Witchy Woman

My mother has always known when something is off. She does not announce it. She does not ask many questions. She watches.

Before she studied acting, she was already doing it. Not the performance, but what comes before. Reading what sits underneath. My grandfather did the same, moving through rooms quietly, taking stock. She learned early that behavior carries information long before anyone names it.

Later, her job required it. As a flight attendant, she was trained to scan a cabin continuously. In small, practiced checks. Who is paying attention, who is not, who is moving wrong, who would be useful in an emergency.

It does not turn off. Neither does she.

My aunt calls her a witchy woman.

The first time I remember it clearly was on a football field.My brother had taken a hit during a Peewee Football Game and stayed down longer than usual. When he got up, he said he was fine. My father, who was coaching, agreed.

She drove her freshly washed black BMW onto the field, slowly, because there were still people on it. The coaches looked at each other, then at my father. He said nothing.

They lifted him into the back seat. The door shut. It had been quiet from the moment the car pulled onto the field.

He looked at my mother and said thank you.

Years later, in London, she and my aunt were seated in a theater waiting for a show to begin. My mother leaned over and said, I don’t like this.

A moment later, someone came onstage to announce a short delay.

She told my aunt to gather her things. She watched the room, the staff, the way people began to move.

Move. We’re leaving.

They stood and made their way out. At the stairs, they were told the theater needed to be evacuated. Bomb threat.

She did not run. She did not look back. She moved the way she always does when she is certain, as if she already knows where she is going.

Most people notice something and let it go.

She does not.

She follows it.

Then she moves.