She Effin' Hates Me

by Scarlett Savage

  Molly shrugged helplessly. At that moment, music began to waft out of the room Steve used as a studio; his mother had given them a large check for the holidays that year, and rather than spend it toward bills or fixing up the house, he’d bought himself another synthesizer. The song was one Molly had heard perhaps a thousand times in her life—but it had never been played outside the house.

  “You used to think he’d be a rock star, didn’t you?” Molly had asked; Suzanne nodded, too exhausted to be embarrassed. “That’s why you started working when you were pregnant with me, so he could record his demo and get a record deal and then take care of you for the rest of your life.”

  They both laughed; what had been her mother’s life plan now seemed ridiculous.

  “In my defense,” her mom had gestured to the music, “it’s really good music.”

  “No!” Molly had surprised herself with the force of her response. “It’s not good music, Mom. It was the drug he used to dope you up with. It was the club he used to beat you with. And now . . .” She pointed angrily at the closed door behind which her father stood, most likely firing a bong, before continuing, “That music to me . . . just sounds like lies and broken dreams. Your dreams. I think his dreams are right here.” She gestured around at the kitchen, a room that symbolized her mother’s life, a life of taking care of her husband the same way she took care of her child.

  Molly had left for freshman orientation three weeks later, and her mother had left the following week.

  She’d been half-afraid she’d call Grandma’s house and learn her mother had crawled back; after all, the host was often convinced it needed the parasite to survive. But the minute Molly had seen Suzanne’s face this morning, she knew immediately that her mother would never go back. She looked ten years younger, for one thing; all of her stuff was at her own mother’s, and more importantly, she was making plans for herself. For her own life.

  The bridge had been burned, and if Molly had lit the match, she was nothing but proud.

  She’d tried hard to muster even a little remorse for her father, but like her mom, she found there was simply none there.

  There were a lot of reasons she felt nothing for her father, Molly supposed, but mostly it seemed to be that you really couldn’t count on a man who called his mommy during arguments. Molly had realized long ago that her father was a complete bum, and if there had ever been a time when she had actually respected him, she couldn’t remember it.

  Night after night, watching her mother come home to a filthy kitchen, Molly would try to help, but her mom would shoo her away every time.

  “The best help you can give me is to study hard, get a great job, and support me in a manner to which I’d dearly love to become accustomed.” Suzanne had smiled, but it was hard to see the smile past the huge dark circles under her eyes. Still, the most she’d let Molly do was sit at the table and do her homework while she cleaned up.

  So, if this was marriage, if this was love, she wanted no part of any of it, now or ever.

  I will never let someone do this to me, Molly swore to herself time and again. No one will ever, ever make me do this. If I work eighteen-hour days, it’ll be because I want to, not because I am treading the water of life’s ocean, and someone is hanging onto my ankles.

  And then, along came Brandon.

  Now she needed him more than she felt she’d ever allowed herself to need anyone, and it irked her like an itch she couldn’t quite reach.

  Because here she was now, standing at the bus station, waiting for him like the typical pining female. For that reason, part of her was afraid he’d decide this wasn’t his deal, after all.

  Maybe, she’d been half-hoping all day, just maybe he’d go back on his promise to be there every step of the way, as she told her family what she knew she had to tell them. Especially since he was partly responsible for the fact that she was here, making the announcement; it had been his idea for them to tell both of their families and get it over with.

  But facing Ava and Suzanne with this news? Why the hell wouldn’t he blow it off?

  God knows I would, if I could, she thought.

  But then, there he was, all six feet, twelve tattoos, and six piercings of him, and she had never been so happy to see anyone in her life.

  To her own embarrassment, she threw herself into his arms. He caught her, laughing, and swung her around.

  “How’s the girl?” He smoothed her hair down and kissed her forehead. He peered into her face.

  “What’re you looking at? Do I have a zit?”

  “For any sign of breakdown,” he said solemnly. “I know from personal experience that the first few hours home with the ’rents can be extremely stressful.”

  “I am seriously glad that you’re here.” She took a deep breath, the first of the day. “Did you see me when you got off the bus? Did you see? Geez, I almost swooned, dude, almost pulled a Scarlett Fucking O’Hara, and . . .”

  “Scarlett O’Hara,” he interjected, “was not exactly the swooning type. Haven’t you read the book? Maybe in high school, like the rest of the planet?”

  “No, loser.” She tapped the side of his head lightly. “I was busy studying my ass off in high school to get me into Vassar—and with what few seconds I had left over, I partied and slept.”

  “Sounds like a photocopy of my schedule. Twenty-three hours a day of studying, one hour of sleep, and, if I was lucky, maybe an hour a week for recreation.”

  “This means we’re officially geeks, you realize,” Molly admitted. “We need to get lives.”

  “That’s what this visit is all about, isn’t it? Getting our lives out in the open?”

  “Come on,” she changed the subject. “Let’s go. Everyone’s dying to meet you.”

  It was only a mile or so to Lakeside Village from the bus terminal, and it was a hell of an evening for a walk. They chattered about light, easy things: Vassar, the friends they’d met at orientation, a recent episode of their favorite reality show.

  “Sometimes,” Molly said thoughtfully, when Brandon commented on the frivolity of their conversation, “when you have a lot to say, it’s nice to just talk about nothing.”

  “God, you’re smart,” he marveled, squeezing her hand. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

  When they got to Ava’s house on Marcy Street, they headed for the picnic table, where the fixings for Ava’s flower baskets were sprawled across almost every surface.

  “What’s with all the decorations? Are they getting ready for some kind of party?” Brandon asked, fingering the plastic leaves. “You know, I used to hate fake plants, but in the past year I’ve come to realize that real plants can’t survive in a dorm room. I’ve gained a whole new respect for them.”

  “You should offer to help!” Molly grabbed his hand excitedly. “You’ve got a great eye for that sort of thing, and it’s a slam dunk to get on their good side from there.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She frowned, looking at the perfectly manicured lawn and small garden.

  “Grandma’s place doesn’t usually look this . . . clean. Does it?” She fingered the tall ivy and wisteria, climbing up the trellis below the second-story deck. “Are these new? I don’t remember seeing these white flowers before . . . maybe they weren’t in bloom yet.”

  “I’ve never been here before, remember? Hey, can I have the water I bought at the terminal? I think you put it in your backpack.”

  “But, the plants always look good.” She mused thoughtfully. “She’s a born gardener, and I was thinking, you know, that works in my favor, right? It means she’s into nurture and not violence, right?”

  “Sure,” Brandon agreed amiably. “I think it’s in your backpack. My water. Can you grab it for me?”

  “What am I so afraid of? I mean, really, what in the world is there to be afraid of?” She plopped down on the grass and forced a laugh, but it sounded more like a strangled yelp. “All Grandma has ever said—ever—is that she wants me to be my o
wn person, make choices that make me happy. And you know what? I am my own person, I’ve made my own choices, and I am happy.”

  “If you’re happy, I’m happy.” He ran his hand over her sweaty, sticky back. “But it doesn’t mean I’m also not dying of thirst.”

  “My mother I’m not worried about,” Molly mused, pulling her lipstick out of her pocket. She applied it carefully, smacked her lips, then reapplied. “After all, I can outrun her.”

  He clutched both hands melodramatically around his throat, whispering, “Spots dancing in front of my eyes . . . starting to hallucinate . . .”

  “And it’s not like they’re not going to be able to tell pretty soon anyway, right?” Her voice tried for practical but landed on squeak. “I mean, this is not the sort of thing you can keep locked up like the moldy purple towel at the bottom of your closet.” She punched her open palm with her small fist firmly. “No, this is the sort of thing you just get out into the open and, dammit, that’s what I’m going to do. No matter what they say. No matter what anyone says.”

  Brandon collapsed to the ground and gave a few spastic twitches.

  “Tell my mother,” he croaked, his hands clutched around his throat, “that I loved her dearly . . .”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Molly dug his water bottle out of her backpack. “You’re such a drama princess.”

  Brandon sprang back to life with a single sip.

  “Me? I’m a drama princess?” He pointed to her overdone lipstick. “You’re about to seal your mouth shut with makeup, and I’m the drama princess? Prozac, sister-friend. It’s all I’m saying.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and he groaned inwardly, cursing himself for giving her an opening.

  “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she hissed. “You and all the other head-shrinking, drug-pusher types. Did you know that antidepressants are prescribed more than twice as often to women than they are to men?” She took a ragged breath and barreled on. “Prozac is now the answer to numbing us out so you can take control. This, in addition to constantly making us feel insecure so we’ll spend billions of dollars a year on beauty aids and weight loss products that you force us to focus on to distract us from . . .”

  “I surrender! I surrender!” He threw himself to his knees, hands up, in a gesture of defeat. “You’re better, you’re superior, and for God’s sake you’re right, so shut up already.”

  “Okay, fine, you’re right. Generalizing isn’t a good thing. My bad.” She rapped her forehead with a bejeweled knuckle. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just that, I’m nervous, and as you know, when I’m nervous I start spouting statistics and getting defensive about the laughable state of liberation today.”

  “Is that true? The Prozac thing, I mean?”

  “Yeah, it’s true. It gets prescribed to men much less often than to women. Ask any doctor.”

  “But only half as much?”

  “Well,” she wrinkled her nose, “I suppose I might use the tiniest bit of hyperbole—every now and then—when I want to really get a point across.”

  “I knew it!” He pumped his fist victoriously in the air. “I just knew it! Do I know you, or do I know you?”

  “Ha, ha.” She stuck her tongue out at him, but her heart wasn’t in the banter. She grabbed her backpack and started back toward the road. “Let’s go. Let’s go and come back later.”

  Brandon caught her arm, removed the backpack from her grasp, and shook his head gently.

  “Okay.” She drew a deep breath. “Let’s go and not come back.”

  Brandon smiled and shook his head again.

  “Let’s go and send a telegram!” She clapped her hands, thrilled with the idea. “Telegrams are a lost form of communication, don’t you think?” She suddenly became aware of her voice, which was completely high and creaking, and put a hand on her throat, terrified. “Why does my voice sound like this? Does it always sound so high and shrill? Is there something wrong with me? Is my voice collapsing because I talk so much? Oh my God, is something happening to me? Am I gonna die?”

  Brandon looped his long arms under her arms from behind, over her shoulders, laced his fingers on top of her head, and rocked her like he would any other psychotically babbling teenager.

  “Molly,” he began tenderly, “I’m not going to be upset, but you promised me that was decaf back at Breaking New Grounds.”

  “It was!”

  “Molly . . .” He pulled her around so he could look right into her face. Her eyes were wide open and sincere.

  “Bran, I swear to you,” she said stridently, looking right into his eyes. “On our most sacred . . . secret.”

  “Okay, I’ll believe you. I’ve noticed that your head starts to implode under pressure, anyway. That’s probably why you’re spazzing.” He’d hoped for a laugh, a smile, something, but her face remained taut and terrified. “Look,” he reasoned, “we don’t need to do this today.”

  “I’m going to throw up.” She stared down at her feet.

  “Okay, you win . . . come on, sweetie.” The thought of vomit made the decision for him. He picked up her backpack and took her arm. “Let’s just go find a motel for tonight, and then . . .”

  “No!” She jerked her arm out of his grip suddenly, surprising herself more than him. “I mean, no. No. I’m here, and I’m . . . I’m an adult, so I’m gonna do this. This is the stuff that adults do. After all, this is who I am . . . right?”

  He put down his water and pulled her into a hug with his long, ink-covered arms.

  “What’s this for?” Her grateful words were muffled in flame-colored silk.

  “You said this is who you are.” He smiled, stroking the back of her hair. “Well, I just wanted you to know that I really, really like who you are.”

  For a moment, her giggles threatened to turn into tears, but she gritted her teeth and clung tightly to him until the danger passed. “Brandon,” she sighed with gratitude, “you have absolutely no idea how much I needed to hear that right now.”

  The kitchen door flung open, and Ava stood at the top of the stairs, peering to see who was invading her lawn. Her perfectly coordinated grandmother wore a peach-colored short set, Molly saw. Her makeup was clean, simple, and altogether too plain for her granddaughter’s tastes. But there was nothing much that needed to be done to Ava’s head of thick auburn, wavy hair, Molly thought with satisfaction. It was identical, if salted with grey, to her own, and her mother’s . . .

  In this world of change, it was good to know that at least one thing would hold up over time.

  “Oh, good,” Ava carried the tray of lemonade and cookies down the stairs gracefully. “You’re all showered and rested. You just get over here this minute and give your old grandmother a proper hug.”

  “Gee, I would,” Molly looked innocently all around the yard, “but I don’t see any old grandmothers here. You must be referring to someone else,” she gestured up and down Ava’s body, “not this fit and fabulous young babe I see before me.”

  “Oh, you. Listen to you!” Ava cried delightedly. “Listen to you lie to me.”

  “Who’s lying?”

  “Suzanne! Your daughter’s here!” Ava called. “Bring some napkins, a copy of my will, and a red pen. I need to cross your name off and sign it all over to Molly.”

  Suzanne appeared immediately, smiling at them from the door.

  She popped up so fast in fact that Molly realized (with her heart jackhammering away in her chest), her mom might easily have been watching—and what's more, listening—from the kitchen window. She played back the conversation in her mind, wondering exactly how much Suzanne had heard.

  Oh, God, Molly closed her eyes. Well, that’s a sign, if ever there was a sign. She might already know. So it’s go time.

  No turning back now.

  FOUR

  “I want another hug!” Suzanne cried, seizing her daughter from Brandon’s grasp. “You’ll have to excuse me—this is the treasure of my heart right here, and she’s about to leave
me for greener pastures.”

  “Mom!” Molly protested, looking pleadingly at Brandon for help, but he was far too amused to throw her a lifeline.

  “I had her when I was just eighteen myself,” Suzanne said, rumpling her hair, “and we grew up together, year by year, didn’t we, Moll?”

  “Although sometimes it seems like Molly is the real grown-up in the relationship,” Ava whispered, and Molly giggled gratefully.

  “We were buddies!” Suzanne insisted. “She’s my best friend. In fact, we shared everything but taste in fashion. Which reminds me, wasn’t there enough hot water for a shower, sweetie?”

  “There was plenty, Mom, why?”

  “It’s just,” Suzanne pushed Molly’s teased, overly sprayed bangs out of her face, “it’s hard to tell under all that moussed hair, black makeup and, let’s see—one, two, three, four piercings.”

  Molly sighed. “Push me a little harder, and I’ll pierce my tongue.”

  “Don’t you listen to a single thing your mother says, Molly.” Ava slipped an arm around the girl’s slender shoulders. “She used to leave the house looking like she’d used a magic marker for eye liner and wearing more flannel than you’d see at a lumberjack’s convention . . .”

  “Mother!” Suzanne pleaded.

  “ . . . and her hair looked like she’d slept on it for days after not washing it for a week,” Ava plowed on happily.

  Suzanne could feel Molly and Brandon’s eyes boring into her. “It was the nineties,” she said wanly.

  “Ugh!” Molly shuddered. “Great music, horrible hairstyles. Right, Brandon?”

  “Right,” he nodded, holding a hand out to Suzanne and then to Ava. “I’m Brandon Ellis, by the way.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Brandon.” Ava nudged Suzanne in the ribs. There were few things that impressed Ava like good old-fashioned manners.