Текст книги "Backlash"
Автор книги: Sarah Darer Littman
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
MY PICTURE of Lara has 104 likes and 15 shares by the time Mom gets home. That’s the most I’ve ever gotten on any picture or status update, ever. Wonder if I should Instagram it? #Call911
“Tell me everything,” Mom says, putting a bag of groceries on the kitchen counter.
“How could you stop and wheel a cart around the supermarket like nothing happened?” I ask her. “Aren’t you at all … you know, freaked out by this?”
Mom has her hand in the bag, starting to unload it, and she stops and gives me an exasperated look.
“I assume you want dinner, Breanna. And if that’s the case, then someone, namely me, had to get food to make it with.” She takes out a package of chicken. “Unless you have a better idea.”
Which of course, I don’t, and Mom knows that when I blush and say nothing.
“Just tell me what happened,” she says.
“We heard sirens. Like, when I called you. The police car came first. Then the ambulance. All the neighbors were outside the Kelleys’ house watching. Then the medics wheeled Lara out on a stretcher, put her in the ambulance, and drove away with lights and sirens. She tried to … kill herself.”
“Yeah, and Bree took a picture of her and posted it on Facebook.”
My brother is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, narrow-eyed, cell phone in hand.
“You what?”
When I see my mom’s expression it’s like when you’re at the beach and you see that really huge wave coming toward you, and you don’t know if you should try to ride it or dive under, and if you hesitate too long, you get nailed by it. I wait a second too long to answer and Mom goes nuclear.
“Breanna Marie Connors, what part of ‘hang tight and stay inside’ didn’t you understand? I told you to stay in the house and make sure Liam did, too. Simple instructions. Not rocket science.”
It’s so unfair. Liam was the one who disobeyed Mom first, but I get the grief. And she makes out like I’m stupid, as usual.
“Liam wouldn’t listen! I told him you said to stay in, and he completely ignored me and walked straight out the door! He’s the one who went out first.”
“Is that true?” Mom turns to Liam, who’s still leaning against the doorjamb.
He glares back at her defiantly. “Yeah. They’re our friends, right? I thought they might need help. Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do?”
Mom’s lips purse, and I know he’s got her there. Sure, Lara and I have drifted apart, but at least on the surface my parents and the Kelleys are still friendly.
“Helping doesn’t mean taking pictures and posting them on Facebook,” Mom snaps.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Liam says, not hiding his disgust with me. He nods in my direction. “That’s Miss ‘I’ll Do Anything No Matter How Sick to Get Likes on Facebook.’ ”
Mom takes off her suit jacket, slowly and deliberately, and I feel acid in the back of my throat, because I know I’m about to be hit by another wave of her anger any moment.
“Liam, I need to speak to your sister privately,” she says.
Here it comes.
“Wait … before I go, I wanted to tell you … I texted Syd, and Lara’s awake,” Liam says.
I feel tears well up, but this time they’re ones of relief. “That’s … so great to hear,” I say. “Thanks for letting me know, Li.”
“Yes, it is,” Mom agrees, looking at me from the corner of her eye.
“Mrs. Kelley is talking to the police,” Liam adds, like it’s just some random factoid that’s he’s just happening to mention.
That is so NOT great news.
“What do you mean, the police?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
Liam looks at me like I’m some kind of an idiot.
“The police always ask questions in the event of a suicide attempt, Bree,” Mom says, giving me a hush-up look.
“Syd says it’s because of some guy named Christian. Did you see what he wrote on her wall?”
The sound that comes from the back of my throat escapes despite my attempt to stifle it.
“Don’t tell me you’re friends with that guy, Bree,” Liam says. “What a jerk!”
“Christian who?” Mom asks. Her voice is calm, almost nonchalant. Like she’s never heard of anyone named Christian, ever.
“Christian DeWitt. He wrote all this sick stuff on Lara’s page, Mom,” Liam replies.
My eyes are trained on the point where the wooden table leg meets the floor. It’s where food and dust bunnies collect if you don’t clean the floor enough, which sometimes Mom doesn’t because she’s too busy at work, so she makes me do it. Once, I did a halfhearted job of sweeping and mopping the kitchen floor, and that’s the first place she checked because she knew I’d do a lousy job because “that’s the kind of kid you are.” As in I’m not a “go-getter who makes her own luck” like she is, so I’m “never going to get anywhere in this world.” She knew all that because of two missed Cheerios and a small dust bunny.
If I keep my eyes focused on that spot, they can’t give anything away.
“I know this is very unsettling, Liam, but Lara has never been the most stable girl, has she?” Mom says. “Remember what a mess she was in middle school?”
Mom’s finished unloading the groceries, and she takes out the chopping board and a knife to start preparing dinner.
“To be honest, I wasn’t that unhappy that she and Bree started drifting apart,” Mom continues. “I was worried it might get unhealthy for Bree to continue to hang around with her so much.”
Weird. She never told me that. In fact, if anything, I felt the opposite, because Mom has always been so obsessed with Mrs. Kelley. She started copying the way she dressed and the way she spoke. And she always laughed a little too loudly whenever Mr. Kelley told a joke. If Lara and I weren’t going to be BFFs anymore, it gave her less reason to be BFFs with Mr. and Mrs. Kelley.
“I don’t get it. How does that matter now?” Liam asks. I abandon my table-leg staring to look at him, because he’s taking this so seriously. “Are you saying just because Lara was kind of a head case in middle school it’s okay for all those kids to write that stuff on her wall?”
“No, but —”
“Because that’s just wrong.” Liam interrupts Mom before she can even finish her sentence. “Like, ‘to the end of the universe and back’ wrong.”
“Liam, I’m not saying it’s right for anyone to write things on Lara’s wall,” Mom says. “But let’s face it – a more stable child probably wouldn’t have ended up in the hospital.”
Liam crosses his arms over his chest. He’s not buying what Mom’s selling.
“They’re our friends. Dad and Mr. Kelley built the tree fort together. How can you be so …” He trails off, searching for the words to describe the ways he finds Mom and me lacking. Unable to find it, he punches the doorjamb and shouts, “Forget it,” before stomping upstairs and slamming his door.
And then it’s just me and Mom.
She glares at me, eyes narrowed almost to slits, and hisses, “What were you thinking?”
CHRISTIAN SAID I was a loser.
He said the world would be a better place without me in it.
And now I’m a loser at trying to make that happen.
Everyone expects me to be happy that I failed.
But I’m not.
Which is why I can’t have shoelaces. Or a belt.
And they make me open my mouth after they’ve given me my pills to make sure I’ve swallowed them.
And they do bed checks every few hours to make sure I haven’t hanged myself with the sheets, so I can’t even get a good night’s sleep.
And I want to sleep all the time, because when I’m asleep, I’m not here. Not here in this place, where every movement is watched. Where everything I say is being turned over and analyzed, making me want to curl up into myself and say nothing.
But it’s bad if I say nothing. It means they’ll just keep me here longer.
So I have to say something.
I’m searching for the magic words to get out of here … Abracadabra? Alohomora?
There are get-well-soon cards on the dresser from my family and friends.
Mom said my friends Julisa and Luis want to visit.
I told her that I’m not up to visitors yet. Not even them.
The truth is, I don’t want Julisa and Luis to see me in this place. This prison, filled with crazy people.
Crazy people like me.
Luis thought I was crazy enough when I tried out for cheerleading. He must think I’m completely loco now.
The cheerleading team sent flowers. They’re beautiful – roses and carnations and daisies in cheerful yellows, pinks, and whites. But they’re arranged in an ugly plastic male urinal.
“I’m sorry, Lara, glass vases aren’t allowed,” the nurse told me.
I pretend to be excited about the flowers and the cards.
I pretend that I can’t wait to get out of here to see my friends.
I have to find the words to convince them that I’m fine. That everything is perfect.
Maybe I should ask Mom.
She’s the expert on that.
“IN CONCLUSION, science, technology, engineering, and math are more important than the arts,” my friend Oliver says. “The future of our country depends on graduating students who are proficient in STEM subjects, so if we have limited resources to spend on education, we shouldn’t waste them on unnecessary subjects like music and art.”
Today’s debate club topic is “All Public Schools Should Provide Students with Music and Arts Education.”
I argued the premise.
Last night, Mom heard me practicing and said, “No one better raise my taxes to pay for kids to waste time finger painting.”
I closed my bedroom door and practiced in a quieter voice, almost a whisper. I knew there was no point telling Mom about the research I’d found to back up my argument, about how arts education helps kids develop creative-thinking, problem-solving, and communications skills. Mom’s more convinced by dollars and cents than common sense.
“Liam, your rebuttal,” Mr. Phillips says.
I go up to the podium. Oliver smirks from the front row. He’s convinced he has this debate in the bag.
“Those who say that music and arts education is unnecessary don’t recognize that the arts are a language spoken by everyone, reaching across cultural, social, economic, and racial barriers,” I say, thinking of my mother. “They help us learn empathy, to understand how someone else feels and to experience his or her emotions as our own. And in an increasingly global and interconnected world, this is essential to achieve both economic and political success.”
People clap when I’m done. Yes!
Not only that, as I sit down, I notice I’ve wiped the smirk off Oliver’s face. We may be friends, but we both like to win.
I guess I got that from Mom. You know how some parents let their kids win when they’re little so they feel good about themselves? Not my mom. Dad would, but Mom was like, “If you want to win, you have to earn it. All this ‘give everyone a trophy’ garbage is ruining this country.”
When I finally beat her at Monopoly, I took a picture of the board, and then I never played with her again.
Mr. Phillips calls for the votes. We’re judged on how we argue the point, how we rebut the opponent’s points, how well our arguments are structured, and our presentation skills.
As he’s tallying up the scores, I remember when Dad came to my first debate. I was arguing for the death penalty. My team won.
In the car on the way home, he said, “I never knew you were in favor of the death penalty, son.” He glanced over at me. “Have to say, I’m surprised.”
I stared at him. “What makes you think I’m in favor of the death penalty?”
“Liam, you just won a debate arguing in support of it,” Dad said. “Not only that, you did such a good job you almost made me think I’m in favor of it.”
“Dad, that’s just the side I took for the debate,” I explained. “Mr. Phillips told us we had to start off arguing a position we don’t agree with because it’s harder to do.”
My father shook his head slowly. “Wow … Smart man, Mr. Phillips,” Dad said. “Teaching you to play devil’s advocate.”
“I’m not sure Mom agrees,” I muttered.
Dad laughed. “Maybe not. But remember, you inherited your way with words from your mom, not me.”
I’m hoping my way with words pays off as Mr. Phillips finishes tallying the points on the voting sheets.
“We have a winner,” he says. “Congratulations, Mr. Connors.”
I turn and hold out my hand to Oliver. Mr. Phillips is big on us being gracious when we win – and not being sore losers when we don’t.
“Good debate, Mr. Steiner,” I say.
Oliver shakes my hand and says, “Nice work, Mr. Connors.”
Then we both laugh because it still seems so weird to call each other mister, but we’re supposed to at debate club because Mr. Phillips says it’s a way of showing each other respect. But as soon as the announcement crackles over the loudspeaker that the late buses are here, Oliver fake punches my shoulder and says, “Crush you next time, sucker.”
“Yeah … in your dreams,” I tell him.
Guess we can only keep up the respect thing for so long. But that’s okay. We’re just messing with each other. It’s way different from the stuff people have been saying to Lara Kelley.
We talk about our fantasy football picks on the way down to the front circle.
“See you tomorrow,” he says as we part ways for our late buses.
“Not if I see you first,” I retort over my shoulder.
The late bus is half-empty, as usual. The lucky ones have parents or older siblings who pick them up.
Even if Bree had her license and use of one of the family cars, I can’t see her going out of her way to do me a favor.
But today I don’t mind so much, because Syd is sitting on the late bus, staring out the window. I slide into the seat in front of her.
“What’s going on?”
“You don’t want to know,” she says. “Nothing too special.”
But you’re pretty special …
Stop, I tell myself. Syd needs a friend, not a creeper.
“I just wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling like I want to punch everyone in the face.” She sighs.
It’s so unlike Syd to say something like that that I can’t help putting my hands up to block my face, laughing as I do so.
Syd swats my arms down playfully.
“Not you, silly,” she says. “Just … the rest of the world.”
“Whew!” I breathe an exaggerated sigh of relief. “You had me so scared for a moment there.”
“Yeah, right,” Syd says. “Because I’m so tough that huge football players have been known to wet themselves when they see me walking down the hall.”
Being able to make her laugh is even better than beating Oliver. Mom would slap me upside the head for even thinking that, but luckily for me, she can’t read my thoughts.
“Seriously … is everything okay?” I ask. “I mean … I know that’s a stupid question but …”
“Heh … yeah.” She looks out the window, avoiding my gaze, and her lower lip trembles. “No … everything isn’t okay. Pretty much nothing is okay, if you want to know the truth.” Her voice wobbles, like she’s about to cry.
Crying girls freak me out, because I don’t know what to do to make them stop. Thankfully, Syd turns mad instead.
“But of course I have to pretend like everything’s fine, because Mom’s running for reelection to city council. I’m just so mad all the time. Like, every time I stay after school for rehearsal and work on crew instead of being in the cast … I was good.”
“I know,” I agree. “I ran lines with you.”
“It’s not fair,” she says. Syd’s speaking quietly, so only I can hear over the noise of the bus engine, the driver’s radio, and the chatter of the other kids, but there’s so much anger in her voice I feel like it could drill a hole in the seat back between us. “I didn’t even get a chance to try out. Because Lara’s drama always messes up my life.”
And then, as if she’s just realized what she’s said, she covers her mouth with her hand and looks at me, wide-eyed with horror.
“You probably think I’m awful, right?”
The fingers over her mouth muffle her words. Her other hand grips the seat back.
I pat that hand hesitantly, gently, with my own.
“I don’t think you’re awful, Syd. I think you’re … you know … human.”
Her eyes get all watery, and I’m scared she’s going to start crying, but then she takes a deep breath and smiles.
“Whew,” she says. “Human, huh? Well, that’s a relief. And all this time I’ve been worrying I was some kind of alien.”
Who could blame me for crushing on her?
BEING BUZZED into the psych ward is like being let into prison – not that I’ve been to prison, but I’ve seen movies. I can’t believe Lara’s been in this place for two weeks.
She’s in her room, sitting on her bed, wearing sweats – the kind with an elastic waist, because she’s not allowed the ones that tie with a string. Her skin is pale, almost gray in color, and her hair hangs limply around her face, like she hasn’t brushed it today. Like she doesn’t care about her appearance – or anything for that matter.
My sister looks kind of like the flowers wilting in the plastic pee bottle on the dresser – she’s seen better days. I wonder why no one has thrown those flowers out. Dropped petals litter the top of the dresser, and the water in the pee bottle is green.
“The doctor tells us you can come home tomorrow,” Mom says.
Wait, what? How come nobody told me that?
This place is so awful that I feel like the world’s worst sister for even thinking this, but I’ve been kind of enjoying being the only child at home these last two weeks. No having to wait to use the computer or the bathroom. No Lara using up all the hot water before I get to take a shower. And best of all, even though my parents still talk about Lara constantly, they seem to notice me more.
“I can’t wait to get out of this place,” Lara says with the most emotion I’ve seen her show since the night in the hospital. “It’s horrible. I hate it.”
I am the worst sister ever.
“But they’re helping you,” Mom says. “And that’s the most important thing.”
Lara opens her mouth, but then shuts it like she’s thought better of what she was going to say. She looks down at her hands and starts picking at her cuticles instead.
“You seem a lot better,” Mom says. “They tell us you’re making progress. Of course, you have to continue with intensive therapy when you come home.”
How exactly does Lara seem better? I wonder. Okay, she’s not passed out in a bathroom, but she still seems pretty miserable to me.
“Should I throw out these flowers?” I ask, walking over to the dresser, because the green water in the pee bottle is really starting to gross me out.
“No!” Lara says with vehemence that startles me.
“Fine! Jeez, chill, will you?” I say, backing away from the dead flowers that for some reason my crazy sister wants to keep.
“Honey, I want you to have a look at these,” Dad says, taking some papers out of his pocket and moving to sit next to Lara on the bed.
“Pete, are you sure this is a good idea?” Mom asks, her brow creased with worry.
“It’s fine, Kathy,” Dad snaps.
Lara flinches slightly at his tone, and she looks from one parent to the other, eyes wide.
I don’t have a good feeling about this.
My father is obsessed with vengeance and has little or no confidence in the competence of our local police force. Having watched a gazillion reruns of Law & Order, he considers himself just as qualified to run this investigation as they are, no matter how many times Mom tells him to back off and let them do their job. He’s been spending every night glued to his laptop, creating a spreadsheet of everyone who commented on Lara’s wall, which he’s cross-referenced with Christian’s friend list. Organizing and systemizing things are his specialty. I think it’s something to do with being an engineer. The problem is, he gets confused and frustrated when we don’t fit into the systems he creates.
“I want you to look at this list,” he said. “I’ve made a list of the comments and who made them and if they were a friend of yours and that … person,” Dad says.
“I don’t want to look at them,” Lara says. “I can’t.”
“Pete —”
“Lara, we need to find this jerk. He has to pay for what he did to you,” Dad says. “Just look at it.”
“I can’t, Daddy,” Lara says, her voice starting to break.
“Of course you can, honey. Just for a minute or two,” Dad urges her. He’s so focused on his spreadsheet and revenge that he’s completely oblivious to the signs that Lara’s losing it.
“I can’t!” Lara screams. She takes the paper and rips it into shreds and starts crying hysterically.
Dad stands there looking completely dumbfounded, the way someone who’s poked a stick in a nest can’t understand why he’s getting stung by a swarm of angry bees.
“It’s okay, Lara, you don’t have to look,” Mom says, going to Lara and trying to put her arms around her, but Lara shakes off my mother’s embrace and seems to shrink into herself, curling up and burying her head in her arms, her shoulders heaving from the force of her sobs.
“Lara? What’s happening?” A nurse stands in the doorway. She gestures for us to get out of the room. My parents don’t want to, but she doesn’t take no for an answer. She closes the door in Mom’s face as soon as we get out, and we can only hear the murmur of voices from behind the closed door.
“Pete, I told you it wasn’t a good idea,” Mom bites out from between clenched teeth. “Just because it’s your way of coping with what happened doesn’t mean it’s the best thing for Lara.”
“Are you sure she’s ready to get out of the hospital?” Dad deflects.
And they’re off. My parents are arguing about my sister again. I walk down the hall and thumb a text to Maddie and Cara.
It’s official. My entire family has lost it.
But I pause before hitting Send. And then, with a sigh, I backspace and erase it.
It’s hard enough at school being the sister of “that girl who tried to kill herself.” Add to that being stuck backstage doing crew at play rehearsals while my friends are onstage together. Why add to my problems by being honest about how crazy things really are with my messed-up family?
The nurse comes out of Lara’s room, and my parents stop arguing and pretend everything’s fine.
“We need to talk,” the nurse says. “But first, I’m going to give Lara something to calm her down.”
“Can we go in?” Mom asks.
“She doesn’t want to see you right now,” the nurse says. “Only her sister. And we need to set up a family meeting for the two of you with Lara’s psychiatrist before she is released tomorrow. If her doctor still feels that’s appropriate.”
Then she walks away to get Lara’s medication.
Me? Why me?
I can tell my parents are wondering the same thing as I open the door to Lara’s room and slip inside. She’s lying on the bed, curled up in the fetal position. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say or do, and I’m afraid to do anything that might set her off again. I sit on the edge of the bed.
“Hey … are you okay?” I ask in a quiet, and what I hope is calming, voice.
Duh. Stupid question. If she were okay, she wouldn’t be in this place.
“Do you have your phone?”
Her voice is muffled, because her face is still half buried in the pillow.
“My phone? Yeah, why?”
“I want to … They won’t let me use the computer in here and …” My sister sits up and faces me, reaching out and taking my hand. “I have to see if he wrote to me.”
I’m about to say, “Seriously?” but I bite the word back.
“Lara, I can’t let you use my phone. Mom and Dad would kill me.”
I try to pull my hand out of her grasp, but she holds on.
“Come on, Syd, please,” she begs. Her fingers are white-knuckled around my wrist, gripping so hard it hurts. “I need to know.”
“Lara, no! I can’t do it. You shouldn’t be asking me to.”
“Shouldn’t be asking you to do what?” It’s the nurse, carrying a tray with a small paper cup containing pills and a plastic cup filled with water. She looks at Lara sternly.
My sister’s fingers become limp on my arm and fall off, and her eyes plead with me not to rat her out.
I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing by covering for her, but I say, “Nothing,” and I get up to leave.
As I walk out the door, I hear the nurse quizzing my sister – was she asking me to do something that was against the rules?
“See you tomorrow, Lara,” I call out.
As bad as I feel for my sister being stuck in this awful place, part of me hopes the nurse tells the doctor that she was trying to break the rules and that she has to stay in longer.
I’m the worst sister in all eternity.
Mom and I have to stop at the pharmacy on the way home from the hospital to pick up prescriptions they’ve called in for Lara so we’ll have them when she’s released. We bump into Mrs. Helman, Spencer’s mom. She asks how Lara is doing.
“Much better,” Mom tells her, beaming at Mrs. Helman with what I’ve started calling her Paranormal Smile. “She’s improving every day.”
Considering we’ve just left Lara having to be given something “to calm her down” because she was crying her eyes out, I have to wonder if my mother is living in some kind of alternative reality.
“I’m so happy to hear that,” Mrs. Helman says. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
And then Mom asks her if she’s planning to go to the city council election debate, and I have to walk away, because it’s just too weird to hear Mom talking about her opponent, school funding, and property taxes like nothing is wrong. Going on like life is normal when we’d just left Lara behind locked doors that they have to buzz you in and out of like a prison. Pretending that everyone at school, everyone on our street isn’t talking, isn’t wondering what’s so wrong with us that would make Lara do it.
Dad went back to work after the hospital, and Mom and I have already eaten by the time he gets home, so he grabs a plate and comes to sit with me and watch TV. I’m watching a rerun of some old rom-com movie because I don’t want to think about anything other than laughing.
“Can I switch to the news?” Dad asks.
“Dad, I’m watching this!”
“You’ve seen that movie at least five times already, Syd,” he says. “And it’s not exactly intellectually stimulating.”
“I don’t want intellectually stimulating,” I say, throwing the remote control in his lap and getting up off the sofa. “I want something that’s going to take my mind off this crazy house and all the crazy people in it!”
I stomp up to my room and hurl myself on the bed. I wish I were old enough to drive so I could get in the car and just go somewhere. Not that I have a destination in mind. Anywhere but here.
Unfortunately, I don’t have that option. The closest thing I have is a book. I pull one of my favorites off the shelf and start reading it again, hoping that reading about other people’s problems will help me forget my own.
My sister is home from the hospital by the time I get back from school the next day.
“Shh!” Mom says when I let myself into the kitchen. “Lara’s resting. She tires very easily.”
“Is she in the family room?” I ask. “Because I have homework to do and I need to use the computer.”
“No, she’s in her room,” Mom says.
“So … why do I have to shush, then? She’s upstairs. I’m downstairs. I can’t even talk in my own house?”
We’re inside the house, so the Paranormal Smile is nowhere to be seen. Mom gives an exasperated sigh. “Sit down, Sydney. I need to explain a few rules going forward,” she says.
This doesn’t sound good. I slide into a chair at the table and perch on the edge, waiting for the axe to fall. What are my parents going to take away from me this time because of Lara?
“Your sister is still in a … fragile state,” Mom says. “We have to keep a close eye on her to make sure she doesn’t come to any harm.”
“Wait, you mean she might try to kill herself again?”
“There’s no immediate risk but —”
“If they thought she might try to do it again, why’d they let her out of the freaking hospital?” I ask, my voice rising in anger at the doctors who made the decision.
I don’t want to knock on my sister’s door or the bathroom door and get no answer and wonder if she’s okay or if she’s dead. I don’t want to feel that sick, gut-wrenching panic ever again.
“Sydney, keep your voice down!” Mom hisses. “Lara’s sleeping.”
“How am I supposed to sleep knowing my sister might try to kill herself in the next room at any random moment?”
“Can you just listen to me before you start with the drama?” Mom says.
Oh, I’m the one with the drama? Wow, Mom.
“Lara will be seeing a therapist regularly, and I have to keep her under constant observation,” Mom continues. “That means she has to keep her bedroom door open and even the bathroom door has to be kept cracked open when she’s inside.”
“What, even when she’s, you know, going?”
“Yes, even then,” Mom says, her face grim.
“That’s kind of creepy,” I say.
“It’s a whole lot less creepy than finding her unconscious in the bathtub surrounded by pill bottles,” Mom says.
I have to admit she has a point there.
“Wait – those rules don’t apply to me, though, do they?”
Mom looks confused.
“No. Why would they apply to you?”
“Because last time, when Lara was trying to lose weight, you made me stop eating cookies, too.”
The look on Mom’s face would be comical if it wasn’t my life we were talking about. It was like this was some huge revelation to her, when she was the one who made the freaking policy.
“I didn’t do that!” she protests.
“What do you mean, you didn’t do that? Of course you did! You don’t buy cookies anymore. You don’t make any. This house has been a Cookie-Free Zone since Lara was in middle school.”
“But … that was because I was trying to create a supportive environment for Lara to lose weight,” Mom protests. She looks down at her fingers and fidgets with her engagement ring. “I never intended it to feel like a punishment for you, sweetheart.”
“Sure doesn’t feel that way.”
“I’m sorry.”
She says it so softly I think I’ve misheard. I’ve never heard Mom say those words to me before. Apologies are a one-way street in our house, a street that goes in the parental direction. Until now.
But when I look at Mom her eyes are glistening. There’s no Paranormal Smile. I think this is the real deal.
“I’m doing the best I can, Syd. I try, but I don’t always get it right,” she says, an unfamiliar wobble in her voice.
I’m not used to seeing her like this. Hearing her admit that she’s not right all the time, that she’s sorry, that she’s not the Paranormal Queen of Perfection, is what makes me get up and hug her, even though I’m still mad.
“It’s okay, Mom. Nobody’s perfect.”
She hugs me back, and I breathe in the scent of the perfume she always wears and the smell of her shampoo. So what if Lara is falling to pieces – Mom still puts on makeup and dresses like she’s on a photo shoot. Maybe that’s the glue she uses to hold herself together.
Mom releases me and sighs heavily.
