“I will as soon as I can safely hand over the remaining work.”
She didn't answer.
I continued.
“And I want to talk with you properly when I get there.”
There was a pause.
Then she whispered, “Okay.”
Before ending the call, she added something that stayed with me for the rest of the day.
“Mom, I know you protect people. But somebody has to protect you too.”
I held the phone against my ear after she disconnected.
For years, I'd believed the best way to reassure my daughter was to appear invulnerable.
Now I understood how frightening that could be.
A child who never saw her mother admit pain might begin believing that her mother would never tell her when something was wrong.
I looked toward the bruising around my wrists.
Then reached for the telephone again.
I called my mother.
Nora answered before the second ring.
“Vivienne Elaine Quarles.”
I closed my eyes.
Using my full name was never a good sign.
“Good morning, Mom.”
“Don't you good-morning me.”
Despite everything, I nearly smiled.
She continued.
“Your daughter called me crying.”
I looked toward the ceiling.
“I know.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Not seriously.”
“That wasn't my question.”
I took a breath.
“My wrists and shoulder are sore. I was examined.”
My mother was silent for several seconds.
Then she asked, “Did somebody put their hands on you?”
I stared toward the window.
“Yes.”
Her breathing changed.
For a moment, the woman who'd spent decades confronting school boards, angry parents, and difficult administrators said nothing.
Then she whispered, “Oh, baby.”
And suddenly I was no longer the Deputy Director of anything.
I was a little girl again.
The child who came home from school crying because a classmate called her stupid for wanting to become an engineer.
The teenager who watched people assume her white classmates understood science better because they were more comfortable speaking confidently.
The young officer who learned that being competent didn't always mean being respected.
I covered my eyes.
“Mom.”
She waited.
Then I said quietly, “I was scared.”
The admission came out before I could stop it.
My mother didn't rush to reassure me.
Didn't tell me I was strong.
Didn't remind me of my title.
She simply answered.
“I know.”
And that was enough.
I began crying.
For several minutes, I couldn't speak.