“Marmie, I’m nine now. The least I can do is take the elevator down to the lobby and check the mail on my own.”
“Marmie, please, can’t I watch a PG-13 movie? Mother won’t care.”
“Marmie, can we please go back to your house? I like it better there.”
“Marmie, but I don’t want to go to bed.”
“Marmie, read me a story.”
And that was what she did. Marmie always took time to slow down and set aside her life for my wants and needs. Though it was my mother’s job, I seemed to be a second thought on her agenda between the office, Africa, Australia, Antarctica, the United Kingdom, and all of the United States. She could have taken me with her, but Mother was a stickler for school, attendance, and good grades. For my mother, I was always one small step below her expectations for anything in life.
Grades.
Manners.
My curiosity.
My failure to speak only when spoken to.
My inability to manage my own time.
The way that I carried myself.
The way I sat.
The way I stood.
The way I read.
It was hard to carry these expectations on my shoulders, to keep them quiet and hidden from my grandparents. But Marmie knew—she always knew—and for her, I was always good enough. And when Mother was home, I walked on eggshells to keep her content.
“Really, Scarlet, must you be so loud?” she asked from the couch, some weird blue mask around her eyes like Robin from Batman & Robin.
Walking down the hallway, I was eating a piece of bread, minding my own business, just happy she was home. “Sorry, Mom,” I said with a mouthful of bread.
“And must you always talk with your mouth full?” She peered at me with one eye, lifting her mask.
She used the word must as if we ate from the finest china every night and ran with royalty. Maybe her travels dictated her word usage, but I found it annoying.
Rolling my eyes, I turned to walk back to my new computer in my bedroom when she called behind me, “Pick. Up. Your. Feet! And don’t slouch when you walk; it’s unbecoming.”
Unbecoming was another word she used often.
To compensate for her absence, Mother always came home with a new gadget, a new toy for me. Maybe it was guilt that ate away at her heart—I wasn’t sure. But since she’d returned home for a week or so and Marmie wasn’t here, I’d taken to my new computer and the internet. I wrote down the things I would search for tonight.
Scarlet Brockmeyer family tree?
Who is Scarlet Brockmeyer’s father?
I’d imagine I’d found my father, and I’d dream about it too. That he’d been searching for me since I was an infant, wanting so badly to find his long-lost daughter. We’d ice skate and ride bikes, and he’d teach me how to shoot a rubber band gun—something Marmie had already taught me, but I’d pretend it was new information. He’d never scold me for walking too loud, or slouching when I walked, or crying. He’d love me just the way I was. “Guts and all,” as Marmie always put it.
I’d stopped asking my mother about my father because every time I did, she’d spend three days of her time home locked in her bedroom, and I’d shove plates of macaroni and cheese under the door to make sure she ate.
I’d learned to get myself to the bus stop when Mother was home.
I’d learned to get myself ready for school, and make my lunch, and read street signs, and study bus lines to make sure I didn’t get lost.
One time, I had, and the police were called, so my mom was called, and all of a sudden, it was all my fault.
I’d made it my mission in life to never ask my mother for anything, never be a burden, and I made my best attempts to meet her expectations.
Another time, the school counselor had pulled me into her office and asked if I was all right.
I sure am.
I am just fine.
When she asked about my home life, I recited the lines I’d come to live, words my mother had given me and words I believed deeply.
I have a roof over my head.
Food to eat.
Clothes on my back.
A nice home.
The counselor asked if I felt safe at home, and I did.
I felt safe.
But what I hadn’t known was that you could feel safe and neglected, all at the same time. And sometimes, emotional scars were far worse than wounds themselves.
When my mother was home, I did my best to pass the time by reading and writing letters to Cash and my grandparents, conducting computer research, and waiting for Marmie to return.
I tried to be the best little girl I could for my mother.