Page 41 of The Blackmail of Denise Randall

THE BIRTHDAY

After driving home late last night, I wake up in my childhood bedroom after only three hours of sleep, my restlessness making it difficult to fall asleep. As I take a good hard look around my room, it’s still the same as it was when I was in junior high. Lots of pastel colors, very soft and very sweet. I notice a few boy band posters still hanging up. Trophies, pageant crowns, and plaques from over the years are displayed. Charlee’s words come back to me. This is the room of a little girl. Not the twenty-one-year-old woman I am today.

When I enter the kitchen, I find my mom cooking a feast for breakfast as well as pink, white, and purple balloons floating everywhere and a large bouquet of pink and purple roses on the table.

“There’s my birthday girl! Mommy’s baby girl is twenty-one.” Mom wipes at her eyes with her apron. “I can’t believe it. Look at you! A beautiful young woman now.” I give her a hug and kiss on the cheek. When I try to pull away, she tightens her hold and repeats, “A beautiful young woman now, but forever Mommy’s baby girl.”

The comment is meant to be endearing, but instead I feel a surge of resentment. Annoyance. I’m an adult, but nobody is going to see me as one unless I start acting like one. I need to gain some independence, and show I’m capable of taking care of myself. I can begin with moving out of my parent’s house. I pull away from my mother and walk over to the table. I can feel her eyes on me, but I refuse to acknowledge her comment.

Dad walks in just as I sit down at the table. He gives me a kiss and wishes me a happy birthday as well. As Mom puts plates on the table, I bring up the guest house.

“I was thinking maybe now that I’m older, I should move into the guest house. It’s empty, and even though I am gone half of the year at school, it’d be nice to have my own place when I come home.”

“It’s already hard enough on me that you’re growing up and now you want to leave me too,” Mom teases me.

I force myself to take a deep breath and struggle to keep my voice pleasant. “I’ll be in the backyard.”

“Alright, Sweetheart. Of course you can have the guest house,” Dad says, as he cuts a chunk out of his omelet.

Mom pouts, “Yes, of course. Do you feel we don’t give you enough privacy here?”

“I need my own place because I’m an adult now.” Also, because I’m too ashamed to admit out loud, even to myself, Charlee’s comment stung. Am I moving out for me, because I want to? No, once again, I’m doing it because I feel like I have to, because if Charlee thinks that, then maybe other people do as well, people I don’t even know, but for some reason give a damn about what they think. Yeah, some adult I am. I may be the age of a woman, but my insecurities are still that of a teenager. I hate myself. Why do I feel this way? I push away from the table and rush toward the staircase.

“Denise?” My mom cries out. “Denise!”

Oh my gosh! I have to get away. I need to get the hell away from Mom and her constantly babying me. I hurry up the stairs but Mom catches me halfway up and reaches for my arm. Her fingers are wrapped around my frail arm, and I watch her eyes grow wide, then fill with horror.

“Denise,” she gasps. “I didn’t realize—” Her words get caught in her throat. She swallows and her eyes become shiny. “Sweetheart, your arms are so…it’s nothing but bone. I can wrap my hand completely around one.” She shakes my arm and raises her voice. “I can wrap my hand around your arm, Denise!”

I jerk my arm from her grasp. “I’ve always been thin.”

“Not that thin. Honey, that’s not healthy. Get back downstairs and eat.”

“No.”

“Why not? Do you not like the way you look? My beautiful girl, you’re perfect.”

Perfect. If she only knew how not perfect her baby really is. My skin starts to itch all over. I’m feeling antsy so much that it hurts to stand still. I try to relieve some of this anxiousness coursing through me by focusing on my fingers. My pointer fingernail scratches the side of my thumb. Scratch. Scratch. AndI gain a little satisfaction from the sensation.

“Talk to me,” Mom pleads. She reaches for my hand, but I quickly put it behind my back so she’s forced to grab my other one. Scratch, scratch, scratch. The fingernail presses harder into my flesh, as my face remains neutral in front of my mother’s worried one.

“Talk to me,” she cries. What’s there to say? What can I honestly tell her? That I’ve felt neglected? How selfish would it sound if I told her that I needed them after they lost their son? Or that I needed their attention more than Trent needed them when he became a father unexpectedly? Or that even though their daughter, who they lost years with, has returned and they’re building a relationship with her that I feel like I’ve lost mine with them? I sound horrible. I won’t speak those words out loud. Instead, what I will do is take my spoiled and selfish ass upstairs where I have a pill that will fix all of this.

“I’ve been distracted and not eating like I should. I’m sorry, Mom.”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m not settling for that answer.”

My anger rises. “That’s the answer you’re getting so I guess you’ll have to.”

My mom rears back as though I slapped her. “Excuse me?”

I press my fingernail harder into my hand and feel my skin peeling away beneath the nail. My lips thin as I feel the first real sensation of pain as my skin becomes raw. I jerk my other hand away from her and turn to walk back up the stairs, but my mom reaches out and grabs my hand, the one I’ve been picking at.

“We haven’t finished discussing this, young lady” she growls. I gasp at my exposed thumb and hurry to pull it away before she sees. Mom follows my eyes and looks down. She releases a shriek, “Baby! What have you done to your poor skin?”

“I’m not a baby,” I growl. “It’s nothing.”

“What’s going on?” Dad walks into the room and stops at the base of the staircase.

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