Page 52 of Implode

If only my mom would see me now as something other than a stain on her porcelain reputation. I’m an adult, but maybe in her eyes I never grew up.

I hear more giggling, and I know it is over another hideous prepubescent picture. I excuse myself to the bathroom to avoid any more damage. The wall mirror is dirty, but it just adds to my already less-than-stellar appearance. My eyes have bags under them, my mascara from yesterday is smeared from not washing it off well enough, and my clothes are rumpled.

When I was a teen, I would slather on layers of makeup to try to hide everything different about me. I would try to buy foundation three shades lighter and then struggle to get the rest of my body to match. I hid behind bad relationships and slutty clothes and the stigma of being a latchkey kid.

I don’t have much to freshen up with, so I just use the toilet then wash my hands. When I make my way back to the kitchen, I hear a masculine voice and know that I am about to meet my mom’s boyfriend for the first time.

I round the corner, and as soon as my eyes meet his, I feel an odd feeling of déjà vu. “Ivan Burk?”

“Clarinet?”

I flinch at my old nickname that was awarded to me because my name is Claire Nettles. Oh, and because the star quarterback for the football team told everyone that when I came, I sounded like a woodwind instrument. We never had sex. I’m sure he wanted to, but even with low self-esteem, I still had my bar set higher than him. I despised him and guys like him. But the rumor stuck and so did my nickname.

I turn to my mom. “You are dating someone I went to school with?” My tone is very judgey. What is she thinking?

“We are both adults,” Ivan says, giving me the once-over.

“With a huge age gap,” I point out.

“Tell me you guys did not date,” Mom says, turning to Ivan as if she is just now realizing the difference in age. Is she this oblivious?

“Oh no, I had standards,” he says, chuckling, making my mom smile. She smacks his arm playfully and their casual interaction makes me want to scream. I can’t tell if Mom is relieved about our lack of history or because Ivan made a joke at my expense.

“What does the nickname Clarinet mean?” Mom asks, alternating her attention between the both of us. Her eyes twinkle with curiosity.

“Don’t,” I warn Ivan who just smirks. He whispers something to my mom who melts at his closeness.

Between the shock of finding that Tara and Nic were once engaged, then finding out my mom is dating someone I went to high school with, I’m not sure how many more surprises I can endure. None have been positive.

“Oh, come on, Claire, quit being so sensitive. You’ve always had such thin skin,” she teases. She reaches behind her to hand Ivan a to-go cup of coffee, standing up on her tiptoes to kiss him before he takes his first sip.

I swallow hard. “Do you even want me here, Mom?”

Her sigh is exaggerated. “Buckle up for the ride, Ivan. Here comes the drama.”

My lower jaw relaxes, and I impulsively scowl over her comment. “Really? Is this really happening?”

“Just get to the point, dear.”

“Since I’ve arrived, I have been met with snappy comments, snide remarks, and a welcome fit for a stranger. You have spent most of my life trying to avoid taking care of me—except financially. Shoving money at me was the easy part. You know what I needed during that time?”

Mom mumbles something, making Ivan snicker.

“Love. I needed love, Mom. I searched everywhere else to fill the void, oftentimes making horrible choices. But at the end of the day, I took responsibility for my mistakes. Sorry I was one of yours.”

I don’t wait for her to respond, because I know she won’t without saying something hurtful. What can she possibly have to say anyway? How can you expect someone to say sorry when they never think they do anything wrong?

“I forgive you,” I say with emotion in my voice. “I’m doing it for me. Not for you. I need to move on from here.”

“Good luck with that, Claire!” she yells at my back, as I walk up to my room to gather my belongings.

I shove whatever fits inside my luggage, while still being able to zip it closed. I can sort it at my apartment when I get back to my real home. In order to accept love, I need to love myself. Staying here for a minute longer is not loving myself. This is fucking torture.

Sometimes the hardest part about moving on is letting go of the guilt. Maybe my mom and I can have a healthy relationship again in the future. It’s not like I’m completely shutting the door to the possibility. However, I know that she has to get her shit together and go through some counseling in order to allow that to happen. I can’t force someone to change. I can only choose how I react.

I empty the boxes we brought in from the garage into my carry-on and push down on the top layer in order to get the zipper to close. I use my phone to call for a taxi and wait outside on the cement stairs alone. I’ve sat on these same steps many times waiting for rides to arrive. I was a naive young girl then. I know I am not the same girl now.

The sun shines down on me, warming my skin. I roll down the waistband of my pants and allow my tiny little sunflower to be exposed to the UV rays.Always look toward the sun.

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