“Do you want to talk about it?” Tom asked, pulling back the curtains and letting sunlight fall upon the bed. Caroline turned away.
“Not now,” she said. “Okay?”
Okay. Caroline had been using that word, phrased as a question, as a means of garnering approval for most of her life. It had become a habit of sorts—her mother had pointed it out on more than one occasion—and though it had never really bothered her, the word suddenly felt rotten in her mouth.
For the first time in her life, it felt wrong.
“I’ll see you later then,” Tom said. He leaned over and kissed her. “Have a good morning.”
As she brushed her teeth and pulled her dark hair back into a ponytail, Caroline’s thoughts returned to the events of the previous evening. It had been ages since she had allowed her emotions to get the best of her. She honestly couldn’t remember the last time. This was in large part due to her desire to avoid or diminish any situation where she or anyone else might become emotional. Caroline specialized in the suffering of tiny indignities in silence. Not complaining when the woman in the drive-thru handed her a three-quarters-filled cup of coffee. Pretending not to notice when someone cut in front of her at the pharmacy. Never once sending a single food item back at a single restaurant for fear of upsetting … well, anybody.
But there were big things, too. Like agreeing with Tom to have only one child when their original plan was for two. Deciding not to open a photography studio even though she always dreamed of a place of her own. Allowing people like Mary Kate Dinali to walk all over her.
Maybe all of this had finally led her to a breaking point. Maybe she had simply uttered one too many Okay?s
Pushing these thoughts aside, Caroline donned a robe and headed down to breakfast. Her heart sank halfway down the staircase at the tinkle of silver on porcelain coming from the kitchen. This was immediately followed by shame.
Disappointment at having to face your daughter this early in the morning was bad enough. Dreading any and all contact with your daughter was almost unbearable. No, it was unbearable. What kind of mother tried to avoid her child at all costs? But this is where Caroline’s relationship with her daughter currently stood: mutually intolerable tolerance.
Through spits and spats and bits and bites, their relationship had devolved into a permanent state of détente in which both parties avoided conflict at all costs. In many ways, Caroline no longer thought of herself as a mother, but more of a caretaker. Someone responsible for her daughter’s safety and upkeep, but little else. It didn’t help that Tom had somehow maintained peace with their daughter while a cold war raged around him. Caroline was happy that Polly could turn to her father in times of need, but she resented his ability to remain in good standing with their daughter when she could not.
Caroline forced a smile upon her face and entered the kitchen with as much spring in her step as she could muster. This morning would be different. If she could tell Mary Kate Dinali to fuck off, she could handle her own daughter, goddamn it.
“Morning!” she said.
Polly was sitting at the kitchen table, head hanging low over a textbook as she hoisted Frosted Flakes to her mouth from a plastic bowl. She was wearing a shirt that Caroline did not like—but this was not uncommon given her daughter’s vast and unusual T-shirt collection. This morning’s tee was black and white with the images of a seal, a manatee, and a panda lined across the chest. The words above the images read:
THIS SHIRT IS 100% ORGANIC.
65% BABY SEAL. 20% MANATEE. 15% PANDA.
ALL DELICIOUS AND NUTRITIOUS.
Caroline had found the shirt mildly amusing when she first saw it, but that was before Polly began wearing it, and others like it, to church functions, school concerts, and the recent statewide high school debate, where she had placed a surprising second.
The only thing the shirt had going for it, in Caroline’s opinion, was that it suited the image that her daughter had carefully crafted for herself perfectly: cropped hair that looked as though it had been cut with garden shears; an eyebrow ring and stud in her nose (neither one parentally approved); blue jeans covered in ink drawings; a tattoo of the ace of spades on the small of her back that Polly had yet to mention and Caroline had yet to acknowledge.
And T-shirts. Lots and lots of T-shirts. All of them emblazoned with sentiments just as sarcastic and snarky as this one.
Caroline had confided in her closest friend, Wendy, that she thought her daughter was becoming a Goth but had been immediately corrected. “She’s not Goth. She’s punk.”
Wendy explained that Goth was worse but temporary. More of a phase than an actual lifestyle choice. Goths were sullen and detached. “Purposefully disinterested,” Wendy said, which could be incredibly annoying but almost impossible to pull off for very long. “You can’t not care about anything for only so long.”
“Punk,” she had said by way of comparison, “was a way of life.” It represented anger and nonconformity, but punk was still employable. Dateable. Relatable even to the nonpunk. Punk had earned some respect in the world. Punk was slightly mainstream.
“Polly is definitely punk.”
Caroline was not consoled.
When Polly didn’t respond to her greeting, Caroline almost let it go, opting to preserve the peace of the morning over the platitudes and pleasantries of proper parenting. Why pick a fight when one could be avoided? On any other morning she would have done exactly that, happy to escape without a full-blown argument. But on this day, Caroline was determined not to let her sleeping-dog-of-a-daughter lie. A mingling of desire to do the right thing, along with an inexplicable willingness to embrace potential conflict, forced her to speak.
“Hey!” she said, trying to maintain a tone of cheeriness. “When someone says good morning, it’s nice to say something back.”
Polly’s spoon paused on its arc to her mouth. With her head still buried in her textbook, she said, “Did you know that shrapnel was named after its inventor?”
“What?”
Polly sighed. It was one of the things that she did best. She had elevated the sigh to an art form.
“A guy named Henry Shrapnel invented shrapnel,” Polly said. “You know. The stuff that kills you when a bomb explodes. It was named after him. Crazy, huh? Kind of like if mustard gas was named after Colonel Mustard. Except it wasn’t. But wouldn’t it be great if it was?”
“Sure,” Caroline said.
“And I thought George Washington had it bad for having that freakin’ bridge named after him,” Polly added through a Frosted Flake mumble.
“You’re studying history?” Caroline asked.
“No. Chemistry. I’m not even taking history this semester. Geez, Mom.”
“Chemistry?”
Polly sighed again. “That’s what I said.”
“Need any help?” she asked, pouring coffee from the pot that Polly had brewed for herself earlier this morning. A reminder of a dietary battle lost last year.
“Not unless you can explain the noble gases to me in the next three minutes,” Polly said. “I wish you’d let me study.”
“I know a lot about the noble gases. I’m practically an expert on noble gases. But nothing I could explain in just three minutes.” She smiled, hoping for one in return.
“Right,” Polly said, and stuffed another spoonful of cereal into her mouth.
Caroline took a seat across from her daughter, realizing that Polly had yet to even look at her. “I know you don’t believe it, but there will come a day when you and I won’t see each other very much. You’ll be off living your life somewhere, and we’re going to regret not spending more time together when you were young.”
“I believe it,” Polly said, still not looking up. “At least the part about not seeing each other every day. I sure as hell don’t plan on living here forever.”
“You’d be surprised how quickly things can change.”
Polly finally looked up. “I’m fifteen, Mom. I’m not stupid. I get the whole time flies thing. It’s flying by right now.” Polly looked up at the clock and winced. “Fuck, I got to go.”
It hadn’t been a great conversation, but at least it had been something. Caroline didn’t want to ruin it by bringing up the rule about swearing. Besides, she was hardly one to be making speeches about the use of four-letter words. She remained silent as Polly rose from the table, slung a backpack over her shoulder, tucked the chemistry textbook under an arm, and left the house without another word.
Polly’s cereal bowl, half filled with milk, was still on the table. Her spoon lay beside it in a small white puddle.