Five

Since she was about two years old, my younger daughter Cammie and I could communicate without words.

Wait. That sounds a little stranger than I mean it. What I’m trying to say is that she can read my mind and I can read hers.

That didn’t help. Still sounding a bit crazy-lady.  But it’s true. It’s not all the time, and it’s certainly not to a Twilight Zone level of eeriness. It’s just really, really cool. Sometimes I know what she’s thinking just by the look on her face; that’s the most ordinary way our telepathy occurs. She knows how I’ll react to a comment, a jerk in traffic, a joke on Jimmy Fallon. I know what she’ll think about a certain movie preview, or how scared she is about an upcoming performance, no matter how much she tries to hide it.

All of that sounds pretty normal, natural for a mother and daughter who are as close as I’d like to think we are. Those kinds of nuances, moments of connection, are really just how well we know each other, how similarly we think, how deeply we feel. But the strangest part is this: our connection, our super-duper mind-reading capabilities are more complex than that. In fact, they can be downright creepy every once in a while. 

However, I love these little moments we share, and I treasure their sporadic nature. Out of the blue, I’ll ask, “Did you . . . “ and she will say, “Yes, yesterday,” answering correctly before I even asked the question. We will see something on the street while driving around the ‘hood, and it will remind both of us of something that happened in another city at another time ages ago, and we’ll both start talking about it at once.

One time, to test the reality of this zany form of communication, I asked a five-year-old Cammie, tucked in her booster in the back of the minivan, to play along with me:

“Cam, I’m going to think of someone in the world. Anyone. Famous or not. Anyone at all. Think for a second and tell me who you think of.”

I crunched my brain cells together hard and thought of her pediatrician. We hadn’t seen him in months, so I knew I was safe. No way she'd get this. I knew she’d say Laurie Berkner, the children’s singer, or Daddy, or the Wiggle in the yellow shirt.

“Um. Dr. Rowe?” she said loudly, answering in the form of a question.

I almost swerved off the highway. I can still remember the exact spot where she took all words out of my mouth.

We’ve not shared any crazy random connection like that ever since (and believe me, we’ve tried repeatedly), but you get the idea. She can read me like no one else, and she’s only thirteen years old. Sometimes, she guesses at what is making me tick at a given moment, and she’s off, but that’s rare, and she’s usually in the right ball park. Same is true for me, of course, but usually, I get it at least partly right.

Knowing what Cammie is thinking is not a mere superpower. It is a gift, even if it is one that is shared only occasionally. When that connection happens--that moment of insight when I know precisely what is worrying, delighting, antagonizing, or confusing her--I am grateful. Sometimes, it’s a lot of pressure. I feel like I need to fix or change or lighten the load or kick a bully’s ass, when really she’s just being her moody self, and I know should recognize that the moment is fleeting. When it happens the other way, and she figures out what is swishing around in me at a given moment, I feel good, understood. She will fill in my sentences or get frustrated with me before I speak, or we will crack up in absolute silence. And I just love it. It’s a soothing constant, a secret between us, a blessing. It is safety.

Last night, we shared a look. We were sitting close in a high school auditorium, watching fine arts dance students perform for rising freshmen. Our elbows touched lightly as we shared the armrest, and the room was lit only with the lights from the stage. All of a sudden, I turned to her and she to me. I could see her eyes, although their hazel was dim, and she mine. We smiled soft, tiny smiles, and in that moment, I swear I felt my heart open. I knew we were doing it, having one of those moments, one of those seconds in which we say everything and nothing at all. 

We smiled, we said it, we looked back at the stage and the moment passed. While I can’t be sure of the exact transcript, and I haven’t even spoken with her about this moment yet, I think it went a little something like this . . . 

I can’t believe you’re going to high school, my baby. I can’t believe we’re here.

I know, mom. I know.

I think this hurts a little.

I know, mom. I know.