Smothered

by Autumn Chiklis

  “But that’s like … ten hours,” Val said.

  “It’s supposed to push me, mind, body, and soul.”

  “Don’t you have to train for those sorts of things?” I asked. “Build up endurance? Carb-load?”

  “I’ve been urban hiking for weeks now. I’m sure I can handle it.”

  “Mom, you won’t be eating or drinking anything tomorrow,” I noted. “Don’t you think this could be a bit dangerous?”

  “If Jesus could do it, so can I.”

  “Mom, you’re Jewish.”

  “And so was Jesus.”

  “Shelly,” Dad said, “I understand that you’ve been going through a rough patch, but there’s no way you’re going on an all-day desert hike without any food or water or a cell phone. That’s not realistic.”

  “Lisa is doing it!”

  “Lisa isn’t fasting,” Val pointed out.

  “Oh, please. Lisa is always fasting.”

  “Shell, this is a bad idea,” Dad doubled down, his frown stretching further down his cheeks. “You’re not going to strand yourself in the middle of nowhere on the one day you can’t even hydrate. If you really want to go on some hippie desert trip, I’ll buy you tickets to Coachella this year.”

  “Fine.” Mom pouted, crossing her arms and sticking up her nose. “If you all won’t support me, I’ll just have to find my new purpose elsewhere.”

  “Your new purpose?” Val inquired.

  “Yes, my new purpose, since I’m officially resigning from my old one.” She explained theatrically, “I tried my best to be a good mother, but clearly I’ve failed miserably, since you all can’t stand me.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “Can’t stand you? Are you nuts??”

  “Don’t lie to me!” she snapped. “You wish I were like one of those normal mothers, who let their hair dry naturally when it’s humid outside, or bake gluten-filled cookies for bake sales and PTA meetings. One of those women who drive a minivan or shop at the Gap or let their daughters wear those tragic baggy uniform jerseys to soccer games without taking them to be altered first. Well, I’m sorry I was such a disappointment! I did my best without a handbook. But seeing as Val no longer needs me and you no longer trust me, I think it’s time to turn in my badge.”

  She shot me a piercing look before stomping back to her room, reemerging a moment later wearing a plastic fanny pack.

  “I’m meeting Lisa at Lululemon to help her find the perfect spiritual awakening outfit. Don’t worry, Charlie—since I’m not going on the journey tomorrow, I left my credit cards in the trash can where they belong … which is now hidden from view in the southwest corner of our bathroom.”

  And with that, she exited stage left, tossing her lob as a flourish before marching through the foyer and out the front door.

  I don’t know what to do. The situation has gone from bad to worse to positively unbearable and shows zero signs of letting up. Who is this joyless, senseless, mascaraless monster that I’ve unleashed upon the world? And where on earth did she get a fanny pack??

  But even more important: Does Mom really think that I can’t stand her? Was that monologue all just irrational martyr blabber meant to guilt Val and me into eternal indentured servitude … or does she honestly believe I wish she were someone else? That can’t be true. That’s ridiculous! I don’t want Mom to suddenly stop being Mom; I just don’t want her to judge me for being me.

  Oh god. I know what I have to do. But it’s not going to be fun. In fact, it’s going to involve one of the most excruciating moments of my entire life so far, and that includes watching Theo get his face crammed into a plate of sriracha yolk.

  * * *

  Megan Bitchell

  SEPTEMBER 26

  2:14 P.M.

  * * *

  Ugh. Today is Yom Kippur—the Jewish holiday of atonement—and though I am genuinely remorseful for the multitude of sins I’ve committed in the last six months, I am also deeply grumpy from the lack of sustenance I’ve had in the last twelve hours. I’ve been stress-eating so much as of late, I’m pretty sure my body has adapted from the constant intake to need food every twenty minutes or so. Either that, or I grew an extra three stomachs. I can’t be sure which.

  I’m not the only cranky member of the Hansen family. Dad fasts every year out of solidarity with Mom,* and every year I fear for my life because of it. For him, things always take a turn for the worse around noon, when the first wave of “fuck this” hits, which is why I locked myself in the bathroom for that whole hour pretending to “feel queasy.” In reality, I was sending this Facebook message out to the Red Hot Ladies:

  Hi, everyone! I just wanted to let you know that Bachelor Night is back on at our house for this Monday. Technically, Mom doesn’t know this yet, but don’t worry! She will by six o’clock on Monday!

  Speaking of Mom: She has set up a “meditation tent” in the backyard among the rose bushes as an alternative to her minimalist hike, which is basically a fort made from her duvet cover, two beach chairs, and a bunch of faux-fur pillows. Apparently she’s trying to become “one with nature”—at least until 3:00 P.M., when the sprinklers are set to turn on. We haven’t spoken much since her outburst … By the time she got home from “assistant shopping” last night, Yom Kippur had already begun, and the last thing I wanted was to make matters worse with a hangry encounter. Nope, until I’ve consumed at least five hundred calories, I will keep my human contact minimal, for the sake of my family and myself.

  While I’m completely isolated, I should take the time to write down a new list of goals, seeing as most of my Roshalutions have been rendered irrelevant. Somehow I’ve managed to make everyone I love think I’m ashamed of them, which my old psychology teacher might say is a symptom of “projecting,” but I’m way too hungry to diagnose myself right now.

  * * *

  YOM KIPPUR GOALS

  • Make up with Mom.

  • Make up with Theo.

  • Make up with Dad.

  • Make up with Natasha.

  • Express genuine appreciation to Bitchell Megan.

  • Get a job interview. (You don’t even have to get the job; just an interview.)

  * * *

  DON’T YOU DARE LOU HANSEN

  SEPTEMBER 27

  9:15 A.M.

  * * *

  Just heard back from Theo, and I think I’m going to be sick.

  Hey, I’ve thought it over, and I really want to talk … but I would rather do it in person. Let me know when you’re free this week, and we’ll pick a time to meet.

  Oh god. It’s over. It’s so obviously over. No one asks to “talk in person” unless it’s 100 percent, definitely over. AHHHHHH, what am I going to do? Do I call him?? No, I can’t call him … He somehow has managed to maintain enough cool to refrain from calling me, so why should I degrade myself by calling him first? As it is, I texted him first, and at one o’clock in the morning, like a fool. No form of virtual communication is ever honorable after eleven at night unless it’s an emergency, and even then, holding off until the morning will always win you brownie points.

  Oh, who was I kidding? Of course he wants to end it! After the humiliation I caused him at work? And the lying/compulsive ring-fiddling? Let’s be honest. It was only a matter of time. Theo already has his life put together—his own apartment, a successful job, naturally angular features. I, on the other hand, have been an egotistical, entitled little brat with no sense of how lucky I’ve been. This whole year I’ve had a boyfriend, a home, endless options and opportunities, and all I’ve done is compare and complain. I mean, I’ve only applied to one job! What is wrong with me? Why did I think the world would just open up for me with the mention of some clubs and a Columbia degree?? Officially adding, “stop whining and start working” to my list of Yom Kippur goals.

  Hold on, I’m getting a text.

  * * *

  Megan Mitchell

  * * *

  5:25 P.M.

&n
bsp; * * *

  Startling. A positively startling series of events.

  I heard Megan’s car before I saw it—the high-pitched screech of her poor, innocent tires scraping against the pavement of my residential street as her black BMW convertible violently rounded the corner. She honked twice before skidding into my driveway, her hair perfectly tussled from the 101 freeway, one of her arms dangling out the side of the car with a tiny white gift bag in hand.

  “Special delivery for Auntie Shells!” she cheered, pushing her pink cat-eye sunglasses onto her head. I quickly trotted over to the car and grabbed the bag from her, curiously peering inside.

  “Have you seen it yet?” I asked her, noticing a little black box.

  “I took a little sneaky peek. Lulu, it’s so, so, SO gorge. Your mom’s going to die. Like, literally die.”

  “If by literally, you mean figuratively, then great.”

  I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my checkbook. “How much do I owe you?” I asked, checking over my shoulder to make sure Mom wasn’t watching. “And should I make it out to your name or your friend’s?”

  “Oh my gosh, babe, do NOT worry,” she said, putting a hand up in protest. I blinked at her, not understanding.

  “What, do you only use Venmo? Val keeps trying to get me to download Venmo, but I’m nervous it’s going to get hacked…”

  “No, I mean, I got this!” she said, flicking her wrist at me, shooing my checkbook away.

  I stared at her suspiciously, certain she was about to pull a prank. “I’m sorry, but … are you offering to pay?”

  She rolled her eyes and scoffed. “OMG, for the like, zillionth time, yes! It’s really no biggie. My girl gave me a supes juicy discount, and I told your mom I’d get her one, anywho.”

  For a moment, I genuinely considered that I had stumbled into a black hole. Between Mom’s serious demeanor and now Megan’s generosity, I wasn’t sure what I could believe in anymore.

  “Megan, don’t be ridiculous. I asked for this necklace, and I want to pay for it.”

  “Oh, what’s that? I can’t hear you over the sound of my not listening.”

  She reached a hand to the dial of her car radio and turned up the pop music, cupping the other hand up to her ear, like the world’s richest mime.

  “Okay, okay! Turn it down, I don’t want Mom to hear you,” I said, sneaking a quick look back at the house. “Wow, Megan, that’s … this is really thoughtful. Thank you.”

  “Of course! Anything for your mama. She’s like, my idol.”

  “She is?”

  “Um, obvi!” she said, running a hand through the ends of her tangled hair. “She’s taken care of me every summer since I was, like, five. And I wish I could talk to my mom about clothes and boys and friends and stuff…”

  For a split second, I felt something way, way, way deep down inside my heart … something that if you squinted and leaned in closely would almost, sort of, maybe resemble affection. We smiled at each other briefly before Megan’s lips puckered into a curt smile.

  “… Anywho, I’m the one with the job. It’s the least I can do for the funemployed.”

  Andddddd she’s back.

  “Well, thank you for your contribution,” I said, putting my checkbook back into my pocket. She flipped her sunglasses back onto her nose and put her car into reverse.

  “Always, babe. Just here to help!” She waved at me with three fingers as she backed out of the driveway. “See ya later, be-yotch!” she yelled, before zooming off to snort some powdered mushrooms.

  SEPTEMBER 28

  11:05 A.M.

  * * *

  All right. The Red Hots are coming over at six for Bachelor Night, and Mom still doesn’t know that it’s happening. While she’s out “running errands” for the next few hours,* Rosa and I will be tidying up the house, hiding all traces of the mid- and quarter-life crises that have been simultaneously taking place in it. I’m thrilled to report that all the ladies will be present at tonight’s gathering! Lisa’s now dating her minimalist hike guide, so I guess it’s fair to say that hers was a transcendent experience. But apparently, when this guy is not leading people through the wilderness for ten hours at a time, he’s a florist, so we were able to score two dozen free roses for the evening festivities.

  I told Val about my master plan. She’s completely on board and is even picking up Shell-tini ingredients on her way home from school.

  “Do you need me to go buy the gin?” I asked her.

  “No, don’t worry. I’ve got a fake,” she said.

  “When did you get a fake?”

  “Like, two months ago. Mom got it for me in case of emergencies so I could go pick up rosé.”

  7:40 P.M.

  * * *

  Mom came home at around five thirty with two armfuls of dog food. She took one look at the roses and froze, panic flashing across her face.

  “What’s going on? Is it my birthday? Please don’t tell me it’s my birthday…”

  “No, it’s not your birthday,” I assured her. “Don’t worry, you’re still fift—”

  “HUSH! Don’t say that number,” Mom demanded.

  “Okay,” I agreed, proceeding with caution. “It’s for Bachelor Night. The Red Hot Ladies are coming over. That’s why there are roses.”

  Mom turned her nose up at me over the bags of gourmet kibble. “Why are they coming here? I told them to go to Stacey’s.”

  “Well, I told them I wanted them to come here instead,” I explained. “I’m interested in tonight’s … er … episode.”

  I swear, this is the last lie I will ever tell. Mom made her way past the flowers and into the kitchen, setting the dog food down on the table before slowly walking back to where I was standing, eyeing the setup distrustfully.

  “You were planning on watching Bachelor in Paradise with my best friends without me?”

  “Well, actually, that’s the thing…” I said, swiftly pulling the tiny black box out from behind a couch cushion and hiding it behind my back. “You’re going to be watching it with us.”

  She put her hands on her hips, equal parts frustrated and confused. “I already told you. I’ve given up reality TV.”

  “No, Mom, I think you’ve given up reality,” I said, squeezing the box a little tighter. “You love The Bachelor. You love your wardrobe. You love getting your nails done just because it’s a Tuesday.”

  “And you’ve all made it clear that you don’t. You think it’s all silly, shallow…” She craned her neck to the side, trying to look behind my back. “And what is it that you’re hiding back there??”

  I rolled my eyes and handed her the box, disappointed that I wasn’t being as sly as I thought.

  She stared down at the gift like she’d never seen one before. “What—what’s this? Are you sure it isn’t my birthday?”

  “Just open it. You’ll understand,” I said cryptically. She shot me a suspicious look before gingerly lifting the lid, and gasped as she pulled out a gold chain with tiny golden letters spelling out: Mama Shell.

  “How did you— I don’t— What is—”

  “I know you said you wanted to turn in your Mom badge,” I explained, my hands clasped nervously in front of my stomach. “But I’m sorry; I can’t let you do that. It’s kind of a lifelong position.”*

  Mom tightly wrapped her fingers around the necklace, clutching her other hand to her heart as tears formed in her makeupless eyes. “Oh, Lulu!” she cried. “It’s perfect!”

  She threw her arms around me and wept, letting all one hundred and ten pounds of her collapse onto my body. Once she started crying, I started crying, and the two of us blubbered all over each other for five whole minutes before I finally managed to speak.

  “I’m so, so sorry I lied to you,” I said, pulling back to wipe my tears. “I never want to lie to you! I’m a terrible liar! I was just scared you wouldn’t approve of Theo.”

  “But why?” Mom asked, pushing back her own tears with her shirt. “What
made you think I wouldn’t approve of your boyfriend?”

  “Well, for one thing, you literally have been calling him a serial killer,” I bluntly noted.

  Mom shook her head, unconvinced. “I know, and that was wretched, but to be fair, he does come off rather brooding.” I nodded, since she made a fair point. “But Lulu, you were dating this boy for months before I started calling him that, um … name. You must have had other reasons to hide him from me.”

  The question took me by surprise, but she was right. I considered for a moment, reflecting on all the lies I’d told in the past year.

  “In all honesty,” I started, unsure of how to articulate my next thought, “I think it’s … well, it’s because you’re like my mirror.”

  Mom raised a perplexed brow. “Your mirror?”

  I nodded, suddenly confident in the idea. “Yeah, my mirror,” I went on. “You reflect me, for better and for worse.” Mom still looked confused, so I tried to break it down a different way. “Okay, so, when you look in a mirror, you see the truth of what is there, right? Not what you wish you were or what you’re trying to be—it’s just you: plain and simple. And once you take a look in that mirror, you can’t unsee it, no matter how badly you want to.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to bring this metaphor to a close.

  “So if you met Theo, and you thought that he was weird or creepy, or not the exact man you had envisioned for me…”

  “Hold on.” Mom cut me off, holding a finger up to my face. “I have to stop you. Exactly what kind of person do you think I envision for you?”

  I crossed my arms, starting to feel defensive. “Well, you’ve always talked about these big strong handsome manly men…”

  “Oh, honey.” Mom sighed, the chain of her necklace still dangling through her fingers. “Do you really think I care if you date an athlete? Please! I married your real estate agent father!”

  “But you told me to find a guy who was ‘all packaged up and ready to go,’” I argued.