Be It Ever So Humble

by Jenifer Jenkins

  My stomach growled at the thought. I was getting hungry, but the idea of chicken fried anything was disgusting. I hadn’t gone vegan for political reasons, and I didn’t care that much about animals. However, I loved the attention it brought when people praised me for my humanitarian efforts in saving the lives of defenseless creatures. Mostly I did it because it kept me skinny, and I needed to stay fit for the cameras. They say the camera adds ten pounds, but to me, it looked more like twenty. I had always been self-conscious about how I looked on-screen, and I was sure it had nothing to do with the “constructive criticism” I endured throughout my life in the spotlight.

  When I was about twelve years old, my body tried to go through that awkward phase I’m told all pre-teens go through. Being a child star, I was not allowed to have an awkward phase. I couldn’t gain weight or develop pimples because it was bad for my image. I needed to convey perfection to give hope to the millions of awkward kids everywhere. Because of this, I couldn’t even recall the last time I ate macaroni and cheese or sat around watching television like a normal person. I had been put on a strict diet and workout routine ever since I started trying to break out of the child star mold and into the adult world. A team of managers, agents, and my mother were constantly reminding me that transcending into adulthood in the world’s eyes meant that I could no longer be America’s favorite little girl. I had to be a sex symbol. This was no surprise to me. I was aware that some perverts had seen me as a sex symbol for years. I couldn’t believe the number of times I saw countdowns to my eighteenth birthday from gross men all over the place. It was disgusting, and I tried not to think about it much.

  While it was exhausting having people posing me and scrutinizing everything I did and said, it was more exhausting trying to fight them. If I attempted to say anything, my voice was drowned out by all of the other deafening ones. I’d resigned myself to it. No, I’d decided to embrace it. I told myself it was easier to let others do the worrying for me; I would simply reap the benefits.

  The worst part about this new life I was embarking on was that I was going to have a lot of quiet time like I had now. I wasn’t sure I was ready to deal with that. I had never had enough time to think about what I was doing when I was doing it. I just always did. And now, worse than having time to think about anything was having time to think about Cooper. I had worked hard not to think about him. He was the real reason I ended up here, after all. I wouldn’t have experienced such a crushing breakdown if it hadn’t been for him. Or would I?

  Ugh. This thinking thing was not for me. I catapulted myself off the bed and headed out in search of food. Surely country bumpkins would have lettuce and vegetables around. My aunt was so happy to have me there that she wouldn’t want me to starve. I walked down the hallway to the kitchen.

  “That was fast. With all those bags, I woulda thought you’d be in there ‘til Christmas,” Kenny ribbed.

  I politely feigned amusement. “Yeah, well, I’m getting hungry, actually.”

  Martha immediately stood at attention. “Hungry? Well, I’ve got everything you could want right here: chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans—”

  “I’m afraid I can’t eat any of that,” I interrupted.

  Kenny nodded knowingly. “That’s right. You’re vegetarian.”

  “Vegan.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  My ears turned red and hot. This seemed to happen every time I had to explain my limiting diet. It always amazed me that the moment I mentioned not eating animal by-products, people became experts about nutrition. “How do you get your protein?” “You must be low on calcium/iron/vitamins...” The list went on and on. For the sake of politeness, I tried to explain what I referred to as a lifestyle. “Vegetarians only eliminate meat from their diet. Vegans don’t eat meat, dairy, or any other animal by-products.”

  Kenny nodded again. “Well, good thing your aunt made plenty of potatoes and beans.”

  I scowled as I stared at the casserole dishes full of food. “Yes, but these potatoes have butter on them. I can’t eat that. And those green beans have bacon. Can’t eat that either.”

  They both nodded, looking only slightly peeved at my assessment of the meal.

  “I was hoping I could have a salad, maybe? Or some grilled veggies?”

  Martha nodded thoughtfully. “That’s just fine, and I would be happy to help you with that. There’s a head of lettuce in the fridge, and there’s some broccoli and cauliflower in there, too. And you can get yourself a skillet out of the cabinet next to the sink.”

  Wait. Did she just imply that I would have to make the food? Nobody had ever expected me to make dinner before—or breakfast or lunch or anything. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to do that,” I replied very matter-of-factly.

  “Well, then, I guess you’re going to learn,” Martha responded.

  Great, I thought. This was already off to a wonderful start. I was living on the frontier with two people who barely knew me, and they were expecting me to do... work. “It’s okay. I’m not that hungry, I guess.”

  Martha began to protest. I think she would’ve even caved and prepared a whole new meal if Kenny hadn’t interrupted. “That’s okay,” he said. “You just let us know when you’re ready, and we’ll be happy to help.”

  Help. There was that word again. Why couldn’t they just make me a damn salad? If they genuinely wanted to help, wouldn’t they want me to eat something? Weren’t they cognizant of the mental and physical state of the girl they’d taken in? I was fragile. This was the reason I was there. I couldn’t handle my everyday life presently, and nobody could know about my recent downward spiral. Those were the reasons I’d been sent to this place. I was supposed to heal in private. I was supposed to be getting help. My definition of help was apparently very different from Kenny and Martha’s. I thought I’d arrive, and they would wait on me at all times like they had when I was a kid. I would basically be living in luxury in my own little private resort in Missouri while recuperating from my meltdown.

  Meltdown. That didn’t even begin to describe it. I had lost my sanity for a moment, and in that brief moment, I could have done permanent damage. Perhaps it had been going on for a while leading up to that point; perhaps it is a slow grind to insanity. They say insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting things to change. Talk about the story of my life. Deep down, I knew that Cooper wasn’t the only source of trouble in my life. Being with him certainly hadn’t helped, but I couldn’t blame him entirely. I wanted to, of course. It is much easier to blame another person for all of one’s problems.

  Somewhere in my musings, I had excused myself and gone back to my room to lie down. That had become a common occurrence in my life. I often went through the motions without much thought, and suddenly an entire day would pass before I was truly conscious of it. What had I said to my aunt and uncle? I hoped I had at least been polite. I didn’t want to be a “handful.” After all, they were incredibly generous to allow me to stay with them, especially when they knew my current state of mind. Who was I kidding? I was more than a handful. I was a train wreck.

  Sheesh! I didn’t want to think about any of that now, or ever for that matter. Ignoring my problems had been my coping method for forever. Why change that? I scanned the room again, hoping I’d see a television or radio or something to keep me occupied. There was a large framed quilt hanging on the wall across from my bed. Walking over to it, I prayed that it was cleverly hiding a flat-screen TV. It wasn’t. I glanced at the bookshelf and decided it might be the best option I had for entertainment. To be honest, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d read a book. There was never time for that. Pulling a few books out, I scowled at the covers. They were very dull, and I was definitely one to judge a book by its cover. How else was it supposed to grab my attention? The book that finally caught my eye was Persuasion, written by Jane Austen. Well, at least I’d heard of her; I enjoyed her movies. This title wasn’t one I
’d heard of, though. Nevertheless, I took the book back to my bed to lie down.

  Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage...

  I was bored already, but at least this character and I had something in common in our disinterest with reading. However, I had no clue what a ‘Baronetage’ was. Too bad I couldn’t Google it on my phone.

  “Welp, might as well power through. What else am I going to do?”

  I kept reading and found the book mildly interesting until I fell asleep somewhere in chapter four.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning I awoke to the smell of bacon. Why did bacon always smell so good? The side of my face was plastered to Persuasion, and a drool stain marked the center of page thirty-eight. I tried to wipe it off with the back of my sleeve. This, of course, only spread the goo further, smearing some of the words. I hoped this wasn’t Aunt Martha’s favorite book or an irreplaceable copy. The good news was that if it turned out to be the most boring novel ever written, it was at least a surprisingly comfortable pillow. Sound sleep wasn’t something I was accustomed to. If reading this book brought that on, then I would read it every night.

  I stood next to the bed and stretched. Everything in my body hurt. What did I expect from that old bed? I was pretty sure it was the same twin bed I’d slept in as a child. It definitely didn’t have memory foam or a quilted topper. My back felt like it had permanent spring marks dug into it. This could be a problem. Maybe I would try to convince Kenny or Martha to take me into town to buy some extra cushioning.

  As I stretched my arms to the ceiling, I could smell myself; it was not pleasant. A shower was definitely in order. Rummaging through my bag of toiletries, I found shampoo, conditioner, and soap. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to want to have a spa day in that tiny bathroom. No sense in getting the scrubs and masks out. Hurrying to the bathroom, I wished that it would be empty and that Kenny and Martha wouldn’t see me still in my clothing from the day before. The way they’d looked at me when I arrived suggested they were worried about my mental state. Best not to feed their fears. There it was again. Best. The word made me think of John, and I scowled. What were the chances I could live here without having to see his smug face again?

  I was in luck. Aunt Martha and Uncle Kenny’s voices were coming from the kitchen; they wouldn’t see me. Closing the door to the bathroom, I spotted the pink bathrobe hanging on a hook on the inside. It looked incredibly soft, and I reached out to feel it. The robe was made of plush fleece with a faux fur lining in the hood. This was not cheaply made. I wanted to wrap myself up in it right then but thought better of dirtying it before my shower.

  For me, the problem with showering had always been that once I got in, I never wanted to get out. I loved the feeling of the water beating down on my skin—the hotter, the better. When Cooper and I showered together, he complained about the scalding temperature. I just never felt like a shower was worthwhile unless my skin was red and warm to the touch afterward.

  The shower was one of those glass-doored walk-ins I hated. Secretly I always worried that the glass would shatter from the heat and kill me. I envisioned a slow-motion scene, à la Alfred Hitchcock, of glass splintering into pieces and coming at me like tiny trained knives. Oh, the joys of morbid thoughts in the morning. Stepping into the shower, I lined my products in a row on the stall's floor and turned the knob to the left. The water sputtered out, and it was freezing. I squealed and quickly turned the knob as far left as it would go, trying to stand outside of the water stream without touching my skin to the shower walls. Shivering, I waited for the water to heat up to more than lukewarm. It didn’t. I turned the knob to the right hoping that somehow this shower was reversed and hot was right and cold was left. It wasn’t. This, at least, solved my dilemma of wanting to live in the shower forever. I quickly dipped my head in the water and applied both shampoo and conditioner at the same time. No reason to prolong this. Haphazardly I lathered soap onto my body and didn’t wait until the suds were entirely washed away before turning the nozzle and exiting the shower. This was going to be unbearable. Good thing I’d brought plenty of dry shampoo.

  Thank God there were towels in the cabinet under the sink because I’d forgotten to look earlier. I took one, toweled off briskly, and flung the pink robe onto my body. Then I ran back to my bedroom, teeth chattering the whole way. I didn’t bother meticulously planning my wardrobe for the day since it wasn’t like I was going to be seen, so I threw on a pair of torn-up blue jeans and a gray V-neck tee that read: “Coffee is Life.” I combed through my tangled, wet hair and twisted it up into a bun secured with a claw. There really was no point in looking in the mirror after this. I knew it wasn’t my best look. When I was finished, I followed the wafting smell of bacon into the kitchen.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Kenny said.

  “Well, don’t you look nice,” cooed Martha.

  I smirked before noticing she wasn’t being sarcastic. She actually thought I looked good. “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  Kenny stood up and pulled out a chair from the table, motioning for me to sit. “We didn’t know what you’d want to eat because of your special diet, but there’s plenty of food. I’m sure you’re not going to want any of this delicious bacon...”

  I did. It smelled so good. Bacon was the hardest thing I’d ever given up in my life. Yes, that sounded dramatic, but it felt true. I constantly had to tell myself that bacon smelled better than it tasted. It was my most common lie. “Do you have any avocados? I could go for some avocado toast right about now.”

  “We don’t.” Martha frowned. “I’m sure Kenneth could pick some up the next time he’s in town. We do have bread for toast, though.”

  “Is it gluten-free?”

  “No.”

  I sighed. “What about Cheerios and Almond milk?” That didn’t seem too difficult.

  “Well, we’ve got Cheerios,” Kenny responded.

  “But just regular milk?”

  He shrugged. “I’m afraid so. I’ll tell you what, you write a list, and I’ll get some things for you the next time I’m in town.”

  “Or I could just go with you,” I suggested.

  Martha grabbed the Cheerios from a cabinet and shook her head. “Don’t think that’d be a great idea, dear. We wouldn’t want to blow your cover. Someone might recognize you.”

  I knew that would be the response. It wasn’t safe for me to be roaming about in public. Not yet, at least. The media was probably speculating about where I was. They always kept tabs on me. I was America’s sweetheart after all, and I was sure that at least some word had gotten around regarding my situation. It was difficult to keep things secret when your life was practically a business in itself.

  I took the Cheerios from the counter and pulled a bowl from the cabinet, impressed that I remembered where they were stored. “I’ll just have a bowl of Cheerios minus the milk, and if you give me a pen and paper, I’ll write that list.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal.” Kenny stretched his hand to me, and I shook it. It was rough and dry and felt like the hand of a man unaccustomed to idleness—the kind of hand that had done a lot of hard physical labor. This was a significant contrast to my hand. Mine was the kind of hand that’d had regular manicures—the kind of hand that had others doing the work. I must have frowned as I looked at our joined hands because Kenny pulled his away as if he was self-conscious. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t have a problem with touching his hand—that it wasn’t too rough and that I wasn’t uncomfortable with it—but I just shrugged it off.

  Eating milk-less Cheerios from a bowl with a spoon seemed ridiculous. If I had been at home, I would have eaten the cereal straight out of the box. I wasn’t sure that was appropriate houseguest behavior, though. Martha looked at me with that worried expression. “Maybe you oughta go into town today, Kenneth.”

  “That’ll be fine, Martha. John’s coming over to help
out this afternoon. I’ll go when he gets here.”

  I grumbled. “John?”

  “Well, what is your problem with John?” Kenny asked. “I noticed you two weren’t getting along too well yesterday.”

  Oh, he noticed? Well, at least Uncle Kenny wasn’t completely oblivious to my feelings. That was a good sign. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the fact that he was rude and bossy and intimidating, and I just don’t think that’s a good way to make a first impression. Especially when he came out of nowhere when I was expecting the two of you to be at the airport. Then he acted offended that I wasn’t, I don’t know, swooning over him. Like, who does he think he is? Some kind of knight-in-shining-armor cowboy come to rescue a helpless little girl from being stranded at the airport or something? He seems very entitled to me.”

  They laughed. They laughed at me. No, maybe they thought they were laughing with me as if I was joking, but I was completely serious. When I did not join in their laughter, they stopped.

  Martha looked perplexed. “Well, honey, we thought it’d be nice for you two to catch up.”

  “Catch up?” I scoffed. “How can I catch up with someone I’ve never met?”

  Things became very quiet—deafening, clock-ticking-on-the-wall quiet. I looked back and forth between the two of them, bewildered. They looked concerned and confused.

  “You don’t remember John?” Uncle Kenny finally asked.

  “Why would I?”

  There was tension in the room now. Kenny and Martha seemed more concerned than ever. They looked at me as if I was an amnesia patient. I was pretty confident that of all the problems that'd brought me here, memory loss wasn’t one of them. “Why would I know John?” I repeated. Their looks creeped me out. What? Was I in a Stephen King movie?