I was thinking about what you said before,” I say. Mom’s sitting on the sofa in the living room. She has her shoes off and her toes are in those foamy things that separate them to keep the polish from getting messed up. Now, she’s painting her fingernails a blood red. It’s Saturday night, and she has no date.
“Oh, Caitlin, come sit with me.” She points at her toenails. “It’s a ‘repairing night.’ Want me to do your toes? I was going to start a movie, but my nails are wet. Remember when we used to watch Pretty Woman together? It would be so fun.”
I shake my head. “I’m going out. But I can put the DVD in for you.”
“Thanks.” She gestures toward it.
I go pick it up, then stop. “After we talk.” I handled the whole Sean thing, and that’s made me brave, maybe? Maybe it’s time to stop avoiding Mom.
She fans her nails back and forth, looking at me but not really looking at me. “Sure. What did you want to talk about?”
“About Arnold.”
She fans faster. “Oh, Caitlin, we’ve been over this.”
“I know. But this afternoon, you said something. You said you wished I liked you, like I used to when I was little … younger.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I was just being silly. We had a great time today, and I screwed it up.”
“No, you were right. When I was little, I used to look up to you. You were a role model.”
“I suppose all mothers and daughters drift apart. When I was a teenager, I thought my mother was just a drone who did the laundry.” She stops fanning her nails and tests one, holding it to her lip. “It’s dry. Can you hand me that DVD?”
“Mom, I want to talk.”
“Caitlin, there’s nothing to talk about here.”
“But you’re dating a married man. It’s wrong.”
“It’s not much of a marriage anymore. He told me they haven’t been in love for a long time.”
“But how do you know? And how do you know he won’t do the same thing to you, if he could do it to her?” Trying to appeal to her selfish side—a big side.
“Caitlin, it’s complicated.”
“I went to see her.”
“Who?”
“Arnold’s wife. I talked to her.”
She stands and makes an I’m so shocked gesture, knocking her freshly polished hand into the lamp. She looks at it and curses. It wasn’t dry. “You talked to her?”
“Yes.” I’m sort of enjoying that she’s freaking out. Actually, really enjoying it.
“When? What did you say?” She looks from her nail to the phone, like she’s thinking about calling Arnold to do some kind of damage control. “Oh, Caitlin, what did you do?”
“She’s a nice lady, Mom,” I say, still not giving her the information she wants. I actually love that she’s in total freak-out mode. Maybe it will bring her to her senses. “They have a yellow Lab. Did you know that? And she told me about how she worries about her daughters when they’re out at night.”
“Caitlin, when was this? When did you talk to her?” She’s fanning her hands so much it looks like she might take off. “How could you do this to me?”
“How can you do this to her, Mom? You got dumped by Dad. You know what it’s like. How can you put someone else through that? How can you be like this?”
“Caitlin? Answer my question.”
“Answer mine!”
She reaches for the phone. “I have to call him.”
“So you don’t care what I think? You only care about him.” When she doesn’t answer, I say, “Look, I didn’t tell her about you and Arnold. I … couldn’t. But I wanted to. I wanted her to know because it isn’t fair.”
“Fair?” She plunks down the phone. “Fair? Is it fair that I’m here all by myself while your father has everything? Is it fair that you’ll go to college soon, and I’ll be old and fat and alone?”
“You’ll never be fat,” I say. “You’re thin and perfect, and you don’t even diet. You’re never lonely either.”
“You don’t know anything about me. And you’re the one that got me thinking this way.”
“What way?”
“About the future. That I need to get married, to find someone who can sup—be with me. When you said what you said last summer, I realized I could end up with nothing.”
“What did I say?”
“What you said last summer. You could leave, and I’d have no one, nothing. I’d be all alone.” She looks away. “That’s when I knew I needed someone like Arnold.”
Oh, God. When I’d threatened to leave and take Dad’s child support with me, that was a wake-up call. She realized her free ride might be over. It will be over when I hit eighteen anyway. And that makes me so mad, thinking that all these years, I’d been nothing but a meal ticket to her, and now Arnold is her meal ticket, and she doesn’t care who she hurts.
I say it. The instant after I think all those things, I say them. All of them. And then I keep going. I scream, “I can’t believe you. You’re that lazy? Maybe if you stopped worrying for two seconds about your bikini wax and your nails…” I knock against her hand. “… And getting a man, you could get a real job and not have to leech off Dad!”
I stop yelling, but I can still hear the words. My ears feel tight with them. I can almost see them, as if they exist in some physical form.
She stands there a moment, and then she lunges for me, like she’s going to hit me. In my whole life, she’s never hit me, and she doesn’t this time either. Instead, she starts screaming, “You little brat! You think you know everything! You think you’re better than me? You have the world at your feet, and it’s because of me! Me! You think that scumbag father of yours would do one thing he’s not court-ordered to?”
She keeps on like that, screaming ugly things about Dad, things I can’t even argue with. I know they’re true. And I just stand there, staring, trying not to blink because if I blink, I’ll cry. And I won’t give her the satisfaction.
She keeps going. “I could have been something, but instead, I had you. You think I wanted to be thirty-seven with a daughter who thinks she’s so hot? I used to be hot too. You are exactly like I was!”
Well, this is too much. Better to be slapped physically. Worse to be compared to her. I feel the first tear starting down my cheek, but before she can see it, I scream, “I am nothing like you!”
And I run.
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
Subject: Tortures and Triumphs
Date: December 3
Time: 11:11 p.m.
Listening 2: “Triumphal March” from Aïda
Feeling: Triumphant
Weight: 114 lbs. (purely by accident, haven’t been dieting @ all)
You’d think when I mastered the dance steps after tremendous personal sacrifice that Ms. Wolfe might—just might—have something 2 say. Something like, “Good job, Caitlin” or “Hard work really paid off.”
Nah. I didn’t think so either.
2day @ rehearsal, I failed 2 screw up for the 1st time, and Ms. Wolfe failed 2 yell at me ......... for the 1st time.
But when we finished our approximately 900th run-thru of the dance numbers, she faced us w/her usual doglike expression.
She pointed @ a redheaded girl who was previously the 2nd worst dancer. “Ainsley! There are a few 2 many dancers. Just sing on the side of the stage.”
I struggled w/2 impulses: wanting 2 give Ainsley some kind of sympathetic look and not wanting 2 draw attention 2 myself. I didn’t move. Next, Ms. Wolfe singled out 2 fatgirls who danced OK but the 90-lb. Ms. Wolfe probably thought they wouldn’t look great in the costume (leotards w/glittery vests over them) and told them the same thing. That bugged me. I noticed she didn’t pull any guys out, even tho there were several who were worse than the girls that she cut. Guys are held 2 a completely different standard here, or, as Gigi says, “If you have a penis, you don’t *need* talent.” Speaking of which, Gus still has no jockstrap, and when he’s in the room, it’s hard 2 look @ anything else ........ though we all try.
Finally, Ms. Wolfe got to me. She gave me a long look, & I thought for sure she’d cut me. I knew if that happened, after all my work, I’d burst into tears or just plain burst. What if she didn’t notice my failure 2 screw up 2day & just remembered the 8,000 times I was bad???
But finally, she clapped her hands and told us 2 do it 1 more time.
And I breathed. Sean reached over 2 hi-5 me, & Gigi grinned, but I shook my head. I didn’t want 2 jinx it.
But on the inside, I felt like I could do grandes jetés if I wanted!