Story Girl (29 page)

It was my grandmother who’d spoken.

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” I asked.

“Your mother and I have been sitting here awhile and our candle just went out.”

Figured.

“Is she still mad?”

“Everything’s okay, Tracy.” My mother sounded fine, as if her raging tantrum had been nothing more than a deleted scene from a discarded script.

“Is Jenny with you?”

“No – they’re already headed back to Colorado.”

“But I didn’t even say goodbye to them.”

The kitchen was silent again, except for the breathing.

“We took that new shed back, Tracy,” my mother said. “You know the one?”

No, Mother – what shed could you possibly be talking about?

“Your father’s current shed will remain standing – just as it was. We got him some seeds, and the rest he can use as a credit.”

“Did you get anything for yourself?” I asked.

“Peace of mind.”

“Can I turn on a light?”

“Of course.”

I turned on the light and took a seat at the kitchen table. A box of donuts sat ravaged, along with an empty pot of coffee.

“We had some donuts too,” I blurted.

Thankfully, my mother didn’t bristle, “Yes – that bakery does the best business in town.”

I smiled at Mary only to notice she’d been crying.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your mother and I have been having a very long overdue talk.”

“About what?” I asked. “Me?”

“Not you.”

“Your grandma’s been very courageous tonight.”

Doublewide shit stack.

“The secret?”

“She’s revealed it,” my mother said.

The donuts were coming up hard and fast, “I guess I should get to bed.”

“Don’t you want to talk about this?” my mother asked.

“I really can’t risk another outbreak.”

“Of hives?”

“No, Mom – of the happy wiggles.”

“You think that you’re gonna get hives from the truth?” she asked.

“Seems about right.”

“Isn’t that a defense mechanism?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Why don’t I put the kettle on?” she asked. “You look like you’ve been wandering around Antarctica.”

“No, thanks – I’m fine.”

“Would you like some edamame beans? We went out for sushi.”

“
Sushi
? How did that happen? You’ve never eaten a living thing – unless it’s been seared into charcoal.”

“Given how the day unfolded, I wanted to try something – you know – current.” My mother said this like she was the new poster girl for the twenty-first century.

“I don’t really need anything,” I said.

“Probably best – you don’t need the salt at this hour.”

I had to blink a few times, but there she was – the woman who’d given me life, and was currently concerned with my sodium content. I guess that’s just who she was – sushi or casserole, husband or not.

“I think the two of you should talk about this together,” my mother said. “I’m going to go read in bed. It’s been an endless day, and my back is sore.”

I nodded at her.

“But if it’s not too late when you’re done, I’d like to speak with you, Tracy.”

So – a trap had been set.

“Okay, I’ll be there.”

My mother squeezed Mary’s shoulder and left the kitchen.

“Break it to me gently,” I said. “I’m not well.”

“Of course you are.”

“My body can’t take it anymore.”

My imagination was in turbo charge, wondering what this sweet woman could possibly reveal. She was like a cool piece of shade on a sweltering day, and I hoped her revelations wouldn’t throw us both back on the coals.

“How is your father?”

“He likes it there.”

“I’m not sure that they’ve ever been apart.”

I slouched in my chair, trying to keep the little guilt bubbles from rising.

“You sure you don’t want a piece of eel, Tracy?”

“I’m sure.”

“Did you talk to your guy?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does that mean?”

“I did. But my head feels scrambled.”

“How so?”

“He stole my script, then he read it, and then he finished it.”

“Sounds like you have a lot in common,” she yawned.

I placed my forehead on the edge of the table, stared down at the polished floor, and talked into the tablecloth, “I just feel like I’ve been waiting forever for my life to start.”

“You’re not alone.”

“I guess I’m just scared.”

“It’s okay.”

I really felt like I needed to throw up, but all that came out were confessions, “I’m afraid that if he gets too close he’ll see that I’m
actually quite… gross. He’ll see the uneven skin – the globs of cellulite that look like they’ve been hurled at me by someone wearing a blind-fold. He’ll notice that I wake up with bad breath and frizzy hair. He’ll be witness to the birth of my double chin – the faint trace of jowls. He’ll see that my feet are wide and one leg is slightly longer than the other. When we sleep, he’ll hear me fart – and there will be nothing I can do to stop myself. And each time we wake up together, the sparkle will grow just a little more dim – until it’s out for good. And worst of all, he’ll come to realize that I have no talent, no confidence, and no depth. He’ll see all this with the clarity of proximity and experience. And he’ll know that I’m just a cynical terrified little girl who pretends to be above it all – for lack of knowing what else to do.”

I looked up for Mary’s reaction, wanting to pass my fears to her like a top – hoping she could give them a different spin.

But she was sleeping.

I started laughing because sometimes the irony was too obvious. Instead of losing sleep over her secrets, I’d put her to sleep with a list of my own.

chapter
42

S
HE WOULD
’
VE CHOSEN
strep throat over the bingo hall.

My mother made the announcement shortly after I entered her room. We’d been sitting on her bed, in silence. The moonlight from the open window fell across her face like she’d been framed and lit by some old-time cinematographer.

“Is that because things weren’t perfect?” I asked.

She moved her head only slightly, but her eyes were fixed on something in the night sky.

“It’s just that I was expecting something different. At this point.”

“Yeah, sometimes life can feel like a let-down,” I said. “That’s why I try to keep my expectations reasonable.”

I nudged her but she didn’t move – just kept staring out the window, probably transfixed by something within.

“Do you think I was hard on your father?”

“What do you think?”

She didn’t answer me, so I took it upon myself to elaborate.

“It’s like you fought so hard for what you settled for. And then I wonder why you’d try to force it on us – as a lifestyle?”

“You really think I’d want you to be unhappy, Tracy?”

“I guess not.”

“I loved raising you and Jenny – it brought me great joy.”

“I know.”

“My frustrations are my own – nothing to do with you. It’s just that a person does everything they’re expected to do and – well – I’ve just always sort of felt alone. We struggle out of the womb, perhaps get a happy blip of childhood, and then move into a – what did you call it exactly – it was the title of one of your short stories?”

“A World of Masks.”

“That’s the one.”

“And?”

“And then we die alone, after all the years of togetherness in between. And even when we’re together, sometimes we’re really just alone – wearing a mask.”

“But it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“But wasn’t that the point of your story – that that’s the way it is?”

“Not if you show up as yourself – completely.”

“I’m not really sure who that would be.”

“Why don’t you do all the things that you want to do, feel what you feel, do whatever it is that moves you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do.”

“Maybe my imagination is scarce, Tracy. But I think everyone’s imagination is weak, compared to what we may or may not be capable of. Let your mind wander – can you really visualize a new color? A color you’ve never seen before? I try to, but it’s not possible. We can only see what we already know – whatever’s firmly established. So nothing is ever really new. Only re-mixed, re-arranged, and re-conditioned.”

Ironically enough, she was studying me as if I were entirely new to her.

“And then there’s you. The story girl.”

I sat very still in the cold room, allowing her recognition to warm me like a sunbeam.

“Always so full of possibilities.”

“But, Mom – all I do is re-arrange and remix. And I never thought your life wasn’t cool – I just wanted you to think mine was okay too.”

“I know.”

“I never wanted to screw with your head.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Because maybe I could have tried harder to wear nylons and blouses and lip-gloss. I could have read more chick-lit and smiled more.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Not had my hair cut at the stupid barber shop.”

“Barber shop – really?”

I nodded my head.

“This has nothing to do with you. It’s my own stuff, my own restlessness. It’s just part of me – regardless of anything. You wanted me to own it, so here it is. I’m owning it.”

“But why are you suddenly owning it now? You never owned it before?”

“A lot has happened today – tonight.”

Mary must’ve unveiled a whopper. And whatever it was – combined with my father’s mad dash to the motel – delivered quite a jolt to my once familiar mother.

“Do you love him?” I asked.

She turned back to the window.

“Do you, Mom?”

I held my breath, but she said nothing.

“Have you ever even been inside his shed? Ever seen the way he holds a tomato?”

Still nothing.

“The way he strokes his cucumber?”

She looked at me like I was about to get scolded, but only shook her head and smiled, “Did it ever occur to you that I might just be jealous of that damned garden?”

No, it hadn’t.

“It’s the only thing that ever lights him up. Imagine having to compete with a pile of dusty vegetables.”

“You could have rolled around naked in the soil or put a mattress in the shed.”

“Tracy – my God.”

“What? You could share in all that together – help him prune the vines or something. And then he could take an interest in something that you love. It could be so wonderful.”

We both realized that I was pleading.

“Settle down, sweetie.”

“I always wanted to break away from your patterns, Mom – and have you love me anyway. But I don’t need
you
to break away from them. Not if they work for you. I just wanted you to know that you have options – that I have options. And it’s okay to be an individual.”

“Instead of a cardboard cut-out?”

“You know what I mean.”

I assumed a fetal position and tipped myself over into her lap, “I really need you to love Dad.”

“Tracy – ”

“I can’t love James if you don’t love Dad – because you used to. You used to love him.”

“Who the hell is James?”

“It’s too risky.”

“Is he real?”

“Too big a waste.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“I really want you to hear me!”

“But I don’t even know what you’re saying.”

I wanted to tug on her silky sleeve until she made the world make sense, and everything in it less scary. Instead, I just pulled at a thread on one of her displaced doilies.

“God, Tracy – it’s not up to you. It’s never been up to you. So there’s no need for you to be scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Then why are you shaking?”

I wanted to deny it but my teeth were chattering, “Because it’s glacial in here.”

“Your life will work out.”

I wasn’t so sure.

“And I do love your father.”

“You do?”

“Of course.”

“In what way?”

She didn’t answer.

“Mom?”

“Just please – chill out, Tracy.”

“Chill out?”

“Yes, chill. You’re the most dramatic person I’ve ever known.”

Lucy stalked into the room and stopped abruptly – gawking out the window much like my mother was. They were both mesmerized by some enticing energy that I was clearly oblivious to.

“What are you looking at?” I asked.

“The sky.”

“That’s it?”

“What else do you need, Tracy? Invading Martians?”

“That’d be cool.”

Maybe she was looking for a space station, and maybe it was my job to find it for her. And maybe I’d been working for the both of us all along.

chapter
43