Page 17 of Racing Hearts

“Train your ass off,” she whispers as she pulls me in for a last hug. “And come back faster than ever.”

Mom doesn’t own a car, so when I land, I order an Uber with savings from my now entirely former sponsors. I got the last two calls while in the air, so at least I received the bad news with the sterile transactionality of a voicemail message. Officially, it means that I’ll be living for the rest of the summer on the limited funds I’ve saved over the last few years. If I’m extremely frugal, it might be just enough to pay for food this summer, plus my travel to Canada for Pan Ams in September.

My forehead is still lolled against the cool glass when the Uber comes to a stop in front of my childhood home—a single-story bungalow in North Berkeley. I practically have to squint to make out a house-shaped building behind the thick vines scaling the porch railing, succulents spilling from chipped pottery, and dozens of mismatched wind chimes. Despite the disarray, it’s a fairly nice house in a very nice neighborhood, attributable to the only good financial decision my mom has ever made: She never sold her grandparents’ house.

Just as I’m hefting my second suitcase out of the trunk, Mom bursts out of the turquoise door and throws open her arms. Her array of scarves and shawls spread open like a pair of mottled fairy wings. “Home at last!” she shouts.

I thank the driver and abandon my suitcases so I can leap up the porch steps and bury myself in her embrace. My chin presses to the top of her head, avoiding the two sets of reading glasses perched in her gray curls.

“Hi, Mom,” I whisper and breathe in deeply, savoring her smell of spiced tea and jasmine.

Around us, wind chimes sing a symphony in the summer breeze. Her giant philodendron, still overgrowing its chipped ceramic pot, tickles my shoulder. Standing on this porch is like stepping back in time. It’s nostalgic in a way that makes me ache with regret. I can’t help but feel like I’m living in reverse. Going backward instead of forward.

“Let me get my eyes on you.” Mom lowers a pair of glasses to her nose and pushes back my shoulders with surprising force. Her gaze snags on the bags under my eyes, then the exhausted hunch of my upper back. She purses her lips. “This breakup has taken too much from you.”

I repress a sigh. Mom sees the whole world through the lens of heartbreak. She cycles through men like a track star turning laps. For her, each beginning is full of optimism and hope. Every time, it’s followed by a crash—usually involving hours of tearful phone calls. I have no idea how she’s had the stamina to keep that up for decades. After what Maxwell did, I don’t want to give someone else control over my emotions ever again.

“It’s not the breakup,” I say. Well, not only the breakup. “But, yeah, things are rough right now.”

She smooths back a wisp of hair that’s come loose from my braid. “Nothing a little cacao ceremony can’t fix.”

Smiling patiently, I trudge to the sidewalk to collect my suitcases. As much as I want to collapse on the creaky twin bed in my old bedroom, I need to get unpacked and send an email to Adrian, my new coach. His last message indicated he’d prefer me to take a few days off before getting back on the water, but I can’t afford the break. So, I need to make sure he’ll have a loaner boat ready for me tomorrow morning when I head down to the boathouse.

The distinctive smell of burning sage greets me when Mom throws open the door. I toe off my sneakers next to her pile of moccasins, heeled boots, and a few pairs of clogs. We forge through the familiar features of her living room: the well-loved red velvet couch, the cloudy bronze-framed mirror, and, in the corner, a colony of dust bunnies so large it has probably established a governance structure. I’m making a mental note to deal with those later when my eyes catch on the kitchen countertops.

I freeze.

“Why is there a jungle where your sink should be?” I ask.

Mom spins slowly toward me. “Sweetheart, I need you to take a deep breath for me, okay? I didn’t have time to get the house in Kath-ready order after you called yesterday.”

I abandon my suitcase and tiptoe into the kitchen, shoulders already tensing. The walls are still that faded amethyst—a color my mom grabbed out of a discount paint bin after a particularly bad breakup, insisting a purple kitchen would brighten her mood—and the ancient Frigidaire is still rattling in the corner. But an indoor garden filled with overgrown herbs and wilted flowers has sprung up across the butcher block. When I yank open a drawer, I find paintbrushes mixed in with the spoons. Inside the nearest cabinet, fake spiderwebs and an array of plastic pumpkins pile high on top of serving platters.

My head falls back and I try not to hyperventilate. Memories of my high school years tumble through my mind like a rockfall. Waking up in the dark to cook eggs before practice, only to find Mom had hurled them into the sink in a fit of rage. Trying to get to sleep while Mom and her latest guy played music in the living room, laughing over the booming stereo. Getting rides to races from friends because Mom never paid her parking tickets and couldn’t keep a job long enough to afford a car, anyway.

“Please stay centered here,” Mom warns from over my shoulder.

The worst part is that the problems at home also had very real consequences. This fridge has always oscillated between too full and too empty, usually alongside Mom’s relationship status. As a freshman, I went to my first regionals in Oakland when Mom had just broken up with some guy from the bank where she worked at the time. She’d forgotten to buy groceries even though she promised a dozen times over that she would, so I had nothing to eat that morning but pudding and a handful of olives. My blood sugar crashed halfway through my heat and I barely crossed the finish line.

Rowing was my escape from this house, but I forgot all the ways this house challenged my ability to row in the first place.

With a harsh breath, I cut off the train of thoughts. I’m not a teenager anymore. It’s not like I was expecting to find protein powders and electrolytes in her cabinets. All I need is a budget and a plan. And maybe some elbow grease.

“Can I organize things?” I ask, even as I dig out my phone and pull up my email chain with Adrian. I’d wanted to carefully craft my next response, but I don’t have time for all that. “Make an inventory of your food so I can figure out what I need to buy?”

I need to get right back on the water, I type out quickly. Will need a loaner boat, too. See you for morning practice tomorrow. I stare at the message and then add, Looking forward to it!

I don’t usually do exclamation points, but I should at least attempt to get things off on the right foot here.

“I can help,” Mom says as I stuff my phone back into my crossbody bag.

“Really?”

She shucks off one of her longer scarves, the one with tassels that nearly brush her knees. “We’ll conquer it together.”

“Okay, then,” I say, moving to the countertop. The surfaces that aren’t covered in wilted plants are overfilled with appliances, including a bread maker that looks like it hasn’t been used since I was in diapers. “We’ll need to get this cleared so we have—Mom, why do you have a hair curler stored with the Cuisinart?”

“I don’t own a panini press.”