My gut told me I was being played, but I couldn’t put my finger on how. This continued for a few months. We bought more and more books, and the houses we toured were bigger and bigger.
One Monday morning, while she was getting ready for work, Sarah mentioned that the agent had a home she wanted to show us that evening. “She says it’s perfect for us.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. Our agent said that every time. “Sure, I’ll meet you there.”
The house was a mansion. Well, not really, but it was much too large for my taste. When I pulled up at the address, I doubled-checked Sarah’s handwritten note with the address on the side of the home.
“She’s out of her frigging mind,” I grumbled when I opened my car door to greet Sarah and the agent on the stoop. The house was near the old town section of Fort Collins. It wasn’t new, but nor was it as old as some in the area.
I wanted a new home; the idea of living in a place that other people had once lived in creeped me out. What could I say? I was both a neat freak and a control freak.
Sarah rushed up to me and threw her arms around my neck, giving me a peck on the cheek. “Isn’t this beautiful?” she squealed in delight.
I grinned, knowing she was playacting for my benefit, to lure me in.
The agent walked us around the house. I had to agree it was lovely. The floor plan was open—I hated tight spaces—with four bedrooms. I cringed at the thought of people staying in our house and having to act happy to have them. Acting jubilant was not my forte.
But this time, Sarah wasn’t finding fault with the home. As we neared the end of the tour, I wasn’t yet sold. But I knew Sarah was. I was mentally preparing for battle.
We don’t need this much space for the two of us, I kept thinking. Too large. Too expensive. And much too pretentious.
“There’s one last room I want to show you two, especially you, Lizzie,” said the agent.
I raised an eyebrow, curious.
She opened the door to the library. I kid you not, it was the one I had always dreamed of. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, with a few of the quaint little ladders I always found so charming. At the far end, bay windows presented a wonderful view of the foothills. And the room was big enough to accommodate a massive desk, a couch, and leather reading chairs, all without feeling cramped. Hell, I could put a pool table off to the side if I wanted to. Maybe even a Ping-Pong table.
My mouth hit the floor. Sarah and the agent stared at me, waiting.
“How long have you been holding out?” I asked Sarah.
She shrugged and gave me an unconvincing, “I don’t know what you mean” look.
I crossed my arms.
Sarah put her palms up. “All right. Mom and I found it weeks ago.”
“You played me.” I walked to the windows and looked out, keeping my back to both of them.
“What do you think?” asked the agent.
Without turning around, I said, “Where do I sign?”
Sarah let out a relieved squawk and rushed toward me, almost slamming me against the windows as she enveloped me in her arms.
“Nicely played.”
She giggled. “Now you have a place for all those books,” she whispered.
I nodded. “You aren’t getting out of it. We still have plenty of space to fill. Our book shopping trips aren’t over just because you got your way.”
“Deal.” She squeezed me tight. “Maddie’s going to be thrilled!”
“I take it she’s already seen it.”
“Of course. We can’t buy a place without our designer’s approval.” Sarah whisked a strand of hair out of her face, triumphantly.
“I’m surprised you didn’t just go ahead and buy it.”
“Don’t be silly. Your input is important to me.” She almost looked sincere. “Plus, I can’t forge your signature.”
Sarah found me in my office, snapping me back to reality. “There you are?”
I looked up from my gin and tonic, leaving the memories in the past.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” I didn’t hear a hint of accusation in her tone, only concern.
I sighed. “I don’t know, really.”
Since leaving Mom earlier that day, I couldn’t get the thought out of my head that it was over. Just when I was finally getting through to her, it was over. For thirty years that woman had ignored me or tortured me. And then, for a few months, I had a mother, albeit one still completely on her terms.
Sarah flicked on the desk lamp. I hadn’t realized that the sun had gone down, and I was sitting in the dark. She left the room and soon returned with a glass of wine. Perching on the leather chair next to mine, she said, “Do you want to talk about it?” Then she took a nervous sip of wine.
She sniffed loudly and I watched her light a Yankee Candle.
Knowing Sarah wouldn’t let her question fade away like the smoke from the candle, I finally answered, “Not much to talk about really. I don’t know what’s going on.”
“With your mom?”
I let out a sad laugh, “with anything.” I walked to the small bar in my office and replenished my drink, heavy on the gin. My back to Sarah, I asked, “Why do we crave love from those who are most incapable of loving?”
I heard the creak of leather as Sarah stood. Wrapping her arms around my waist, she gave me a squeeze. “Nothing about love is easy.”
“Then why do we crave it so much?” I stifled a sob.
As always, Sarah was in tune with my thoughts. “Just enjoy the time you have left with her, Lizzie. This is your one chance. Take it.”
I broke free from her arms and slumped against the bar. “Do you know she’s never told me that she loves me? Not once.”
“Have you told her that?”
I shook my head. “It would mean nothing to her.”
“That may be true, but would it mean something to you?”
Chapter Twelve
As Sarah and I approached my parents’ front door, I couldn’t shake the odd feeling in the pit of my stomach. For years I couldn’t wait to leave this place and never return. I wouldn’t say my childhood was dreadful; after all, some adults have painful childhood memories such as sexual or physical abuse, or both. Me, I had just grown up knowing I didn’t matter to anyone in my family. It sounded like a pathetic complaint. Did I really need my parents to give me a hug and say, “I love you” every day? Was I that needy, that fucking weak?
Simply put: yes.
My mother was never the loving type. Hugs were out of the question. She acted more like a drill sergeant toughening me up for war. It was difficult in the earlier years, as I was a sensitive child. Later on, when I outed myself, it became much worse. She became worse. She no longer tried to toughen me up for battle; instead, she declared war on me.
For years I tried to believe my childhood didn’t affect me. I was stronger than that. Independent. Too intelligent to let something so frivolous bother me. I studied Nazis, for Christ’s sake. I had read countless stories about people who really lived through hell, stuff that no one could possibly imagine, let alone survive—yet many did.
Why was I letting my parents, especially my mother’s lack of feeling, destroy me? Pathetic. I felt feeble. So I pushed it down. All those feelings, or lack thereof, I discounted completely. I told myself not to be a fool. Push through it. People have lived through much worse. Get the fuck over yourself, Lizzie.
Then I almost lost Sarah through not dealing with my childhood, through lying to myself that I was okay, that I didn’t need anyone to complete me.
My therapist pointed that out right from the start. She asked me if I found it interesting that my research centered on children of the Third Reich. Many of the young boys who belonged to the Hitler Youth were shipped off, isolated from parental influence. Many more were orphaned at a young age. Why was I so fascinated by a generation that had grown up without parents?
I felt like a fucking idiot
. The answer was staring me in the face the entire time, yet I never saw it. I could have studied so many different aspects of World War II, but this was the one that pulled me in.
Now Sarah and I wanted to bring our own child into the world at the same time that I was preparing to say good-bye to my uncaring mother. Talk about conflicting emotions. But Sarah was right: I needed to make peace with my mom, The Scotch-lady. If I didn’t, I might never be completely whole.
Sarah gave my hand a squeeze before she reached out to ring the bell.
Tiffany opened the door. Shit!
I guess today wasn’t the day to have my reckoning.
“Hello, there. We keep bumping into each other.” She giggled like a vapid schoolgirl.
“Is Peter here?” asked Sarah. She gave me an “I’m sorry” look, since she knew I wanted this day to be just the three of us.
Tiffany marched off toward the main part of the house, answering over her shoulder, “Nope. He dropped me off on his way to golf.” She paused and whispered conspiratorially, “He didn’t want your mom to be alone.”
“Peter sure has been playing a lot of golf lately.”
Did Tiffany know that Peter wasn’t really a sports guy? I was positive he played the occasional round of golf for business purposes, but every weekend? No way.
“He’s become quite the fanatic,” Mom said from her leather throne in the front room. Her beady eyes glinted. I knew she was thinking the same thought as me. Was that why she wasn’t as close to her firstborn these days? Before Maddie left my brother at the altar, my mother had favored Peter. Did she know why Maddie had flown the coop? Maybe she read Maddie’s note, pinned to the wedding dress: “Give it to her.” Had it dawned on Mom that Peter had grown to be just like her husband?
I learned late in the game that my father had kept a woman on the side for years. My mother knew all along, but she looked the other way. Was she angry with Peter? Disappointed? Disgusted? Or angry with herself for not leaving my father?
Quite possibly, she just hated Tiffany.
I wasn’t a fan either. I could live with the fact that Tiffany was not the brightest, but her flippant attitude grated on my nerves. Like her comment, “We keep running into each other.” My fucking mother was dying, you dingbat.
Could I be jealous of Tiffany? Here she was, engaged to a man who couldn’t keep his pants on and being dropped off to keep her future mother-in-law (who despised her) company, and yet she acted like it was a day at Disneyland.
No. I couldn’t live that way. As much as my mind tortured me, I did appreciate I wasn’t a Stepford Wife. And I wasn’t married to one either.
“How are you feeling, Evelyn?” asked Sarah.
Mom set her Kindle aside. I smiled that she was actually using it.
“I’m not dead yet, although I think some treat me like I am.”
Was that a dig at Peter?
Years ago, I would have loved to hear her take a jab at my brother. The once-mighty Peter had fallen. Today, seeing her thin body engulfed by an afghan in her massive leather chair, it was disconcerting.
Sarah didn’t respond, just nodded sympathetically. What could one say to that?
“You,” my mother stretched out a bony finger in Tiffany’s direction, “get me a tea,” she barked.
Tiffany smiled, as if someone just handed her some cotton candy, and bounded into the kitchen.
I watched, amazed—or at least overly inquisitive. I followed Tiffany into the kitchen on the pretense of making drinks for Sarah and myself. My real goal was to see if Tiffany still wore her happy face.
Much to my consternation, she did. Where had Peter found such a lobotomized woman?
“So, how are things?” I purposefully didn’t say her name, since I couldn’t bring myself to pronounce it her way. Maybe I should tell her that my name was pronounced Lizz-Aye.
“Fantastic. You?” She plopped a tea bag into a Wedgewood teacup.
I nodded, dumbfounded. “Have you and Peter set a date for the wedding?”
“December twenty-fifth.” She set the cream and sugar on a tray.
Tiffany rattled off the date as if she had no clue that date held any other significance. Was she Jewish?
“Christmas, huh? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
Peter had scheduled his first wedding on my birthday. He always had to be the center of attention, which made his absences lately decidedly odd. Had he realized he couldn’t compete with a woman with cancer?
“Peter says work is slower at that time of year.”
So that was it: it was more convenient for him, even if not for the rest of the world.
“We’re going to Fiji for our honeymoon. Peter says it’ll be warm, but I’m really worried. Won’t it be cold in the winter?” For the first time, I noticed a different emotion on her face: concern.
“I think Peter’s right. That’s their summer.”
“What?”
I imagined the concept bouncing around frantically inside her empty head, searching for an anchor.
“It’s on the other side of the world. When we have winter, they have summer.”
“Really? Who would have thought that?” Joy returned to her eyes.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked, hoping to bury this inane conversation before I insulted her.
“Wine would be great.”
I looked at the clock on the microwave. 11:15 a.m. Interesting. Maybe she hadn’t had a lobotomy after all.
“Red or white?” I asked, heading for my parents’ wine cellar.
She crinkled her brow. “Makes no difference to me.”
I was sure it didn’t. And neither did anything else. Except for cold weather on her honeymoon.
An hour later, the four of us sat around the table, eating lunch. Tiffany was on her third glass of wine, but she didn’t seem overly tipsy. Hard to tell with her, though. What qualified as tipsy and what was just ignorance?
“Evelyn, where did you and Charles go for your honeymoon?” Tiffany said it like she expected some epic adventure.
“Yellowstone,” my mom snapped. She stirred some pasta salad around on her plate. I don’t think I’d seen her actually eat one morsel of food.
“Where’s that?”
I could see Tiffany still expected something luxurious.
My mom looked up from her plate and then back down.
“It’s in Wyoming, mostly,” I answered for her. “Part of the park is in Montana—where my parents are from.”
“Park?” Tiffany’s expectations were dropping drastically by the second, and so was her smile.
“It’s a national park. When my parents married, my dad was just starting out,” I explained. Had Peter claimed we were from old money, that his ancestors were robber barons and his father struck out West to make a name for himself? Did Tiffany know that my parents had lived in a trailer home at one point? I doubt it. Mom was usually desperate to keep all the cool aspects about them under wraps.
“Oh,” she sounded beyond disappointed.
To help cheer Tiffany up, I turned to Sarah. “They’re going to Fiji for their honeymoon.”
Sarah picked up on my motive. “Oh, that sounds romantic. Have you set a date?”
I braced for Sarah’s reaction.
“December twenty-fifth.” This time, Tiffany eyed me cautiously.
“Christmas! And then Fiji for the New Year. That’s wonderful.”
Tiffany seemed relieved to find that Sarah’s reaction was the polar opposite of mine.
“Marriage is like prostitution,” said my mother.
The entire mood at the table slid into a black hole. I had been trying to keep it at even keel, but after that declaration, I was clueless how to yank it back from the brink of complete disaster.
Sarah and I both knew not to react to Mom’s statement; that was what she wanted.
Tiffany, however, took the bait. “What do you mean, Evelyn?” she as
ked.
I really didn’t want Mom to elaborate.
“The only reason men marry is because it’s good for their careers. They don’t love anyone. They put a ring on your finger to take you off the market. Marking their territory. Then they come and go as they please. And if you want anything, you better be willing to spread them.” Mom dropped her fork onto her plate. Over the clattering sound, she uttered, “Golf. You think Peter’s playing golf today? And Charles is away on business? Please. Marriage is legalized prostitution. You may feel respectable, but no wife is. You might as well get used to it or leave like—”
Tiffany took a healthy slug of her wine. Her body language suggested she knew all along why Peter was absent. Was she playacting the ditz as a cover, a coping mechanism? Shit. I felt horrible. Was she just subscribing to a role Peter defined for her? It would be the type of wife he wanted, after the Maddie debacle: a woman who wouldn’t challenge him. Someone who would just be beautiful and not expect too much from him, or from the marriage.
I let out a long breath.
A cloud re-emerged over Tiffany’s demeanor, but she plastered another fake smile on her face. I wanted to tell her to stop, that it wasn’t worth it. Financial security wasn’t worth it. If she didn’t believe me, take a look across the table. Look at my mom. Really look at her. Was that what Tiffany wanted out of life?
“You two,”—Mom pointed at Sarah and me—“do either of you play golf, eh?” She started to cackle, but it turned into a coughing fit.
Neither of us responded.
“That’s one thing about Lizzie—she’s never cared about what others think. It used to drive me fucking crazy, but now…” Mom rose slowly to her feet. After she steadied herself, she announced, “I’m tired. I’m going to take a nap.”
When she was out of earshot, Sarah rose to clear the dishes. At first, I was too thunderstruck to move. Did my mom just compliment me in some weird way? Or was that another veiled insult?
Tiffany filled her wineglass again. She must have seen me eye her brimming glass. “I have to wait for Peter to pick me up. My car is in the shop,” she said, clearing her throat.
A Woman Ignored (A Woman Lost Book 2) Page 14