Still dumbfounded, I could only nod my head in agreement and say, “–kay.” I watched him get into his ancient primer-gray truck. The truck, so archaic in its presence, looked as though it were held together by a bungee cord. Upon further inspection, I noticed that there actually was a cord holding the bumper to the body of the truck. With a loud bang followed by a sorrowful putter, the truck made its way down the street. Once again leaving me with the question, what the hell just happened? With my gaze fixed upon Audrey’s truck I felt my mood change abruptly. My memories of last night came into sharp focus as I entered the house.
Audrey was sitting on the worn couch with a pretense of self-possession, the deception given away by the strained look in her eyes. I came in and settled my guitar into the front corner of the living room.
“Who was that boy?” Audrey said as she reached to light a cigarette. Ha, she did smoke. I knew it.
I answered her with the same pretense of composure. “Just some guy from class. He needed help with his math homework.”
“Oh,” she said, not understanding the deeper circumstances of the situation with the boy.
I walked through the living room like I was dragging a crucifix across my back. My gnarled hair serving as a makeshift crown of thorns. I knew I was about to be crucified, thrown out, and I put on my best game face. This is something that I had a lot of experience with, and knew how to avoid showing any signs of emotion. My memory went to a Joyce Carol Oates novel I’d read before where the heroine says again and again, “My feelings can’t be hurt where I have none.” This was my mantra.
Audrey sat up and took a draw off of the half-smoked cigarette. The smoke belly danced upward with unbroken fluidity until it finally disappeared into the stale air.
“How are you feeling today? Tired?” she said with faint violet half-moons underneath each eye. When you’re older you wear weariness on your face like a neon sign.
“I’m fine.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the rage from last night had been replaced with lust and confusion.
“I wanted—tried to get you before. I tried to find you a long time ago,” she stuttered, her eyes wide and confessional. “I heard from my mother about you and your mother’s problems. I don’t know if you know, but your mother was adopted after your grandma had three miscarriages. She was told she couldn’t have children, no viable eggs or something to that effect. So they adopted your mother, and then five years later I was born. I think your mother always felt alone—different or incomplete somehow. I don’t know, I guess she felt isolated, knowing she wasn’t—or didn’t feel connected to Mom. From my perspective, Mom treated her no different. I thought she loved both of us equally—the best she could, anyway.”
I stared at her in wide-eyed awe as she spoke.
“I was living in London at the time, and, well, it was the first time your mother had been arrested. Your grandma tried to help her, but your mom had completely shut her out. There was nothing she could do. It broke her heart. You were just a baby when I came back to Michigan with my ex-husband. I came to help your grandma, and I tried to help your mother. Your grandma got very sick. She started having night sweats. She said it was no big deal. We found out she had stage IV Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and she died six months later. Your mother never came to see her when she was sick, and she didn’t come to the funeral either.
“Your mom somehow managed to get out of whatever trouble she was in at the time without going to jail. Maybe she provided information, I don’t know. Your mom took you and she ran when she found out I’d called social services on her. She took you and she disappeared. She used stolen credit cards and forged checks. I figured she was using. I felt like the situation was desperate. She moved with you every couple of months when you were a baby. It’s my fault. I just gave up. I had my own life to live, and I was trying to make my own life work. I couldn’t be responsible for my sister anymore.”
She took another long draw off her cigarette. “When my husband left me I was destroyed. I had no choice but to pick myself up, and create a new life for myself, so I went back to school and found a teaching job. Maybe that’s why I chose teaching—I couldn’t help you, but I could at least try to help other kids.
“After a couple of years, I’d gotten myself together, and I realized that I’m forty. No kids, no husband, no mother, no father. I guess maybe I was being selfish. Maybe I even felt a little guilty for not being able to intervene earlier to help you and your mother. I looked up your mother again, and once again found that she was in trouble. This time she was in jail. Last year, I contacted FIA, and let them know that you did indeed have a blood relative. Instead of another foster home, they placed you with me.
“I know you think I’m going to fail you. You have every right to think that. No adult has ever been there for you—“
I angrily blurted out, “YOU HAVE NO IDEA!” I had so much to say, yet said so little. I felt like a star in the ferocious chaos of its own death, the words darting into my consciousness suddenly and violently; scorching shards slicing randomly and incoherently at the nothingness of my existence. All that was left was an extinguished ember hidden in a cloud of indifference.
Those four words were all I could muster from my hollowed-out self. I’ve heard everybody’s sob stories my entire life. She was right, she wasn’t doing this for me, but for her—to alleviate her own guilt. I was sure as soon as her guilt was satisfied, once again I would serve no purpose, and have no place in her life. She couldn’t love me—no one ever had.
Audrey looked blankly into my eyes. I suppose she thought that her confession would turn me around—like the neat tidy end to a bad sitcom. She may have expected me to hug her, and tell her I understood. I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand anything. That ember that smoldered in my belly was through—through trusting, through accepting, through understanding. Strength—or the facade of strength was my only salvation. My armor was thick, and although it bore many strikes against it, I would not allow it to be penetrated.
I faced Audrey, and as I crossed the room, I seized the fragments of thoughts whirling inside my head. I’d made the mistake of letting down my guard around Audrey. And when it came to Will, I needed to strengthen my resolve. I wouldn’t allow emotions to penetrate the armor I had so carefully crafted over the years.
I decided to neutralize the tension and said, “Listen, I appreciate you letting me stay here, I won’t ever get angry with you again.” I gave a contrite smile and walked into my room thinking hope and love cannot be found where it does not exist.
Chapter Ten
As I sat in the tiny room that had been repurposed as my bedroom, I felt my anger swell. I hated being here, I hated Audrey, I hated everyone—my eyes began to sting, as the tears started to well up just inside the already pink rims. I will not cry, I thought as I tightened my throat and jaw. That always seemed to hold back any tears that tried to find their way out.
I leaned back against my satiny and slightly musty pillow, and stared at the soft beams of light from Lucy’s porch as it bounced off of my lace curtains, creating a soft glow. I felt my eyelids flutter, and fought for a moment to stay awake, but soon lost my battle as I felt the comfort of my closed eyes, and the relaxed mind that was a much-needed break from my own rage.
I awoke the next morning. Well, it was technically morning, eleven a.m. My head was cloudy and my muscles felt weak, that feeling that comes with too much sleep. It was Friday, no school today, teachers’ in-service, and I’d heard Audrey pull out early this morning to run errands. I felt relaxed at the thought of being alone. I was not good at making morning conversation. I mentally went over my tasks for the day. Sleep in—check. Eat a frozen pizza—check. And be lazy the entire day—YES! Then as my arms flew up signifying my exhilaration, I suddenly remembered that I had to watch Lilah today. Craaap! My arms deflated like the air had been let out of them, and I unwrapped my Totino’s party pizza. Certainly this was not the breakfast of champions. A wave of
satisfaction swooshed back into my cheeks when I realized that I still had a semi-lazy day to look forward to.
I removed my wonder breakfast from the oven. The edges of the pizza were black, and the middle was still a little soggy, just the way I liked it. I took a plate out of the cupboard, took a spatula up in the other hand, and gently slid the pizza from the encrusted oven rack onto the plate. I walked into the living room, plopped down on the couch, and shoved a giant piece of pizza in my mouth. The sweet and tangy sauce swooshed in between my tongue and cheeks, and I sank back into the couch as if the pizza had released some kind of endorphin that freed all of the tension in my upper body. My anger was temporarily put on hiatus by the greasy yummy warmth of the pizza. I leaned back onto the pillows and pulled my tattered blanket up to my neck. My belly was full, and the showcase showdown was on TV. I felt my eyelids flutter as the cheering of “The Price Is Right” contestants became nothing more than muffled incoherent sound.
My eyes pried themselves open in response to the rumbling of a muffler in obvious need of repair roaring down the street. The house shook briefly as I focused my eyes on the television. Dr. Phil? What, what time was it? I clumsily felt around for the remote control that was somewhere beneath the blanket. Found it! I hit the button. Three-forty-five. It took my brain a few moments to comprehend that I was late. When it finally registered I shot straight up off of the couch and ran wildly into the bathroom. I frantically brushed my teeth and splashed water underneath my arms. “Deodorant, deodorant, where the hell is the deodorant!” I spoke out loud as I searched underneath the cabinet as if the deodorant would answer me. I pulled it out of the cabinet, dropped it twice, and then finally applied it to my arms. I pulled my hair up into a clip, ran to my bedroom and dug out some jeans and a T-shirt. “Shoes, shoes, where the hell are my goddamn shoes,” I moaned as I kicked up my bedspread searching, only to find one shoe. Ugh! I put on my one shoe, hoping to run into its partner on the way out the door. As I ran to the front door I tripped over my other shoe. “There you are you little fucker.” I grabbed it and put it on my naked foot.
I headed next door just as Lilah’s ride was pulling into the driveway. My heart was racing and I felt slightly agitated going from sound sleep to panic mode. I took several deep breaths to compose myself and slow down my heart. I exhaled slowly, letting the air stream out evenly between my pursed lips. “Okay, you’re good,” I calmly reassured myself. I walked to the end of the ramp that came out the side of the van and greeted Lilah.
“Hi there girl. What’s shakin’ bacon.”
Lilah let out a delighted squeal and waved her arms jubilantly in her chair. The chair methodically made its way down the ramp, inching her closer and closer to me until my toes rested against the wheels. I moved to the side of the ramp and laid my hand on Lilah’s shoulder as I took my other hand and took hold of the handle on the back of her chair. I wheeled her over to the side of the house and pushed her up the ramp. As I struggled to push her up the ramp with my noodle-like arms, I looked back over my shoulder and waved to Sherri. “See ya later,” I shouted over the roaring engine. Sherri stuck her muscular arm out of the window and waved back. I took notice of her chiseled arms and turned my head to check out my twigs, taking note of the discrepancy in size. I wondered if my arms would develop pushing Lilah up and down the ramp. It hadn’t done much thus far.
I pushed Lilah into the kitchen and started to prepare her snack, apple juice and Nilla wafers, her favorite of the moment. As I arranged the wafers on the plate in a spiral, I nearly forgot about the past forty-eight hours, Will, and the fight and subsequent conversation with Audrey about my mother. It felt good to forget about all those anxieties. I really wished I could just push everything out of my mind. The more I tried to forget, the more I remembered, and I knew my forgetfulness would forever just be a temporary condition.
I pushed Lilah into the front room, flipped the television on, and switched the channel to whatever cartoon I could find. Scooby looked like a winner, as she smiled and wrestled with her wafer to put it in her mouth. Lilah struggled to do just about everything. I felt like that was something we had in common. I gently took Lilah’s trembling hand and helped guide it to her mouth.
Lilah sat in her chair fixated on the television, thoroughly enjoying the adventures of Scooby, Shaggy, and Scrappy Doo. Scrappy was so friggin’ annoying.
“So Lilah, whachew think of Will?” I faked an imaginary reply nodding my head.
“Yeah, he’s okay, I guess. Kinda cute, you know, if you’re desperate,” I said with a half-smirk on my face. I gave Lilah a few moments to initiate her non-response, and then followed up with, “Whatever, I don’t really like-like him. Okay, between you and me, I really like him.” It felt good to say that out loud.
It was easy to talk to Lilah about most anything. There was no judgement, no response, no well-meaning advice, just a chance to hear myself say things out loud, instead of hearing the rattling ideas in my head, trapped inside.
I took her empty plate from the tray. As I breezed by I stopped and caught notice of a picture of Lucy and Lilah. I’d noticed it many times, but never really stopped to actually look at it deeply, like a Monet, taking note of the details and intricacies of the photo. I noticed the smile on Lucy’s face as her arms fell around Lilah’s neck. Her face was next to hers, and what struck me was that there was love there. I turned to Lilah and said, “You know you are very lucky to have a mom that loves you, no matter what.” Lilah sipped her juice form the twisty straw, and paid no mind to my words. I smiled, and continued. “My mother. You’d be glad you never met her. I wish I’d never laid eyes on her. And yes, I know that means I would have never been born, which might have been the best thing for both of us. A— couldn’t take care of me, and she let her boyfriends...well, they tried anyway. She’s in jail now, and I feel kinda sad about that because I’m pretty sure I’m messed up too, and I’ll end up there someday, some way. She abandoned me and left me to my foster mothers.” I stopped, and could hardly believe I was saying these words out loud. I’ve never, and I mean NEVER talked about A— to anyone who wasn’t a social worker or counselor forcing me to purge my inner demons.
Lilah waved her arms and unleashed an atomic squeal that kept my ears ringing for the next few seconds. In response to her squeal, I said, using air quotation marks, “I know my mother is only a mother in the sense that she got knocked up, she didn’t do any of the follow up work.” I moved into the kitchen, laid the empty plate on the counter, and made my way back to the couch next to Lilah and watched the rest of Scooby. I looked over at her in her wheelchair and while I felt ashamed of the fact that I envied her, I softly said to her, “You’re so lucky.”
I wanted to tell Lilah all of my secrets. There were so many—too many. She was the only person in the world I could trust. I’d made the first step anyway, I hadn’t admitted to anyone how I felt about Will, and I’d never talked about A— in any real way to anyone. Part of me wished that I could be myself around an average person, let it all hang out. But the judgment was too great to risk it. No, Lilah was my girl; she always would be as far as I was concerned.
Chapter Eleven
As I sat and waited for what seemed to be an inordinate length of time in the high school social worker’s office, I let my mind wander, and my memories surface. My thoughts became a collage of past and present memories. Having to talk to the social worker forced me to think about everything that I tried never to think about.
I’d spent most of my childhood wondering if I would have been loved more if only my hair was silkier, not the curly snarled mass of snakes, and my skin a paler shade, not the caramel-colored face of impropriety. If only I looked more like my mother, fair and delicate. I think she hated me for resembling the “sperm donor.” I guessed that she was constantly reminded of this mistake every time she looked at me, which wasn’t often.
Mother, mom, female parent, caretaker. None of these words was suitable to call my mother. For she was
none of those things. She would have her moments of course. On one of her upswings she’d come into my room in the middle of the night and wake me up to go to the store so we could make ice cream sundaes. When you’re five you don’t know any better, you don’t know that “normal moms” don’t get the munchies at midnight and wake their kid up so they can stuff food down their throat.
The memory of some things stand out so clearly that I could recreate the smell, feel, and taste in my imagination, while other memories were gone completely. I didn’t why I chose to remember some details, and not others. Self-preservation, I guess.
One such memory was that of my first grade classroom. It was a bright, clean, well-lit room with brilliantly colored bulletin boards used for a variety of purposes. The red wall located in the front of the room was decorated with a border of school buses. This crimson wall contained words the class had learned. On the opposite side of the room there was an azure wall with a rainbow border that posted our work that the teacher was especially proud of, and on the side wall was a bright green board, the color of new grass. The green board had an elaborate handmade border painted with watercolors. I imagined my teacher, Mrs. Belich, must have been a frustrated artist, and decorating the room was her only creative outlet.
The Idyllic Chaos of My So-Called Life Page 11