researched it, choreographed it. Truth be told, I may have enjoyed the pill haze a little too much. I mean, there isn’t a national pill-popping crisis for no reason. These things are addictive.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? A letter from a big bank snapped me out of it. This is likely the only good thing a big bank has ever done for anybody, ever. I’m looking at you, Wells Fargo.
I take a drink of my wine and feel just a little sorry I’ve ruined the surprise he has for me. But, like I said, I’m a professional actress. I was just one role away from getting my SAG card back in the day. When he tells me, which should be any moment now, I’ll throw my arms around him and cry tears of joy. I’m already familiar with the new neighborhood. Although it isn’t a gated community, it’s a fabulous choice. The Port Streets are lovely, quiet and safe, with sidewalks, green spaces galore and a smattering of people out walking their dogs before bed. How exciting it will be to walk through the door of our new home. Even though I’m beyond tempted, I’ve been so good and haven’t driven past it yet, or looked it up online. I know you’re impressed.
Maybe David will take me to our new home tomorrow, and then we can step through the front door together. Or, better yet, he’ll swoop me into his arms and carry me across the threshold. Okay, no, he won’t. The wine is making me a little giddy, combining with the itty-bitty Xanax I took to help with my nap, no doubt. No matter how he tells me the good news, I can’t wait.
I rinse the coffee mug in the sink. I’ll go downstairs and tell Betsy it’s bedtime in a friendly, warm voice. I will reignite our mother-daughter bond. In my mind, Dr. Rosenthal nods and says, Good idea, you need to take care of your only daughter, be there for Betsy, her curly salt-and-pepper hair bobbing up and down. She twirls her black-rimmed glasses in her right hand, before placing them in their case for the night.
The doctor is not here. I know that. But she would be pleased I am being the mother she wants me to be.
I make my way to the stairs and grasp the handrail tightly, reminding myself that the number one cause of accidental deaths at home is falling. Six thousand people trip and die annually in the US. At the bottom of the stairs I stop to remember the “girls only” phase as if it was yesterday. Mary in fifth grade and Betsy in fourth grade decided their floor would be girls only and taped a sign to the steps to that effect. I was welcome, David wasn’t. The way it should be, but it didn’t last long.
I dart past Mary’s closed bedroom door, stop in front of Betsy’s and turn the knob. It’s locked, as always. David threatened to have a locksmith make a master key years ago, but we never did. Never will now. I knock on the door.
“What?” Betsy sounds mad. I think she might have a temper. She always was the difficult one.
“It’s Mom.”
The door opens and Betsy stands in front of me in an oversize USC sweatshirt—Mary’s, I presume—with a smirk on her face. “What did I do to deserve this midnight visit? If you’re trying to gossip about something—or someone—you can forget it. I’m going to sleep.”
Betsy thinks I am a gossip, but I’m not. I share important information, things she needs to know. She should be glad she can rely on me. She’s running out of time to learn. “You have a very vivid imagination. I’m not a gossip.”
“No, you just share negative things about people, keep us guessing. I’m sure that’s not harmful at all.” Betsy makes a chuckling sound and steps away from the door.
I wonder if I’m allowed in.
“Don’t be rude. I came down to tuck you in. It’s bedtime. But never mind. You know I’ve only ever loved you and tried to make you happy.” I pout. I pretend to feel hurt, but I’m used to this treatment since Mary left for college. It’s an unfortunate development.
“Fine. Come in.” She feels bad. Good. Betsy walks to her bed and flops on her stomach. I follow her inside. The walls of her room are covered with her original art, oil paintings of various sizes, mostly abstract subjects, and phrases such as Manifest Abundance and Nourish Your Higher Self.
A light blue dream catcher dangles from the ceiling above her headboard. This is the bedroom of a busy, creative mind. I agreed a long time ago to let her do whatever she wanted to decorate her room. No one really sees it except the two of us. It’s for the best but I don’t tell her that, of course. I’m all support, all nurture.
I glance at the name Mary tattooed on her right wrist surrounded by tiny pink hearts, and bite my tongue. As far as a tribute to your sister, I could think of many better ideas. But we disagree on that, too.
She catches my smirk and pulls her hands inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt. “Dad said you were passed out for the night.”
Charming of David to say such a thing. “Did you two have dinner together?” I hear the questions tumble out of my mouth, the hint of jealousy and judgment in my words.
Betsy rolls onto her back and sits up. If she were a cat, her claws would be out, ready to defend herself. My daughter is intuitive, I’ll give her that. She says, “No, we didn’t. I guess he was with his friends and I was out with mine. I mean, after art class.”
“Of course he was. How was art class?” I’m grateful she doesn’t add too bad you don’t have any friends, Mom, as she’s said before. She’s watching me as usual. She’s learned from the best.
“Oh, great.” She smiles. Suddenly I know she’s hiding something. But what could it be?
I need to ask her about the email I received from school. “Volunteer Day is Tuesday. Do you want me there?”
Betsy considers me. “Did you go to Mary’s Volunteer Day?”
“Yes. I did.”
“Okay, sure, why not? I’m in charge of painting the backdrop.”
“I can’t paint, but I’ll try.” I can paint as well as Betsy can. I focus on what appears to be a new piece of art hanging on the wall next to where I stand. It looks like a thick, bright red heart. It’s dripping a rainbow of colors that pool into a black sea at the bottom of the canvas. I don’t enjoy abstract art. I like realism, clarity. Not this interpretive style Betsy has concocted. I should tell her it is good but it’s not. Secretly I don’t think she has much talent. But a good mom would never say that to her daughter, and I’m a great mom.
“You don’t like my new piece?” Betsy challenges me. She tries to stir me up. Don’t you just hate it when your teen tries to push your buttons? That’s why God made us smarter than them.
“It’s nice.” I meet her eyes. I smile, sweetly.
She laughs. “Whatever.”
“You know what, you’re right. It’s not my favorite. I just think you could do better. This looks like blood or something. It’s just dark.”
“Wow. An artist paints what she feels, what she knows. It’s subliminal, emotions. You just don’t understand.” She shakes her head. She hasn’t moved from the bed. I don’t think she’s frightened by me, not like I was with my mom. I’ve never hurt her physically. That’s when it’s scary. This little temper of mine, well, it’s nothing compared to my mom. She doesn’t even know how ugly this could be between us. You’ve seen the horror show of moms and teen daughters who despise each other? I have, too. I lived it.
