

“Mom.”

“Miriam.”

She does not hug me. We are not a family that hugs. She sets her bag down. She looks at me directly, unflinchingly.

“You’re still naked,” she says.

“Yes.”

“I thought ... I thought maybe you would wear clothes. For the visit. For me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I consider the question. It is the same question everyone asks me. It is the question I cannot answer or can answer, but will not. But Miriam is different. Miriam is my daughter. Miriam deserves an answer.

“Because it’s not a performance,” I say. “It’s not something I do for attention. It’s not something I can turn on and off. It’s who I am. It’s the arithmetic I have chosen.”

She looks at me. She is calculating something I can see in her eyes, the way she is weighing the risk and the return of whatever she is about to say next.

“I know,” she says. “You told me that before. I didn’t understand it then. I think I’m starting now.”

“Okay.”

She picks up her bag. She walks to the guest room. She sets her bag on the bed. She returns to the living room. She sits on the couch. I sit in the chair across from her.

“Tell me about your day,” she says.

I consider the request. It is a new variable. I have not calculated it.

“My day?”

“Yes. Tell me about your day. What did you do? Who did you see? What were the numbers?”

I consider the request. It is a new variable. I have not calculated it.

“Okay,” I say.

I tell her about my day.

I tell her about the customers: the young couple buying their first car, the retiree trading in his truck, the woman who asked me about my nudity and then laughed when I gave her my standard non-answer. I tell her about the numbers: the deals closed, the credit applications run, the negotiations with lenders. I tell her about Danielle: the promotion, the transformation, the way she is learning to inhabit her own authority. I tell her about Warren: the owner who looked the other way, who fought for me, who is tired and ready to retire. I tell her about the lawsuit: the deposition, the verdict, the hollow victory.

She listens. She does not interrupt. She does not judge. She simply listens.

When I finish, she is silent for a long moment. Then she speaks.

“It sounds lonely,” she says.

I consider this. It is a new variable. I have not calculated it.

“Sometimes,” I say.

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because the alternative is worse.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“Performing. Pretending. Calculating the arithmetic of respectability. Wearing the clothes. Smiling. Being the person everyone expects me to be.”

She looks at me. She is calculating something I can see in her eyes, the way she is weighing the risk and the return of whatever she is about to say next.

“I don’t think I could do that,” she says.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. But I want to understand.”

“Understanding is not the same as doing.”

“No.” She pauses. “It’s not.”

The first day was awkward.

She wakes at 7:00 AM, an hour after I have already left for work. She calls me at the dealership. She asks if she can come by. I tell her she can. She arrives at 10:00 AM. She sits in the showroom. She watches.

She watches me greet customers. She watches me run credit applications. She watches me negotiate with lenders. She watches me close deals. She watches the customers react to the stares, the silences, the occasional hostility. She watches me absorb it all without flinching.

She does not say anything. She simply watches.

At noon, I eat lunch at my desk. A sandwich of turkey and Swiss on wheat, made at home, cost approximately $1.87 in ingredients. An apple. A glass of water from the cooler. I eat while reviewing the afternoon’s appointments.

Miriam sits in the chair across from my desk. She does not eat. She does not drink. She simply sits.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“The stares. The Silences. The way people look at you.”

I consider the question. It is the same question everyone asks me. It is the question I cannot answer, or can answer, but will not. But Miriam is different. Miriam is my daughter. Miriam deserves an answer.

“Sometimes,” I say.

She blinks. She was not expecting this answer.

“Sometimes?”

“Yes. Sometimes it bothers me.”

“Then why do you do it?”

I consider the question. It is a new variable. I have not calculated it.