Page 4 of Forever & Always You
I forgot to pack pajamas in my haste to escape my apartment last night, so I am currently squeezed into an old matching set I found in the closet of my childhood bedroom, and it was a revolutionary discovery at three-thirty this morning to finally accept that my twenty-four-year-old body is no longer the same as it was at sixteen. I was freakishly slim and athletic back then, but I haven’t lostallof my flexibility. I wriggled through a tiny window last night.
“First of all—and don’t be angry—I broke the garage window.”
Mom’s brows rise with disbelief before her expression quickly settles back into a defeated, blank stare. I reckon she’s at the point now where none of my decisions should come as a surpriseto her, and the cogs of her mind will be jumping to that drugs conclusion once again. “Why exactly did you break the garage window?”
I laugh, not necessarily to lighten the atmosphere, but because itisfunny. Only now, in hindsight. In the middle of the night? Not so much.
Mom purses her lips and fixes me with a stern look. “Please don’t laugh, Gabrielle.”
“Okay, so.” I clear my throat. “Some pipes burst in my apartment last night when I got off work, so I can’t stay there right now. And then I had a flat which I fixed all by myself after watching a tutorial online. I finally got here around three, but I didn’t want to wake you, so I threw a rock at the garage window and got inside that way. As I say: funny story.”
Mom’s gaze flickers outside the French doors. “I’ll need to have our alarm system checked. It’s clearly not working. And burst pipes? That’s what happens when you rent apartments in awful neighborhoods.”
I sigh, because this is exactly why I never come home. Mom’s high standards and resulting lectures when they aren’t met nearly always send me spiraling. And I haven’t even mentioned the whole getting-fired-from-my-shitty-job thing. But I need a place to stay, so I’ll suck up the disapproving way she cocks her head at me.
“Can I stay here for a couple days? Just until my plumbing is fixed.”
It shouldn’t be a question I need to worry about receiving “no” as an answer to. She’s my mom and this is the home I grew up in—I should be welcome any time—but our relationship is strained these days. Visits require permission.
“Yes, Gabrielle. You can stay,” Mom says after a painfully long moment of deliberation. She turns her back to me and resumes frothing her oat milk at her espresso machine, whichmy footsteps had interrupted. She flicks her blond hair over her shoulder and says, “Maybe while you’re here it’ll remind you of the kind of life youshouldbe living. Maybe you’ll find some inspiration. Some motivation, maybe?” She casts a look back at me, and I wonder if sleeping in my car wouldn’t be that bad after all.
“Gabs?” a voice says from behind me, and now it’s my turn to jolt in surprise. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“What the hell areyoudoing here?” I fire back, gaping at my brother in the doorway.
“Language, please,” Mum scolds as she pours out her coffee calmly and with disinterest. Most mothers would be thrilled to have their two adult children back home at the same time, but no, not Priscilla McKinley.
My brother, Zach, steps forward to throw an arm around me half-heartedly. We met up a month ago in Durham for a drink, but our catchups are few and far between, much like mine and Mom’s. “Had a big fight with Claire, so we’re giving each other some space for a bit until things cool down,” he explains.
“And yet he’s here while that freeloader is sitting pretty in the house he pays for,” Mom mumbles under her breath, spinning around with her coffee mug hugged to her chest and shaking her head pityingly, like Zach is being taken for a fool. “If you’re adamant on going ahead with marrying this woman, can you please reconsider my suggestion?”
“Mom, for the last time, no. I’m not asking her to sign a prenup, and if you mention it again, we’ll cut you from the guest list,” Zach warns, and he flashes me a frustrated, knowing look that says:Yep, Mom’s still a piece of work. Welcome home to hell.
“You see?” Mom snaps, clinking her coffee cup down on the pristine marble counter she pays a maid to polish three times a week. “You see the way you both treat me? I only have your bestinterests at heart, and you roll your eyes and scoff at my advice. It’s extremely hurtful.”
“I just came down to grab a bagel,” Zach says with a shrug of defeat. He plucks a bagel from one of the many kitchen cabinets, shoves it half into his mouth, and then salutes me in solidarity as he disappears upstairs to his own childhood bedroom that he’s been forced to return to.
I turn my gaze back to my pouting mother. “Look, I won’t get in your way. I’ll be gone as soon as my apartment is livable again.”
“Back to your admirable life?” Disdain flashes across her features, and she should know better than to let the words leave her mouth, but she just can’t help herself. “It’s embarrassing, Gabrielle. The women at the country club are always asking about you, and I have to lie! They think you’re a fledging businesswoman and have a beautiful home in Charlotte with a lovely partner. Why couldn’t that be true? Your father would be so disappointed in you, letting your life go down the drain like this.”
My jaw slackens and for a second, I contemplate grabbing that coffee straight out of her hands and throwing it over her.
“Why did I throw my life away?” I repeat, my words like sandpaper in my throat. “Because Dad died, Mom. Hedied.” I pause to let the reminder settle in the air, just in case Mom forgot. Sometimes I think she has. “I’m sorry that my grief wasn’t perfectly contained like yours. I’m sorry that manicuring my perfect life hasn’t been my priority these past few years. You know what? You don’t have to worry about me intruding. I’ll figure something else out.”
As always, my mother looks thoroughly put out by my words. Always the victim, never the villain. Her lower lip trembles and she squeezes her eyes shut, willing tears to form in an attempt to guilt me into admitting that of course, she is right and I amwrong.
When I was a child, Mom was my icon. The designer shoes, the fancy parties, the vacations in the Maldives. She wasn’t even a housewife—we had a nanny and maids. Mom lived the high life, fully funded by my father’s CFO title within an international organization that pulled in mind-blowing figures each quarter, and my friends and I were obsessed with how cool she was. She may have been a high-maintenance snob, but she was happy back then. When Dad passed, it was like a switch was flicked. She is now deeply repressed and unhappily stoic, and I haven’t seen a genuine emotion out of her in years. She didn’t shed a single tear over his death. Shushed me at the funeral as my chest heaved with sobs. Gave empty, cold hugs.
It’s very clear now she was spiraling into a lingering depression that she’s yet to pull herself out of, but so was I, and she was mymother. She was supposed to navigate the griefwithme, not against me. We’ve become so emotionally disconnected that I fear we’ll never build a bridge again, especially when she flings my father in my face like this, completely unaware of just how harsh her throwaway remarks are.
Coming home was a terrible mistake, because now I have fury pumping through my veins and I’m worried I’ll do something I regret, like smash another window, but this time out of rage rather than necessity.
As I storm out of the kitchen, I find Zach eating his bagel on the top step of the marble staircase and eavesdropping. He’s twenty-seven, but do brothers ever really mature? He shakes his head at me.
“You shouldn’t bother engaging with her,” he says, and I groan because he’s right.
We are both old enough now to have learned that when Mom runs her mouth, it’s best to shut it down real quick and not let her words rile us. Simply interrupt with a firm closure to thediscussion.
