And I’m going to suck it up and take it, the way I always have.
The timing of my mother’s knee surgery worked to my advantage—I’m trying to arouse as little suspicion as possible about Inspired Building’s plans, and this allows me to claim I’m here only as a loving daughter as opposed to some big-city interloper trying to destroy Elliott Springs’ small-town charm. I wonder if it could possibly be worth it, though, as I approach the house in the sun’s dying light.
The door is unlocked. I enter and drop my suitcases in the foyer, careful not to jostle the glass display shelves, then walk to the back of the house.
“You’re finally here,” my mother says, the folds around her mouth sagging as she pauses the TV.Her gaze drifts over me, head to toe. “And all dressed up for the occasion, apparently.”
“It’s lovely to see you too, Mom.” I don’t bother to explain why I’m in a suit—nothing I say will impress my mother, though I doubt that will stop me from trying repeatedly during the months ahead. No matter how old I get, there will always be this five-year-old inside me who desperately hopes she can make Mommy love her. And the harder I want it, the more she hates me instead.
She nods toward what remains of the back deck while her new screen porch is being built. “Let Snowflake in.”
“You got a dog?” I ask. “You hate dogs.”
“I don’t hate dogs,” she argues, though it’s what she said, verbatim, throughout my childhood. “He was Jordan’s, but he got too big for their place.”
This doesn’t surprise me in the least. Jordan, my brother’s fiancée, is exactly the type to get a dog she could fit in a designer handbag and abandon it once he wasn’t willing or able to be carried around quietly. My mother had better warn Jordan that babies won’t fit in purses forever either.
I open the door and Snowflake bounds inside, jumping on me with muddy paws. I walk into the kitchen to wipe the mud off, glancing at my watch. I suppose I’ll be expected to cook, though God knows what I’ll even make—my repertoire in the kitchen is mostly limited to peanut butter and jelly, or things that only require a microwave, and I even manage to destroy those. “It’s nearly dinnertime. Are you hungry?”
My mother is holding the remote up, ready to resume her show. It’s been two years, but we’ve apparently exhausted the conversation.
“I don’t need dinner,” she replies. “And it wouldn’t kill you to skip a meal or two either.”
My hands grip the counter.I cannot believe she’s already starting this shit with me. I’ve lost eighty pounds since I moved away after high school, yet we’re right back where we were: my mother smugly proud of her restraint while reminding me I suck at it.
Any time I got a snack growing up, any time I wanted seconds, she’d frown, disgusted with me. “You can’t possibly need that,” she’d say, and that was all it would take to turn my actual hunger into something darker and emptier, something I could never fill with food.
“Are you seriously trying to imply that I should lose more weight?” I ask between my teeth.
She sighs. “Still as easily offended as ever, I see. I’m only saying that as you get older, it’s going to get harder to keep that weight off, and we both know it’s always been a struggle for you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.I could argue that it was only an issue under her roof, but we’d both know that was a lie. I maintain my weight through a less-than-healthy combination of rigorous exercise and calorie counting, two things my mother has never had to resort to, and when I slip up, it feels as if I’ve fallen into a well and will never, ever be able to scramble back up its slick walls.
I’ll eat dinner in defiance tonight, forcing down every bite, and it still won’t be enough. I’ll want to eat everything that isn’t nailed down because she’s reminded me I shouldn’t want any of it.
I’ve been home for an hour and she’s already begun to win.
* * *
The room that used to be mine is now essentially a storage area, with boxes of my mother’s old clothes stacked nearly to the ceiling. I have to create a pile against the wall simply to form a path to the bed. The closet is full of her out-of-season clothes so there’s nowhere to put mine. I know mobility has been an issue since she hurt her knee. But I also know she wouldn’t have cleaned this room out for me regardless.
I shower and climb onto the bed, kicking the musty coverlet to the floor. I miss New York in a way I never dreamed I’d miss anything. I want my lovely, clean apartment with its floor-to-ceiling windows and utter emptiness. You could roll a marble from the front door to the back wall without ever hitting a goddamn thing.
I pick up my phone. It’s absolutely pathetic how often I check my texts now, looking for his name.
I’m coming by the store tomorrow around 2PM and that ceiling had better be in. How’s your grandma, by the way?
Liam
You don’t care about my grandma.
That’s because I don’t think you actually have a grandmother. I’m pretty sure you’ve used her death before.
Everyone has a grandmother. That’s how reproduction works.
Yes, but there’s a limit to the number of times you can use a grandmother’s death to avoid work.
I have step-grandmothers. I’ll use it forever.