A Not-So-Simple Life (2 page)

I do know that I envied Kim and her friends from school while we were there. I watched her classmates interacting with her after her mom’s funeral. I saw the way they hugged her and spoke to her and seemed to genuinely care about her. And I tried not to notice how many stopped by her house in the following days. All expressing love and grief and what seemed like sincere friendship. And as I pretended not to witness these irksome things, I was fully aware that I was missing out on something important. Even now I feel like I’ve been robbed or cheated, or maybe I’m just stuck.

But back to Shannon and how she was AWOL all day and all night yesterday. And as they say, the writing was on the wall. It started with her drinking binge, followed by the fact that she was obviously out getting high. She’d probably called Luis (one of her favorite drug buddies) and told him her sob story about losing her only sister to cancer. I’m sure that must’ve been worth a pretty good hit of something. And when she finally came home this afternoon, she was totally wasted. I’m not even sure how she could drive, but her car seemed to be intact. Now she is sleeping it off—or else she’s dead—but she hasn’t moved for hours from her position on the living room sofa. And now it’s evening, and I am back in the attic. This is where I usually end up after she falls off the wagon.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not as if my mom sends me up here as some sort of punishment for her stupidity. No, that might be considered abuse or neglect or just plain parental meanness. No, retreating to the attic has been my own little escape plan over the years. I feel safer up here, and so far she has yet to figure it out. I have an old denim futon and a lava lamp and a few other comforts. And if I open both windows, the cooler air eventually flows through. Really, it’s not so bad. And it’s quiet. Although there are times when my little hideaway feels more like a prison cell than a private retreat. And sometimes, like tonight, I wonder why I do this to myself. Even more than that, I wonder…will this ever end?

Speaking of ends, I hate to end my first entry in my first journal on such a depressing note. Therefore I’ll take a small detour now. Perhaps I can even consider this part of my homeschooling. Like anyone is paying attention. Just the same, I’ve secretly dreamed of having my own “green” column. Or perhaps my own “green” blog. Hey, I may not be Ed Begley Jr., but I can do my small part to save the planet. So I will practice these earth-friendly tidbits right here in my journal. And who knows…maybe someday they will be read by others. Anyway, here goes my first attempt.

S
hannon is very sorry first thing this morning. I am surprised to find her up so early, sitting outside drinking coffee like it is just another day. Except she has a whopper of a headache and some really bad jitters—like she’s coming down from her chemical high. And naturally, this makes her somewhat grouchy and unpredictable. It’s like she’s suffering from a multiple personality disorder. Sort of a Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde kind of thing. One minute she’s sorry; the next minute she’s biting my head off. Talk about walking on eggshells.

So I do what I’ve always done. A little something I learned to do after Dad left, back when I was seven and desperately trying to hold things together. I become the caregiver, and I attempt to placate my mother—her wish becomes my command. And not surprisingly, she’s hungry now. This is always the case after a binge of something like cocaine or another kind of upper that temporarily replaces the appetite with a false sense of energy. I’ve seen it before. I’ll probably see it again.

And our refrigerator is bare. So I ride my bike to the closest store and, using my own money, get a few very expensive groceries. Then I come home and fix Shannon a late breakfast. Not vegan like I would prepare for myself. But I do make sure it’s low cal, low fat, low carb, and high fiber, just the way she likes it. This turns out to be plain nonfat yogurt topped with sweet strawberries (from my garden) and unsweetened granola. To this I add a glass of fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice and whole-wheat toast with real butter. Real butter is Shannon’s one dietary indulgence. Go figure. Anyway, she seems happy—briefly. So I sit on the patio and listen to her third or fourth apology of the morning.

“I’m so sorry for what I did yesterday.” Her hand shakes as she spoons up another bite of yogurt. “I know I promised you I’d never to do that again…” She’s careful not to say what “that” is as she looks at me with teary eyes. “But I’ve been so devastated over Patricia… I know you must understand how a person who’s grieving might stumble like this. It won’t happen again, baby. I swear to you it won’t.”

I don’t respond to this overly familiar promise. I just lean back in my chair, averting my eyes as I pretend to study the palm trees along the back wall. I think that one in the corner is dying, but I won’t mention it. What would be the point? It’s not like we can afford to have it taken out—or any other yard work done, for that matter. Most of all, I don’t want Shannon to see that I don’t believe her promise and am just
disgusted with her in general. And I don’t want her to question whether I think she really cared about her deceased sister or was simply using someone else’s tragedy as a handy excuse to cave to her own selfish cravings. I’ve heard that in the mind of an addict, “any excuse is a good excuse to use.” And I’ve seen it enough to believe it’s true.

“I never told you much about Patricia, did I?” she continues, oblivious to my general skepticism.

I just shake my head.

“Patricia and I were really close growing up. She was very sweet to me.” She sighed. “Our parents were a mess, Maya. I mean, our dad, mostly… I’ve told you about him before, haven’t I?”

I nod, but the truth is, she hasn’t told me much. Just that he was a self-centered loser and she couldn’t get away from him fast enough. Not that this news surprised me much. I mean, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, right?

“That man was one mean lowlife. He beat on our mother fairly regularly. And sometimes, if she wasn’t handy, he beat on us too.”

I’m not sure whether to believe this or not. “He beat on you?”

She turns and glares at me with angry blue eyes. “Yes! I’ve told you that before, Maya! Don’t you ever listen to me?”

I quickly nod again, looking away. Do not engage. Do not rock her boat. “I didn’t remember…,” I mutter.

“Well, I remember! There are some things you never forget. No matter how hard you try. And I remember a time when I was home alone with the stupid jerk. I was in my room, just minding my own business, and suddenly he bursts in and accuses me of drinking one of his beers.” She kind of chuckles now, and I look at her curiously. “It wasn’t funny at the time,” she says quickly. “But I actually had been sneaking his beers. I was about your age at the time, and I was pretty fed up with things at home. Who could blame me for needing a beer or two to escape the madness? Anyway, he had just slapped me when Patricia walks in and asks what’s going on. So he yells at her and tells her to stay out of it and that I’d stolen one of his precious brewskies. He was about to smack me again when she steps between us and tells him that she’s the one who took his beer. Of course that was a total lie.” Shannon pauses as if to contemplate this. “And then I just sat there on the bed and watched as he laid into her.”

“Wow, that must’ve been hard.”

“Yes, it was very hard…” She has a faraway look now, and I’m thinking it must’ve been a lot harder on my aunt, and that Patricia must’ve been an awfully selfless person to take her sister’s beating for her, but hopefully Shannon doesn’t suspect this.

“He was a monster.” She takes a bite of toast and slowly chews.

“Is that why you left home?” I know the answer to this
obvious question, but maybe it will help her to talk about it, like some kind of therapy. One can only hope.

“After Patricia left me, going off to college, I was stuck with him and Mom. I was constantly caught in the middle of their never-ending fights, and then there were the beatings… But after Mom died…well, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had to get out.”

“So…you left after your mom died?” I’m still trying to piece these random facts together. Shannon has never told me how old she was when she left home, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t finish high school.

She sits straighter now, smoothing her rather wild-looking hair. Because it’s bleached blond, it can look pretty strange if she doesn’t take care of it and condition it regularly, which she obviously hasn’t been doing. “And I was extremely good looking,” she continues, as if talking to herself. “Everyone said so. I knew I could make my looks work for me. And I did. There was a time when I was one of the hottest young things in Hollywood.”

Okay, that’s a huge stretch, even for her. But maybe she realizes how delusional this is, because her chin trembles slightly, like she’s about to cry. As her lower lip droops and she makes a sad little frown, I notice she’s in need of some new collagen injections. Another expense we cannot afford.

“I could still put my looks to good use, Maya. That is, if I set my mind to it and perhaps had a bit more work
done. Although everyone says I still look fantastic for…for my age.”

Naturally she never mentions what her age really is. Although I happen to know she hit the big 5-0 last year. Of course, no one else is aware of this top-secret fact. I mean, no one. Not even my dad. I’m not sure if he’s as gullible as he seems about this, or if he’s not good at math, or if maybe he, like me, just wants to avoid the conflict. But Shannon tries to make people believe she’s barely forty. Better yet, thirty-nine-that magical number that never changes.

“So what would you do?” I know I’ve just stepped onto thin ice. “I mean, to utilize your looks… Would you go back into acting?”

“You doubt me, don’t you?” Her eyes grow hot blue now, like piercing flames ready to slice right through me.

“No…” I look away.

“You do! You think just because you’re young and…well, somewhat pretty…that you’re better than me, don’t you? I can read you like a book, Maya. Why don’t you just admit it? You think I’m too old.”

“I don’t, Shannon. Really. I just wondered what kind of role you might be looking to—”

She stands abruptly, dropping her bowl of unfinished yogurt onto the cement patio, where it shatters into shards of blue porcelain splattered with white globs of yogurt and a smattering of red berries that almost look like spots of
blood. In a way it’s kind of pretty. I think I could paint a picture of it.

“What?” Shannon screeches. “You don’t think I could be hired as an actress now? You think I’m too old? Maybe you’d like to see me cast as a doddering grandmother or an elderly aunt or some pathetic old maid.” She’s glaring at me now. “Is that what you think?”

“No, of course—”

She slaps me hard across the face.

Then I turn and run into the house. Still, I can’t escape her cruel words trailing me as she reminds me that I am “selfish, unappreciative, worthless, spoiled, ungrateful…” and some other graphic words I don’t care to write down in this journal.

My prison cell is hot and stuffy this afternoon. Even with the windows open, the air barely moves up here. I wish I had grabbed my water bottle or some of those strawberries to bring up here with me. Or even a book or my laptop. As it is, I only have this pitiful journal. And the things I want to write on these crisp white pages are not pretty. They are dark and angry and hopeless. What is the point of recording all this? Really, will I ever want to read it again? Will I ever want to relive my life?

But perhaps someone else will want to know the truth about Maya Stark, only daughter of the renowned Nick Stark. I mean, when I’m gone. And on days like today, I toy with the
idea of checking out of here (and I mean permanently). It almost sounds like a good plan. Although I might not be ready for that yet. I still have some fight left in me.

And so my plan, for today anyway, is to sneak back downstairs and go outside and get on my bike and just ride. But I’ll wait until it quiets down a little. For the last hour or so, Shannon has been stomping about the house like a wild animal, screaming and yelling and slamming doors and throwing things. I can’t imagine the mess she must be making. But I can guess who will be cleaning it up later when she finally crashes…or worse. No school today, kiddies.

For no specific reason, my thoughts drift back to my cousin again. Kim’s probably in school right now. She’s quite the academic. Her dad even said as much. What would it feel like to have a life like hers? Oh sure, her mom died. And that is sad. But up until then, she had what I would call a rather nice life. And not for the first time, I’m thinking that it’s not fair. But that just proves my theory that nothing about life is fair. Of course, I’m only referring to my own life. There are others out there whose lives are far more than fair—they’re charmed. Perhaps that’s why my life is such a mess. Maybe these things need to balance, like yin and yang. And other than Kim losing her mom, I’d say that she’s one of the lucky ones. I mean, she had two normal, well-adjusted, kind, intelligent, loving parents to raise her. And she wasn’t even their birth child. How does that work? A kid is born in another
country, given up for adoption, and lands with a couple like the Petersons. Why couldn’t that have been me? I wonder if I’m too old for adoption.

Now this makes me think of my dad. And really, he’s not such a bad guy. A little selfish, yes. And a little cowardly when it comes to Shannon. But he’s basically a good-hearted person. And I believe that, beneath it all, he actually loves me. He just doesn’t know what to do about it—and to be fair, that has more to do with Shannon than anything else. She makes it nearly impossible for him to be involved with me, other than sending money. More than once she’s threatened to kill him if he ever gives her the opportunity, which he doesn’t.