Page 15 of Overtime
“Fortunately for you, you have a mother who cares,” she says in her snippy voice that grates on my nerves and gives me headaches. “So I went ahead and ordered dress samples in your size. Unfortunately, they take more time to be ready than straight sizes.”
I hate that term. It sort of implies that anything else is an abnormal size.
“Which means,” she continues, “they’ll only be available the weekend after next. That’s the first weekend of February, so mark it in your calendar.”
“Fine.” Wow, okay. I guess I’m happy it takes so long to get XL or XXL sample dresses. It gives me time to prepare for this torture.
“Your sister will join us too. She wants to make sure you’ll look perfect. Or, well, as perfect as you can.”
Oh, great. Beautiful, favorite child Megan will be there too.
Okay, I’m not being fair. I would give a kidney for my sister and she’d do the same for me. It’s not her fault that Mom often uses her as an example of how lacking I am. For example, Meg will point out that the sleeves of my blouse are weird, and Mom will say it’s the shape of my arms that’s weird.
This will be awful. I wish I had a solid excuse to get out of it. But if not next weekend, then the following, and so on until my mother gets what she wants.
“Do I have to be sober for this thing?”
“Maddie…”
“Okay, okay.” The whine I’m trying to hold back filters through my voice anyway. “Text me the address.”
“No need. I’ll pick you up, and we can make a day out of it.”
That’s the very last thing I want. A whole day of my mother nagging me about why I can’t lose weight for the wedding? Hard freaking pass.
“Sorry, Mom, but I’m seriously busy with school and work. We’ll have to hang out later, okay?” It’s not a lie, but I still feel crappy.
That’s what happens when I talk to Mom. I either feel crappy because of what she says or what she implies, or I feel crappy because I can’t fully tell her how much those things upset me without her blowing up. It’s like walking through a field full of land mines.
She lets out a sigh that could break records. “See? You wouldn’t have to work so hard if you’d picked a more sensible degree.”
“Did you forget how Meg had to study for like ninety hours a week when she was in school?”
“Yeah, but that was for a good purpose.”
And there it is. The cold knife of parental disapproval thrusting into my heart with clinical precision, right where it hurts the most.
I wish Mom understood that books are a good purpose. The best. Books are an escape. A friend. The fantasy you know you’ll never get to live in real life. The parent or the teacher you need during hard times. A window into a different world. And the honest living of so many people.
She acts like I’m the only fool who wants to pay the bills off dead trees. But she sure enjoys the occasional Nora Roberts off the supermarket shelf, huh?
“I have to go.”
“Maddie, you know I just worry about you. I wish you would?—”
“No, I really have to go. My boss is calling me.” A complete lie for lack of a legit exit.
“Oh, okay,” she practically chirps, oblivious to the fact I’m about to cry. “I’ll see you in eleven days, then. So exciting!”
“Yes. Super exciting.” I clench my jaw and squeeze my eyes shut.
“Bye, baby!”
“Bye, Mom.”
I end the call and fling my phone onto the pillows.
No, I’m not going to cry. I’ve gotten over every passive-aggressive or plain-aggressive comment about my looks or choices for twenty-one years. This isn’t a new hurt. I can get past this easily.
