Story Girl (12 page)

“Now remember, you are not here for the anniversary. As far as our mom and dad go, we’ve all forgotten about it – completely. You took a taxi from the airport a little early – to save them the drive. And you’re just here for a visit, or a breakdown or whatever. We’ll be staying at the Comfort Inn. So just enjoy your dinner and don’t screw up the surprise.”

“I won’t.”

Although I still thought it was ridiculous that my parents wouldn’t be suspicious of my timing.

“Good. Now we need to go pick up more relatives. So, we’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. I will give you more details tomorrow. Wear something decent – it’s not a lumberjack convention.”

I nodded that I would, glad that Jenny was such a control freak. It meant that I didn’t have to do any of the work – for the price of merely having to show up at this thing, I would happily wear a rhinestone-encrusted unitard.

The ice-melter honked as it drove away – probably a passive aggressive action on Luke’s part. I wondered if my mother had been watching the street from her familiar perch at the kitchen window.

Whatever. At this point, I could deal with just about anything.

chapter
16

T
HE PANIC SPRANG
at me like a coiled snake.

I swallowed hard and braced myself for the homecoming, wondering if I’d erupt into a mass of flaming hives the second I sauntered through the wreath-laden door. I stared down at the welcome mat, and noticed that the little smiley face seemed to be smirking at me, but I already knew I was entering at my own risk.

My mother began sniffling the second she saw me, “Oh sweetheart, now you’re here. Not just a little voice on the phone. We’ve been so worried about you.”

“I’m okay.”

“Did you take a cab? We would have been delighted to pick you up.”

“No worries.”

“Things will be so much better now that you’re home. And I’m so glad you packed your little cat.”

Her embrace nearly knocked the life-force out of me, “Something smells delicious, Mom.”

“I’ve made you a vegetable casserole – with the baby green onions and corn. Your father wanted a beef chunk stew but I held him off.”

“Thanks.”

“Where’s your luggage, sweetheart?”

“Here,” I said, holding up my duffel bag.

“That’s all you brought?” she asked, trying to conceal her displeasure as she gave me the once over.

“Just some jeans and a couple of shirts.”

There was a full-length mirror in the foyer and my mother and I both happened to catch my reflection at the exact same time. In that moment, it was apparent to both of us that I was in shambles. My jeans were splayed at both knees, my shirt was wrinkled and stained with old mustard, and I had no idea just how masculine my comfy work boots actually looked.

My hair had dried frizzy and I had grey circles under my eyes. Even the recent high of James hadn’t alleviated my fundamental messiness. Maybe he was even shaping me into my truest and most authentic self. I didn’t want to give the jerk so much credit, so I pushed the thought off the ledge of my awareness.

“Rough flight,” I said. The apology in my voice irked me because I always resented feeling that I should be someone other than I was – rough patches and all.

“Well, you can borrow whatever’s in my closet.”

And much like my attitude with Jenny, I’d wear a triple-tiered tiara if it meant my mother wouldn’t nag.

“Okay then, thanks.”

“Yes, let’s give you some proper time to freshen up. I’ve got all the goodies you’ll need. Powder, shampoo, soap – have yourself a nice long bath, and help yourself to my closet, sweetheart. There’s a real pretty blouse that I think will fit you. It’s way too long for me in the arms. You’ll see it on the bed.” Her words sounded like thoughtful suggestions, but I knew well they added up to a direct command.

“But,” I started.

“Since after all – ” she burst.

“What?”

“We’re having a special guest tonight.”

My mother had that familiar frantic look in her eye, after years of dealing with my obstinate refusal to play girl. She was waiting for me to protest that I was, in fact, not a doll.

I just sighed, “Special guest?”

“Yes.”

“Do I know this person?”

“I think so.”

“I’m so tired, Mom. I’ve been cramped up all day.”

“I know, sweetheart. A harmless little dinner and then you can go to bed.”

She hugged me again, and I knew my choice in the matter was gone. This was a place where I’d always had to acquiesce, and tonight would be no different.

“Where’s Dad?”

“Buying the dinner rolls.”

“Right.”

I walked upstairs and into my parents’ room; something felt very different. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what the difference was, so I sat on the bed until it came to me. My father was missing from the room, not just his possessions but also his very essence.

The bathroom counter – once cluttered with both perfume and aftershave bottles – was almost bare, except for an old bottle of Chanel and a toothbrush holder that held only one brush. Now only my mother’s things were here; even the grey shower curtain had been replaced with vertical pastel stripes.

Everything smelled completely of her.

I took a long, hot shower and conditioned some life back into my hair. I picked up the mushroom-colored blouse that had been laid out ever so neatly on the bed. My mother had passed it off as hers, but I knew instantly that she had bought it specifically for me. I clipped away the Jane’s Boutique price tag, and slipped it on over my bare breasts, which were well into their downward sag. I searched my duffel bag for a bra, but only found two of the sports variety. My
boobs looked like thick pancakes under a silk blanket. I tried on my mother’s bras, but my C’s were quickly lost inside of her giant D cups.

Then I tried on my mother’s dress slacks but every pair was three inches too short. This would normally be the time when I’d end up wearing a pair of my father’s pants, cinched up tight with a pretty belt and a long top left to hang loose over the way-too-big crotch area.

That left me with one final option, and it was the worst possible. I wanted to run downstairs and offer my mother a thousand dollars to let me wear one of her warm fluffy housecoats. But I couldn’t.

It was time to break out the wool. I slowly stepped into one of my mother’s school-marm skirts. It was too large around the waist and I was tempted to create a new hole to loop around the button, but I had nothing sharp except my angst, so I knotted a Disney-inspired sash around the whole itchy thing. Then I put my hair up in a tight bun, and applied a little of my mother’s powder and rouge to my face and neck.

I studied myself in her oval ivory mirror, and was reminded of my days as an extra in a really bad period piece – around the same time I’d discovered that the screenwriter isn’t exactly the most valued person on a movie set.

Humiliating as this dress-up nonsense was, it was far easier than the epic battles my mother and I had fought any time I’d resisted such maidenly garb. I could have solved this indignity if I’d possessed even a modicum of style, but unfortunately – I cared not.

I had no shoes for the outfit so I ran down the stairs with bare feet. The look of relief on my mother’s face was rather comical. I smiled at her and started peeling carrots for the inevitable dinner salad.

“You look lovely, sweetheart.”

I nodded with a smile, absolutely baffled as to how she could find the get-up anything other than ghastly. Even in her silky peach pantsuit and bangles, she looked far hipper than me.

“Do you want to borrow some nylons? I’ve also got knee-high hose.” Given our long history with this conversation, her hopeful desire for a different outcome almost made me sad.

“I can’t wear any of that stuff. It’s all too itchy, remember?”

Everything from my waist down was already one big wooly torture, and I couldn’t understand why women in the new century still had to torment themselves in such diabolical ways.

“Oh right – I forgot. You’re probably the only girl I ever knew who hates nylons.” My mother tried to be carefree about it, but there was no mistaking the hurt in her voice.

“The only one who admits it,” I corrected.

She ignored the comment, “Your father should be home any second now with those rolls. And I really hope he picked up whole wheat – last time it was sour dough and I just can’t eat white breads like I used to.”

This was probably not the time to inquire about the half-empty bedroom.

As if on a cosmic timer, we heard the door of my father’s Cadillac slam shut – maybe just a tad too hard. He walked through the door with a bag of brown buns and a bottle of wine. His grey hair was receding slightly and he’d put on weight, but he was still my sweet and handsome Dad. I immediately walked into his arms and held him, pressing my fingers into his meaty back. He seemed a little shocked to be receiving such attention. Something about him reminded me of Luke.

“Hi, Pop,” I said.

“Hey, Pebbles.”

I finally let go of him when I felt tears welling. We both chuckled and I grabbed the rolls out of his hand and put them in a bowl. My father and I never said much to each other, and in that, we were bonded – as if we still weren’t sure of our place in life or how we’d ended up as who we were. We were like lost little moons held in place only by the planetary pull of my mother.

I followed her into the dining room where she had set the table for four, using her best china. Now I was a little nervous because she only used her expensive dishes at Christmas and Thanksgiving.

“So who’s coming over for dinner?” I asked her.

She was adjusting a centerpiece of stargazer lilies.

“You’ll see.”

“But I don’t like surprises, remember?”

“You’ll see, Tracy. That’s the end of it.”

My mother had cooled to me by a couple of degrees, and I assumed she was hurt by the affection I’d lavished on my father.

“The table looks beautiful, Mom.”

“Could you bring me the cloth napkins in the top cabinet drawer?”

“Sure,” I said, eager to stitch up her feelings. The drawer was stuffed with neatly folded squares of cloth: white, beige, raspberry, peach, and teal.

“Bring four of the cream, on the top. Careful not to mess up the other ones.” She had stopped calling me sweetheart, and I wondered what sort of emotional acrobatics she would demand from me before I’d hear it again.

I handed her the napkins.

“These are beige, Tracy. I asked for cream. There’s a big difference.”

“Oh.”

I pulled out the ones I had thought were white and questioned whether I was color blind or just completely inept at the art of home-making.

My parents moved around our small kitchen just like they always had, but something in the familiar energy field had changed. They reminded me of magnets trying to maneuver at similar poles – the closer they got, the more they repelled.

chapter
17

K
YLE
S
TEINKE TURNED
out to be the surprise.

So screw the emotional acrobatics – my mother and I were now even. As a matter of fact, she’d pulled significantly ahead in the race to see who could hurt or aggravate the other more.

Kyle and I had attended high-school together, but I’d always found him to be on this side of unbearable. The mean kids used to call him ‘Stinky’ because of his last name, although he did possess a mysterious scent that I could never quite pinpoint. And he never failed to pass off his fuzz swirls as a promising beard. My parents had always liked him because he’d wanted to become a Lutheran minister, and because he encouraged the rest of the school to listen to Christian rock.

I caught myself in the china cabinet glass – a woman ready to greet gold-miners arriving in the Yukon at the turn of the twentieth century. No wonder James abandoned me in the park. He could surely do better. A lingering image of him running on the beach with Maria Bello helped edge me a little closer to a night of heavy drinking.

Kyle was now bald except for side patches of wispy hair. His face was pink and swollen as if his main diet consisted of red meat and vodka. It was hard to accept that we were anywhere near the
same age, but he greeted me with the same embarrassing eagerness from years ago. We had nothing in common in high-school, and I was sure the divide had only widened all these years later.