My Mother Was Never A Kid (Victoria Martin Trilogy)

by Francine Pascal

  “Don’t you like malteds?” I guess I didn’t answer her. I’m busy trying to work up enough spit for a swallow to get my tongue off the roof of my mouth and say something. No sound comes out. All I can manage to do is nod my head and follow her through the dining room into an enormous kitchen and stand there like some kind of jerk while she starts making a malted in a real malted machine like they have in drugstores.

  “Chocolate ice cream all right?” she asks. This time my head bobs up and down like a mechanical toy and she looks at me kind of funny. I stop the stupid head-nodding, but I still can’t speak because if I open my mouth even a crack I know I’m going to burst out crying. I just stand here trying to think of a million other things, but it’s no use. Big blobs of tears are crowding my eyes, but luckily Cici doesn’t look up from the malteds.

  “Hey, listen,” she says. “If my mother asks where we’ve been all day, just say the movies. Forget about all the rest, including the matron and Mr. Hot Pants, okay?”

  Before I can answer (which I couldn’t do anyway) that voice from upstairs calls out, “Hello, hello.”

  “Here, Mom, in the kitchen.”

  There’s a sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. At first they’re far away at the top and they sound soft, but they get harder and sharper as they clip-clap their way down. I hold my breath to hear better. Now they’re at the bottom and the sound of them pounds in my head. She’s coming. I panic. And now there’s something else reaching for me, something worse, another thought, but I push it away, too frightened to let it in.

  “Cici … the bathroom. Where’s the bathroom? Quick, I don’t feel so good.”

  “Right there.” She points to a door right off the kitchen. I rush for it and slam the door behind me just as the footsteps come through the dining room and into the kitchen.

  The bathroom is tiny with barely enough room for the toilet, a small sink, and me. The rest of the space looks like it’s being devoured by the wallpaper, a gaudy jungle of the biggest orange and yellow mums I’ve ever seen. There’s a tacky little goldframed mirror straight ahead of me and I stare hard into it. Maybe it’ll be like an Alice-through-thelooking-glass thing and if I concentrate hard enough I’ll be able to walk right into the mirror and come out the other side, in the seventies in my own house. That’s really not so unthinkable when you consider how weird everything else has been. But no luck. Nothing happens, except the dumb face looking back at me is getting blotchier and sweatier and more scared-looking.

  I can hear the voices in the kitchen but I can’t make out what they’re saying. I try not to imagine. I flush the toilet so they don’t get too suspicious. I need time to think. I have to get out of here somehow. But the only possible way is through the porthole-size window over the sink. I’m on the first floor so there’s a real drop, but I don’t know if I can squeeze through. Maybe if I open it all the way…. Forget it. There are two large screws on both sides of the frame that keep it from opening any more than four inches.

  “Hey, Victoria.” It’s Cici’s voice. “Are you okay?” I try to answer but the most I can do is shake my head emphatically, which of course she can’t hear. A couple of seconds go by and she calls my name again.

  “Victoria? Coming out?”

  I have no choice. I can’t stay here forever. I splash some cold water on my face, but I’m still pretty splotchy-looking. I pull up my socks, comb my hair, tighten my belt, smear on some lipgloss, blow my nose, and wipe out the sink where a couple of hairs have fallen. By now my socks have fallen again.

  “Victoria?” Oh my God. It’s that voice again. “Are you sick, dear?”

  I take a very deep breath and start to unlock the door and squeak it open inch by inch. This approach is excruciating, like going into an icy pool bit by bit. The only way to do it is to throw the door open all at once. One. Two. Three. And I do it. Nothing. The door is wide open but there’s no one there. Maybe they vanished. Maybe it’s all over. Or maybe they’re just standing on the other side of the kitchen where I can’t see them. I walk the four short steps into the kitchen and … there they are.

  She’s beautiful Her hair is dark brown with soft shiny curls that almost touch her shoulders. Her cheeks look sort of flushed, they’re so pink. She’s wearing a silky striped blouse that matches the orangey red of her lipstick. She smiles at me, and her gray eyes sort of squint like they always do when she doesn’t wear her glasses. She comes toward me, friendly, welcoming, a fragrant aroma of Arpège, and whoosh—that icy wind shoots through my stomach. I can’t stop myself. I back away. In all my life, since as far back as I can remember, this is the first time I have ever been afraid of my own grandmother.

  That’s who she is. Sure, she’s younger and slimmer and all that. But there’s no question. I know for absolute certain that she’s my grandma. And that has to mean—no! I won’t let the thought come any closer. It can’t be!

  “How nice to meet you, Victoria.”

  My very own grandmother says that like it’s the first time she ever laid eyes on me in her life. And of course it is! I’m completely thunderstruck. If she comes any closer I might scream or, more likely, throw myself into her arms and just hang there for dear life. She takes a step nearer, but I don’t budge. I just stay in one spot, a big blob glued to the floor.

  Oh, Grandma, can’t you see? It’s me, Victoria. Why don’t you know me, your own granddaughter? Don’t you love me? (Dumb. How can she love me when she doesn’t even know me?)

  “Don’t worry dear, we’ll be able to get in touch with your parents. In the meantime just make yourself comfortable and try not to worry too much.” She says the whole thing in a kind but formal voice. It’s hopeless. She hasn’t got the vaguest idea who I am. Then she turns to Cici and says, “I know Felicia is delighted to have you stay with us in the meantime.”

  Felicia! Not Cici. Felicia! I let the thought in now because there’s no way to fight it. I turn and stare at Cici.

  “Victoria? Is something wrong?” One of their voices comes through to me and I think I shake my head.

  Felicia! Cici! My own mother! Holy cow, am I dumb. It had to be. Unbelievable! I told you she looked familiar. I mean, she didn’t really, but there were things about her that reminded me of someone. Not so much the features, but more like the expressions, the way she talked—I don’t know what, something, maybe the look in her eyes. I just knew I knew her all along, only I thought she was a friend of somebody’s or some girl I met somewhere. That’s what threw me. I thought she was a kid like me.

  But she’s not. She’s a woman. Felicia, Cici, whatever she wants to call herself, there’s one thing for sure, this crazy nutty kid who isn’t afraid to zonk a pervert in the shin, turn Woolworth’s upside down, sneak cigarettes in a garage, and probably do a million other kooky things and maybe even some awful things like buying a science test, isn’t my friend at all.

  She’s my mother!

  Ten

  By now you probably figure I’ve flipped my lid. Well, so do I, but it doesn’t change things. Right this minute I’m looking straight at my mother, only she’s fourteen years old. I mean it’s fantastic that I’m looking into the very same yellow-brown eyes that I’ve looked into thousands of times before. I don’t know how come I didn’t recognize that special look they have. I think I even see it now. Her hair throws me a little. My mother’s is blonder and curlier now, but I guess a little bleach and some curlers handle that pretty easily. And her chin. It sticks out just like my mother’s. Hey, jerk, it isn’t just like—it is my mother’s chin.

  Well, so far so good. I mean they’re just standing there. Nobody’s attacking me so maybe it’s not going to be so bad. In fact I think I feel a little better now. Not so scared. After all, it is my mother and grandmother, and even if they don’t know who I am, still, they’re not exactly killer monsters. Actually they’re terrific people. All my friends think they’re super. Whenever I go to visit my grandmother’s country club, everybody is always telling me how sensati
onal she is. And my mother? I told you before I’m the only one who doesn’t like her. Except now. Now she turns out to be my best friend. So why am I still shaking?

  “Aaah!” Cici says, making a grab for the overflowing malted machine. I jump a foot straight into the air. I guess I’m still a little scared.

  “How many times do I have to tell you not to fill it so high,” my grandmother says, sounding more like my mother than my grandmother. “Here.” She hands Cici the sponge. “Before it drips on the floor.”

  Cici wipes the counter and fills two glasses with mostly foam and hands one to me. I’ve got to make myself talk or they’re going to think I’m some kind of a moron.

  “Thank you,” I say. It isn’t much but it’s all I can manage now in my condition. I really hope my grandmother, or Mrs. Lyons (I guess that’s what I’ll have to call her now), just thinks I’m shy, not unfriendly. I know she’s not going to love me in a day, but I do want her to like me.

  “Victoria, would you like to try your house again?” She sounds like she likes me okay.

  “Yes, please,” I say, squinching my mouth in smile formation, I hope.

  “Felicia, let Victoria use the hall phone.”

  We finish our malteds.

  “After you’ve called, Felicia will introduce you to her brother.”

  An “ugh” sound plus an “ugh” look is Cici’s answer.

  “I don’t like that, Felicia.” That’s exactly what my mother says to me when I do something like that about Nina. But what’s really incredible is how my mother is about her brother now. I’m talking about the 1970s. I told you how close they are, practically like twins. Uncle Steve can do no wrong. And she’s always saying how she would do anything for him and he would do anything for her. In fact she’s always using him as an example of how siblings are supposed to act toward each other. Wow! What baloney. Wait till I tell her … What am I talking about? Who am I going to tell? Cici? My fourteenyear-old mother? Sure, I’ll just tell her everything. I’ll just go right up to her and say, “Hey, Cici, you may not believe this but … you’re my mother.”

  “Of course, dear,” she’ll say. “Now, if you just step over here these nice men with the nets want to have a word with you.”

  We go into the hall and Cici shows me the telephone.

  “Come upstairs to my room when you’ve finished.” And Cici heads up the steps.

  I haven’t even got the nerve to dial my own number, so I just make up any old number and call it. Lucky for me, there’s no answer.

  “Victoria!” Cici pokes her head out from the top of the steps. “Any luck?”

  “Nope. Still not home.”

  “They’ll probably be home by tonight,” she says, coming down the stairs. “You know you can stay here as long as you want.”

  How’s fifty years for starters?

  “Anyway,” she says, “I was sort of hoping you could stay over for the weekend. I really want you to go to that party tonight.”

  “Me too.” I guess I’m a lousy actress because she looks at me in a funny way.

  “Victoria, I think something else is bothering you. Ever since we got home you’ve been acting sort of—I don’t know—scared. Look, you’re my good friend, so I’m not going to BS you. You’re going to think I’m crazy but … uh … well, are you afraid of my mother?”

  “Afraid of your mother?” I guess I didn’t fool her, but I deny it like crazy. “Of course not. I think your mother’s terrific, really sensational.” This time I really sound convincing, and why shouldn’t I? She’s my own grandmother and I really do think she’s super. “I just felt kind of worried about barging in like this. You know, not invited and all.”

  “Forget it. She doesn’t mind at all. Wow, that’s a load off my mind. I really was worried that you hated it here and especially my mother. I know I have some complaints about her, but, gee, she isn’t exactly a killer monster.”

  Where have I heard that before?

  I smile and she seems satisfied and we go up the stairs. At the top to the left is what must be my grandparents’ room. I follow Cici down a long hall past a small bedroom and then to Cici’s room. It doesn’t look like her at all. It’s really large and elegantly decorated with heavy silk drapes right down to the floor, a delicate crystal chandelier, and, my God, there’s my dresser! It’s the one from my room at home, the one I’ve had since as far back as I can remember. The only difference is that on this one the white marble top is in perfect condition. Mine got cracked when we tried to move it a couple of years ago. I’ve always known it belonged to my mother when she was a kid, but it’s so weird to actually see it here in her room. I can’t believe my clothes aren’t in the drawers.

  The room is spotless. I mean absolutely perfect, couldn’t be neater. What a disappointment. Well, nobody’s perfect. Actually I should have suspected because my mother’s always nagging me to clean my room.

  “Here’s some space for you to dump your stuff,” Cici says, opening the middle drawer of the dresser. The entire inside of the drawer is a mass of rolledup lumps of clothes jammed together. Gross! I love it. She digs her hands in one corner and shoves them over to make room for my things, only she can’t shove much because it’s so overloaded already, and the only way I can possibly get my clothes in is to roll them up and stuff them in. Cici holds her things back while I squeeze mine in and then together we slide the drawer shut quickly, tucking in the hangouts. No problem. I’ve been doing it for years.

  “Nice going,” she says, and I’m beginning to feel really comfortable, what with my own dresser and all. The all is the mirror. I didn’t notice before but that’s my mirror too.

  “I’d better hide these butts in the secret drawer,” Cici says and starts to scramble through her pocketbook while I open the “secret drawer” for her. It’s a great hiding place. It’s impossible to tell by looking at the dresser that there’s a fourth drawer at the bottom because it has no handles and it’s disguised as a panel. In fact, you have to slide your fingers underneath to pull it open. Nobody ever knows…. So how come I know? Ooh, that was dumb.

  “You’re the first person who ever knew about that drawer without my showing them,” Cici says, shaking her head in amazement. “How did you know it was there?”

  No sweat. I tell her the absolute truth. “I have the exact same dresser.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Swear to God. It’s identical, even has the same round mirror.” It feels fantastic to be actually telling the complete truth about something. All the secretkeeping can really make you uptight. “Mine even has that fancy trim on the edge of the mirror.”

  “No fooling?”

  “Right. And those identical tiny little flower things too.”

  “I’m really surprised …”

  “It’s absolutely incredible, but it’s got to be the same exact set …”

  “… because it’s not a set. We bought the mirror separately.”

  “Except that my mirror is a lot rounder than yours and smaller. In fact it’s only half the size and the flowers are so tiny you can barely make them out. Actually they look more like butterflies with extra wings.” I’m wishing somebody would stuff an old sock in my mouth or the house would catch fire or something so I could stop. No way. “Truthfully it’s more like a picture than a mirror. I suppose that’s why we keep it in the living room.”

  One of the best things about Cici is that she doesn’t get thrown easily. She sees she’s dealing with a raving lunatic whose face is probably getting redder and hotter by the second and whose mouth won’t stop, so with spectacular compassion and great cool, she just cuts in and changes the subject.

  “I gotta get out of these things or they’re going to be all cruddy for tonight.” And with that she unbuttons her skirt, casually lets it slide to the floor, and steps out of it. The blouse she lets fall in another heap a couple of feet away. I love it! Would you believe my mother, who is forever bugging me to clean my room, is a worse pig than I am? At
least I aim for the chair. Of course sometimes the chair gets pretty loaded and a few things might slip to the floor, but that’s different.

  Cici pulls a pair of shorts and a T-shirt out of the top drawer (we even keep our shirts in the same drawer) and starts to put them on. You wouldn’t believe the shorts. They’re made of some kind of real sleazy white material with horrendous puckery gathers at the waist and pleats in front and back. Are they gross! I can see her eyeing my jeans.

  “If you want to change, I’ve got a million pairs of shorts, or how about a pair of pedal pushers?”

  Ugh … I wouldn’t be caught dead in those grungy .shorts. I don’t even know what pedal pushers are, but they sound too cute for words so I pass them up too. Another nice thing about my mother as a kid unlike my mother as a mother is that she doesn’t push. No nagging. Whatever I want is okay with her. How did she change so drastically?

  Suddenly the door is pushed open by a raunchy-looking guy of about sixteen.

  “Knock, you jerk.” My mother greets what has to be my uncle Steve, the brother she would do anything in the world for.

  “Drop dead, fink,” is his loving answer. “Where’s my new Submariner?”

  “I haven’t got the vaguest,” she sneers.

  “Liar.” The natural answer. I’m happy to say this is the first time I’m really beginning to feel at home.

  “I am not. You put one smelly foot over that threshold and I’m telling,” says my mother.

  “Where’s my comic?”

  “I don’t know, and if you don’t like it you can lump it.”

  “It may be true for all we know,” he starts to sing a really annoying song, “but it sounds like bull to me …”

  “Shut up and get out!”

  “… so take your chat to another prat and stop …”

  “I’m telling …”

  “… bugging me.”

  “Mom!” she screams.

  We all just stand there looking at each other. As soon as there’s a silence any place I always feel like I have to fill it, so I look at Uncle Steve and say, “Hi, I’m Victoria.” In the middle of the whole fight I got to be Miss Manners. Naturally he looks at me like I’m some kind of a roach and grunts, “Yeah,” and loses interest. I hate him already. I can’t believe he’s so gross.