According to my father, she stopped leaving the house the day she left it ten months ago and forgot where she was going and why. She ended up at the grocery store, a place she hadn’t been in years since our housekeeper has always done all of the shopping, and after an hour spent in the parking lot, sitting in her idling car while she tried to get her bearings, a stranger had knocked on the door and she had to give in and let them help her. That was the first time she acknowledged that what the doctors were telling her was true, and it was the last time she went further than the backyard.
She now lives one hundred percent of her time inside of the beautiful and sprawling estate that she and my father purchased almost twenty years ago, wandering the halls and the grounds, doing what she calls “correspondence” and verbally sparring with Sassy, her full time caregiver. Sassy is younger than my mother but older than me, with beautiful Italian skin and thick hair that she keeps pulled back off her face. She calls me Cara (a name I originally thought was a mispronunciation of my own until she noticed my frown one day and told me it was an Italian term of endearment), chats nonstop during my visits no matter how silent her ward is and ignores my mother’s anger, serving her like a longtime friend and patting her on the shoulder after an outburst and exclaiming, “Oh Suzie, go on,” an act which has my mother lashing out even more.
The first time I came over almost three months ago, I was horrified at their rapport, but now, as I’m here more regularly, I’m beginning to understand that Sassy, while a stranger to my mother, is also the only person she really engages with, even if it is to snipe at her. I don’t think my mother has visitors, not just because she would keep them out, but because she never inspired the kind of loyalty visiting a sick friend would require.
She had acquaintances and allies in her social world, not friends.
Which reminds me of my night out with Liam and A.J., when I realized that other than Mia, I was truly alone when it came to friends and shared memories. Which also then reminds me of the fact that Jake’s my friend, in a weird, we kiss like teenagers one minute and laugh like besties the next kind of way. Whatever our relationship is, I can admit in my head that Jake is good for me as I’ve become increasingly aware over the last eight months or so that I am my mother’s daughter, no matter how much I try to ignore it or change it.
Living with Jake is an experience. Whether it’s a good or bad experience, I’m still not sure (though, truth be told, there are certain parts of me that are already one hundred percent on board with this experience. They would also like to one hundred percent take it to the next level. I’m ignoring them as best I can). He just makes me jumpy — everything he does, from his questions, to his patience, his absolute awareness of the effect he has on me and his goddamn likeable personality. It’s all so much when I’ve spent the last little while working to make certain that I create a life, and a person, I can be happy with. Maybe even proud of. Someone who isn’t dependent on other people to make her feel good.
I called Mia again the other day to talk to her because she knows who I am, who I’ve been, and what I want, and I needed to talk to someone. Her answer was less helpful than I wanted, as it all boiled down to being careful and trusting myself, and also trusting Jake. That was the point she was stuck on. Whoever Jake was, whatever he was, I could trust him.
And I believe her. I just don’t know if I can trust myself.
After our trip to the zoo last week, I don’t think it’s going to matter though, as he was abundantly clear he won’t be backing off anytime soon, and I’d be a liar if I said I wanted him to. So, I took a small piece of Mia’s advice and trusted myself, enough that we ended up making out in the rain on our way inside from the car, and then eating tofu stir fry (not his favorite meal, which he was more than happy to say even though he finished twice my portion in half the amount of time) and then watching a movie — which was code for make out and try to get to second base. I blocked him, but not before my clothing was significantly rumpled and my lips more than swollen.
By the time we’d gone to our separate rooms, I had to admit the night had been fun. More than fun, it had been amazing. Even at bedtime, when I expected him to push and come into my room with me, he pushed me up against my door, kissed me like a madman and then stepped back, brushing my arm lightly with his fingers before turning and stepping through his door and closing it behind him.
I want badly to be unaffected by him, to be levelheaded and in control of what we’re doing, but since it’s obvious that’s not the case, I’m treading slowly. Last night he made dinner, and though it was a little on the manly side with French fries and cheeseburgers, he did make concessions that I know were for me. The fries were sweet potato, and the burgers were from an organic meat market that I’ve never heard of, but he made sure to leave the paper wrapping out so I could inspect it.
We ate while watching The Voice and it was really nice.
Now, he’s off doing what he does during the day — training, working out, studying — and I’m just finishing up my mother’s nails. We haven’t spoken in the almost two hours I’ve been here. Not a word. Sassy let me in, directed me up to “Mrs. Whitley’s private room” (the first master, which overlooks the grounds) and then disappeared somewhere. The fact that I wanted to chase after her when she walked out shows me that no matter how strong I think I am, there are still things that scare me.
After my initial panic at the thought of being alone with my mother subsided, I went in and set up as I normally did. My mother walked in looking smaller and thinner than normal in a pale blue bathrobe that she kept tied tightly around her, gripping the collar at her neck every now and then while I was foiling her hair.
Now, her foils are off, her hair freshly washed and dried with curlers sitting in it, and I’m almost done with her last coat of polish, a pale pink, barely discernable from her original nail color. I don’t even have to ask when I start — it’s the color she’s always worn, as light as one goes on the color spectrum while my almost-black is full throttle the other way, just like we’ve always been.
I can hear small echoes from downstairs and outside, the closing of a door, the starting of a lawnmower somewhere far off. I swipe the brush over her nail, staring at just below her freshly trimmed cuticles and making one perfect sweep before raising the brush off her nail and doing it again until the whole nail is covered. She’s watching me paint, her eyes never lifting, her hands never moving. If I didn’t know she was human, I would think I was practicing on a mannequin.
The silence between us is endless, and without our usual buffer of Sassy, it’s stifling and when I feel myself retreating, thinking of that familiar pull that comes with people — a bar, a club, a bedroom — my hands shake and I can’t bear it a second longer.
“I used to want to be like you. When I was little. I would watch the ladies who came in to get you ready for an event, the way they would pamper you while you sat there, approving of things with a small nod of your head, discouraging others with just a raise of your brow. I would sit on the floor by this very vanity and think, that’s what I want when I grow up, to have people pamper me.”
I don’t know where the words come from, but I do know that speaking is better than focusing on the familiar feeling of sinking, and that somehow the words I didn’t even know I needed to say are keeping me from standing and walking out and making a choice I know I don’t want to make, so I let them come and hope I’m strong enough to deal with them in the end.
“You were so strong the way you went after things, never taking less than what you expected, never backing down.” I switch hands, not looking at her as I study the delicate fingers in mine, so small, fragile even, as if they belonged to a small child instead of a woman. “I remember being little and watching you and Daddy go out, watching the way he would look at you and I thought, I want someone to look at me like that one day, I want them to love me like he loves her. He used to light up when you walked into a room; everything in him changed, I swea
r, as if the sight of you gave his heart a reason to beat. But after a while, it didn’t matter how much his smile was for you, because you could barely see it with everything else you focused on. I think maybe that’s why I never bothered telling you — you didn’t hear him when he said it, didn’t see him when he showed it, and you never gave the words back to him. Ever.”
My hand trembles slightly and I set hers down, putting the brush back into its polish and twisting it closed, never meeting her eyes, the pressure in my chest forcing the words out. “I was sixteen the first time you called me a whore. I don’t remember what I did to make you mad, but I’m sure it was on purpose. It seems like everything I did was to make you mad — or maybe it was just to make you notice me. Either way, I can’t remember what it was, but I remember you slapping me as I stood there, and then you told me I deserved to be lonely, that I was nothing but a disrespectful, spiteful, hateful daughter who had caused you pain your entire life. Maybe that was the day I realized love wasn’t enough, especially when the one person you wanted to love you told you that you were nothing like she wanted you to be.”
I stare at her fingers, focusing on those hands that had once struck me after I sassed her, the same ones that had once balled into fists and pounded the chest of my father as he soothed her during a tantrum. Now they do nothing, give no reaction, and that’s worse.
When I finally look up, she’s staring at me with those vacant eyes, still perfectly lined and lashed, the shadow I blended on the lids only moments ago standing out, highlighting the blue/green eye color that we share. But as I look back, I only see the glitter on the outside and the emptiness on the in; I only see what I physically put there myself and I wonder if I’m going to look in the mirror one day and see that empty hole that she’s retreated into, or if I’ll grow out instead of shrink in.
A few years ago, Mia told me she was watching her mother disappear. Aunt Margaret was growing smaller with every harsh word, missed dinner, and cold shoulder her husband gave her. Thinking of that I wonder if my mother’s eyes are vacant because of me; was it my cold shoulder, my desire to shock her, my need to replace her and be anything but her that caused her to become so small? Or was it her desire to change me, ignore me, be better than me?
Did I ruin my mother, or did our inability to grow outside of ourselves cause both of us to shrink into the people we are now? Did we ruin ourselves, or did we somehow do this to each other?
That question haunts me as I pack up my tools and leave, it stays with me even through my workout. My mother never answered me, never spoke, and I wonder if she ever will again. I’m still wondering when Jake gets home and comes to sit next to me on the couch. I know I should have been in my room, gone for a walk, been anywhere but here when he arrived because the mood I’m in isn’t a healthy one, or a nice one. After an afternoon of feeling shitty over something I can’t quite explain, I want to draw blood from someone else, just to see if I can.
He leans in to kiss me, but stops when I lean back.
He raises a brow. “Problem?”
Too many to name, let alone understand. “I think Ryan plays in Corvallis soon. I was going to go down, meet Mia there and hang for a while. I didn’t know if you wanted to come and watch him.”
I see the blow hit him, and though I want to reach out and make contact, I don’t. The non-conversation with my mother has left me raw and annoyed, angry at Jake and everything he stands for. Suddenly, I need very much to see if he’s human, if he can bleed like I can.
“I understand if you don’t want to see your teammates, since you aren’t playing anymore.”
Direct hit. I see his eyes darken, his body tense as he shifts away, but rather than the relief I was hoping for, guilt settles like a nasty ball low in my stomach. I block it and watch him, seeing the expression in his eyes that was lacking in my mother’s as I spoke to her, the pain, the irritation and the wonder. But he doesn’t slap back, and though a part of me is disappointed, I stay still and stare at him.
After a moment, he nods. “Yeah, I know when the game is, so why don’t I call and get us tickets that are better than general admission? You can talk to the team afterward.”
I nod, my mood shifting as rapidly to worry as it did to anger. I know I’m on dangerous ground here, getting ready to spiral. My counselors warned us about this, the emotional upheaval that can come from any event, big or small, and shake our whole foundation no matter how long you’ve been clean. I can see mine coming, but I can’t seem to stop it.
“Do you think you’ll go back and try?” I ask and he stares out the window blankly for a second. “Do you think it will be the same?”
“I don’t know,” he finally answers and stands to grab a beer from the fridge. I follow him and lean against the opposite counter, watching as he takes a long gulp. “The doc says I’m healing, and though I still can’t imagine that I’ll ever be back to where I was, I feel better today than I did last week, and every day I hold a baseball it feels more and more like it’s supposed to be in my hand.”
“And then what? When you recover? Do you try out somewhere, do you enter the draft?”
“My agent seems to think if I can prove my speed’s still the same, and if I’m ready by draft time, I’ll be picked up. If not, it’s free agent and open try outs.”
“And if those go well, and you make it, what next?”
“I pray to God my arm keeps up and I work to survive.”
I frown. “It’s not war, it’s just baseball.”
His laugh is sarcastic, and more than a little defeated. “The minors are their own kind of war, Blue. Minimal pay and long bus rides, bad food and hundreds of kids chasing the same dream that reality has told them can only be given to a select few, if not less. The majors aren’t a reality, not for anybody, and when you’ve given it your shot and failed, you have to face coming home and trying to be someone else after over a decade of only knowing one thing. You have to learn to integrate into society as a human, not a ball player, and you have to do it while knowing you’ve already failed once, while facing the people around you who know the same thing.”
He takes a long pull from his beer. I watch his throat work as he swallows, and I wonder somehow if he’s swallowing the bitterness that firsthand experience with this kind of disappointment can bring. “It’s a heavy thing for a man to come home with a shattered dream and no fucking idea how to find another one.”
I think about my mother and whether or not she ever had a dream, a desire for something more than being the most popular, the prettiest, the most desired. And then I realize that in my own way that’s where my dream was headed. All I wanted was to be someone everyone else knew and loved, someone who proved her wrong.
“What’s going on, Blue? Why the questions tonight?”
I shrug, unwilling to explain, searching for the anger I felt earlier as I try to climb out of the despair that’s surrounding me now. “Isn’t that the game we play? Ask each other things so we can find out each other’s weaknesses?”
“No, it’s not, and it never has been. Why are you doing this?”
His jaw is tense like his words, and I feel my own shoulders tighten. He’s done nothing wrong, nothing but offer me friendship and the beginning of a relationship that’s sweeter and more real than anything I’ve ever had, and here I am, trying to cut him down because I can’t seem to matter to anyone else in my life. I’m testing him, like I tested my mother today, only he calls me on it, clearly more affected by me than she ever was or will be.
“Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked.” I go to stand and leave but his words stop me.
“Who are you, Blue?”
He’s still standing on the other side of the kitchen, but I feel his words as if he’s right next to me.
“Nobody,” I say calmly and watch the fire inside of him that he’s been holding back all night ignite.
“Bullshit.” His words whip out even though his stance stays the same. “That’s a cop out, Cora, because
you’re too afraid to answer. You started this tonight, so let’s do it. You wanted to know me? Wanted to see if I was real, was that it? See if you could make me hurt? Well, you can. Now it’s my turn. Who are you?”
I hate that, hate that he can see what I’m thinking when I feel like I barely know him, hate that he doesn’t always have to ask to understand me. Even more, I hate that he isn’t afraid to ask questions or say things that most people would never be comfortable verbalizing.
When I don’t respond, he sets his beer down on the counter and steps toward me. “Let’s try a different one. Why were you in rehab?”
“Lots of reasons.”
My gaze is direct, my eyes shooting fire, my lips tight as I stand stock still, limiting my response to him. I know he won’t let me go, but I also know that he expects a reaction, that he’s working for one, just like I was.
“Name one.”
“No.”
“Are you an alcoholic, Blue?”
I laugh bitterly. “Sure.”
“What does that mean?”
“That abusing alcohol was only one of my many flaws. Not all rehab is for alcohol, Jake, some of it’s for addiction, some of it’s for abuse, some of it’s just because you need therapy.”
“What was yours for?”
I’m used to his brashness, his inability to understand boundaries or just plain ignorance when it comes to personal space and feelings. If Jake wants the answer to something, he’s not going to sneak around, he’s going to ask the question, even if that question is hard. It’s something I admire about him, not that I’ll ever tell him that, especially now when I’m trying to avoid answering the question he’s asked.
The Light of Day Page 10