Mom Jeans and Other Mistakes

by Alexa Martin

  “Jude.”

  Jude. Just my name. Nothing else. But it’s the tone that really hammers it home.

  See, herein lies the problem with hiring a really good therapist. They don’t put up with your avoidance shit. Which I guess is good because it is why I’m paying her, but I still feel attacked every time she calls me out.

  “I hate when you say my name like that.” I puff up my cheeks and blow the air out slowly. “Can’t we just focus on how I helped Lauren? That was a big deal! I’m never the helper. I’m always the taker.”

  She leans forward in her seat and I know I’ve said too much.

  Drats!

  “Why do you see yourself as the taker?” She crosses her legs and props her chin up on her fist. Having all of her focus on me like this is hugely intimidating.

  “I’m just kind of a mess. I don’t have a ton to offer, so if I’m not giving, I must be taking.” I shrug my shoulders and for once understand Lauren’s tendency to chew on her nails, because I’m super close to doing the same thing. “I feel like I’m always complaining about something even though my problems don’t measure up to Lauren’s. I mean, I literally just take pictures and exercise for a living. Lauren has a real job, a whole-ass daughter, and is going through a custody battle.”

  “You do realize that it isn’t a competition, right? You can both have problems and one doesn’t have to be ‘bigger’ or ‘worse’ than the other.” She pauses for a second, but I can tell she still has more to say. “Has Lauren ever alluded to you that she feels like your friendship is one-sided?”

  Never.

  I’m almost a little offended on Lauren’s behalf. But Chloe doesn’t know Lauren. So she doesn’t understand that even if Lauren did feel that way, she’d never say that to me.

  “Well, no, but—”

  Chloe cuts me off. “And has she ever asked for you to open up instead?”

  “I mean, yeah, but—”

  I try, but she cuts me off . . . again!

  “So maybe this idea you have of being a taker is actually stopping you from confiding in a friend who wants to be there for you because you’re not a taker, but instead, have been giving way more than you’ve let yourself receive?”

  Fuck.

  I hate smart people.

  “I guess? Maybe.”

  “Yeah, I think so.” She nods her head, knowing damn well that she’s right. “Why do you think you haven’t confided in Lauren? Do you think she’s not strong enough to handle it? Or that maybe she won’t support you in the way you really need her to?”

  I hate this question.

  It gives me a physical reaction. My fists bunch together and my stomach tightens. I don’t know if it’s anger or nerves or fear. I feel like over the years, those feelings have wound together so tightly, I don’t know how to separate them.

  “Of course she’s strong enough to handle it, she’s the strongest person I know.” I defend my best friend’s honor.

  “So you don’t think she will support you the way you need her to show up for you.” It’s not a question this time. It’s a statement.

  And not a wrong one.

  “It’s not that I think she won’t support me. She will. She . . .” I try to organize my thoughts, but they’re so scattered I don’t even know where to begin. “This is about my mom. You know? It’s not like I didn’t tell Lauren absolutely everything when shit went down with Asher. This is just different. Her mom is a bitch. Like, a terrible bitch who Lauren can never please. My mom is a mess, but she loves me and she loves Lauren.”

  “Does she?”

  I shake my head, not understanding her question. “Does she what?”

  “Does your mom love you?” she clarifies, but it only confuses me more. “Is the way she has treated you how you define love?”

  “Of course she loves me. She’s my mom. It’s just . . .” This is why I don’t open up about my mom to anyone. Nobody understands. “My dad’s death really messed her up and she hasn’t been the same. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me.”

  “Okay, but is the way she loves you healthy? Does her love cause you harm?” She leans back and assesses me with those knowing eyes of hers. “Was your dad’s death not hard on you? Why are you excusing her hurtful behavior over a loss that was equally as painful for you? Plus, you said that her behavior started to change before he passed. Are you making excuses to help you, or are you enabling her?”

  “That’s a lot of questions,” I point out . . . intentionally not answering any of them.

  “It was. Which one would you like to answer first?”

  None of them?

  “You don’t understand. You’ve only gotten my side of the story, and I haven’t told you about how she used to be. She was the best mom, honest to God. She was so involved and so supportive. This isn’t who she is.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  My spine snaps straight and my chin jerks back. It’s like she slapped me, but this hurts more. “What?”

  She leans forward, enunciating each word as she repeats herself. “I don’t believe you. I think you’re telling yourself that to make yourself feel better about your mom. I think she has always been selfish, but your dad was there to protect you from her behavior. Now that he’s gone, she has shifted her needy, toxic behavior onto you, her daughter. Your dad didn’t do her any favors by protecting her and you aren’t, either, by making these excuses.”

  When I decided to see a therapist, I did it with one single intention: to bitch about my mom to a neutral party.

  I needed someone to tell me that my bitterness—my animosity—toward my mom was not only valid, but warranted. I needed to get the last five years off my chest and vent it all away to someone who wouldn’t judge me. I needed someone to tell me that toxic behavior isn’t ever to be tolerated, no matter how much DNA you share.

  This is what I wanted.

  So I don’t know why it’s so hard to hear.

  “I’m not making excuses for her.” Out of everything there is to say, for some reason that’s the only thing that leaves my mouth.

  “You are.” She doubles down. “You’re making excuses for her and protecting her. Even at the cost of your own mental health and, if you’re really honest with yourself, your physical health.”

  “What? How?” I know my mind is a straight-up disaster, but that’s not all my mom’s fault. But I’m in peak physical shape. It’s literally my job.

  “I think one of the main reasons you won’t tell Lauren about your mom and what she’s been putting you through is you don’t want to change the way Lauren sees her. You’re more worried about protecting her image than you are about letting in the most vital support you have in your life. You give her money at the expense of your own bills and you’ve had paparazzi trailing you for months, not because you wanted to, but because your mom needed you to. And when you voiced your concern over it, she ignored you and pressured you into it. And that’s just the mental.” She pauses and I know whatever she’s about to say next is going to fucking suck. “Can you really tell me the amount of alcohol you consume is healthy.”

  The sharp intake of breath between my teeth is audible. “I’m not an alcoholic.”

  What the fuck? Am I paying this woman to just full-on attack me? None of this is even feeling helpful anymore.

  “Did I say you were? Or did I ask if the amount of alcohol you consume is healthy?”

  “So I drink? I’m twenty-eight, live in LA, and attend parties for a living. It’s just part of what happens. It’s not like I have to drink or that I can’t stop. I could.”

  “Okay, but didn’t you almost breach a contract because you got so drunk at the launch party for your podcast?”

  “That was one time, and my mom . . .” I trail off, realizing that I fell directly into her trap.

  Fuck.
<
br />   Smart people suck.

  “Like I was saying.” She raises her eyebrows and smirks, leaning back into her olive-green velvet chair. “Do you think you’re making excuses and protecting your mom at the expense of your own mental health? Even though your mom has exhibited narcissistic behaviors your entire life.”

  I roll my eyes and slouch down onto her stupid couch, eyeing the box of tissues but refusing to cry. “I guess maybe it’s a possibility.”

  “And do you think that in protecting her, you’ve taken on her burdens so deeply that instead of realizing Lauren loves you, not because of your mom, but because of you, that you’ve not given her the opportunity to support you in not only the way you need, but also the way she wants to?”

  I fold my arms in front of my chest and muster up my best Addy impersonation. “You know, I feel like I don’t really like you right now.”

  “That’s okay. I’m more concerned about you liking yourself.” She takes her glasses off and rests them on the table next to her chair. “So where do you want to go from here?”

  “I think I need to talk to my mom.” She raises her eyebrows and I amend my statement. “I need to talk to my mom and Lauren.”

  “Good.” She smiles, and for the first time today, there’s no pity lingering behind her brown eyes, only encouragement and maybe even pride. “What are you going to talk to your mom about?”

  “I’m going to tell her that I can’t be her financial support anymore. I’m going to tell her that I love her, but that we need boundaries and I can’t continue to change my life because she can’t be responsible.”

  “But what if she cries again? What if she tells you that you’re no longer her daughter or that she might resort to self-harm?”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Even though she hasn’t said anything like that in some time, anytime I remember those words, the pain is just as fresh and raw as it was when she hung up on me years ago. But now I know what she was doing and I can’t let her manipulate me like that anymore.

  “I’m going to tell her that I’m her daughter always, but that I’m not responsible for her decisions and I won’t allow her to put that on me. And then I’m going to confide in Lauren, because she’s my best friend and I need her.”

  “That’s amazing, Jude. I’m really proud of you.”

  I’m proud of myself too.

  Therapy, man. Everyone needs this shit.

  * * *

  • • •

  I grab my sunglasses out of my bag and slide them onto my face. The fog isn’t too bad today, and the California sun seems even brighter as I walk out of Chloe’s office. It’s like even Mother Nature herself is thrilled with my therapy revelations.

  I walk down the sidewalk, going over what I’m going to say to my mom when I call her once I’m alone. I get to my car and start it up before digging for my phone. Even though it’s the end of October, the inside of my car is still burning up from sitting under the sun for over an hour.

  “No more manipulation. No more financial support. No more paparazzi. No filming for Hollywood Housewives.” I repeat the boundaries I worked on with Chloe before reaching into my purse for my phone. My nerves are going crazy. I know I need to do this and that her reaction isn’t my responsibility, but the weights dropping anchor in my stomach right now don’t ease up.

  When I pull out my phone, intending to call my mom no matter how much I don’t want to, I see that I have two missed calls from Eliza from StarGazer. Normally I would ignore this because . . . well, because I don’t want to deal with it. But because she doesn’t normally call me and I’m trying to put off calling my mom, I call her back.

  “Jude!” She picks up on the second ring. “I’m so glad you called me back. I can’t get in touch with your mom or Jonathon and I really wanted to talk with someone before we ran with this story.”

  The anxiety that had lifted only moments ago starts to bear back down, and dread forces my eyes shut.

  “What story?” I don’t know why I ask. I don’t want to know. I want to hang up and run back to Chloe so she can tell me what to do.

  There’s silence on the other end for about ten seconds too long before her voice is back in my ear. “You don’t know?”

  Eliza is a longtime editor for a gossip magazine. I’m pretty sure she’s immune to most things. So if I wasn’t already nervous, the sudden surprise and hesitation in her tone would scare the shit out of me. But, because this is about my mom, I’ve been conditioned to expect the worst.

  “What did my mom do this time?” I picture all the ways she’s started drama with her castmates, hoping she didn’t already get kicked off. Then my mind goes even darker and I hope she’s not having an affair with some Hollywood scumbag. I can handle drama, but I couldn’t handle her moving on from Dad and going to some asshole and dragging my dad’s memory through the dirt. “Please tell me she’s not involved in some scandalous affair. If that’s it, just hang up now and let me live in ignorance for a few more days.”

  “It’s not that . . .” I hoped she would laugh, let me know that I’m overreacting and it’s not really that terrible. But instead she sounds remorseful, like the doctors did when they told us my dad didn’t make it. “Well, what about the good news first?”

  I’m sure she is saying this to make me feel less worried, but it only confirms that there is bad news.

  “No, bad news first. I can handle it.” I’m lying through my teeth. I’m not stable enough to deal with pretty much anything.

  “Reports are coming in that her house is in the final stages of foreclosure and that she’ll be losing it soon.” The words rush out of her mouth and send my entire world into a tailspin. “It’s legal stuff, so it probably won’t be in print for a few weeks. If your mom calls, we might even be able to kill it, but without her, it’s going to run.”

  Foreclosure.

  My childhood home.

  The house my dad quite literally killed himself to protect.

  Gone.

  Everything. Gone.

  I gave her money. I paid her credit card bills. I paid for her cell phone. I thought she was at least paying the mortgage. It was the one comfort I had. Even if she was a mess, at least she had a roof over her head. A comfortable place to live. A place that housed the only good memories I had left of her and Dad.

  Gone.

  “Jude? Are you still there?” Eliza’s voice startles me out of my own thoughts. “Do you want to hear the good news?”

  I honestly forgot she said there was good news. I’m not sure anything can balance this out, but I’m willing to listen anyway. “Sure.”

  “I talked with the editor in charge of the family section, and they okayed using the pictures of you and that sweet little girl at the park and coffee shop.” She says this like it isn’t even more horrible than the first bit of information she threw my way. “He said that it’s okay if you aren’t technically related since you live together and that, actually, this looks even better for you! Isn’t that great?”

  “I . . .” I’m too dumbstruck to even form a proper sentence. All I want is to hang up with this poor woman who has no idea how massive what she just told me is, but thanks to my mom, I can’t even do that. “Run the story about the house, I don’t care. But whatever you do, please, please, please don’t publish the pictures of me and Addy. The only reason I agreed to this partnership is because I was promised she would never appear in any photo.”

  “Ummm . . . what?” The confusion in Eliza’s voice only causes my anger to rise. Of course nobody told them not to snap pictures of Lauren and Addy. “Why don’t I try to call Jonathon again?”

  “Yeah,” I snap, not meaning to do it. “Call Jonathon. I have to go.”

  I hang up without waiting for a response.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and my head falls against the headrest as I try to come to terms wi
th everything Eliza just told me.

  Before this, I bet I would’ve thought it was impossible to completely decimate two different parts of someone’s life in a three-minute phone call.

  I would’ve been wrong.

  The one thing I asked my mom for, the single boundary I placed on this entire deal, was to leave Lauren and Addy out of it. That’s it. What might hurt the most is that I don’t even know if she ignored it as much as she purposely ran right over it, proving that nothing I say matters and she’s in charge of everything.

  But almost as fast as the anger came, the fear pushes it away.

  What will happen if StarGazer ignores me and publishes the pictures? What will Ben say? Could this help him gain custody of Addy? If I’m the reason Lauren loses Addy, I don’t think I could ever forgive myself.

  Everything Chloe told me about confiding in Lauren goes out the window. I can’t even tell her this. She can’t know. I just have to cross my fingers and pray to a god who clearly finds enjoyment in my despair and hope he cares about Lauren more than he hates me.

  I pick up my phone from my lap, and my fingers immediately pull up my mom’s contact. I hit call, not knowing if I want her to answer or if I hope voice mail picks up, but the relief of hearing the automated voice on the end answers for me. I wait a beat after the beep sounds in my ear, not even sure what to say. “Mom, it’s me, Jude,” I say, like someone else would call her “Mom.” “Eliza from StarGazer needs you to call her back. And while you’re doing that, please do not call me. I’m sure she’ll fill you in, but I need space.”

  I hang up and nearly burst into hysterics.

  It’s almost comical that when my mom’s life is going well, I don’t have to worry about her calling me. But as soon as things start to take a turn, I know I’ll be hearing from her.

  I almost think about going back inside the building I just left and finding Chloe, but decide against it and text Spencer instead.