Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter

by Melissa Francis

  I looked down at my favorite blue corduroy pants. I had thrown them on at the last minute when Mom yelled for me to come downstairs to breakfast. I had also grabbed my favorite blue sweatshirt, which similarly got too much wear. Underneath I’d thrown on a brown T-shirt that didn’t match, but had been at the top of the pile in my drawer. I figured the T-shirt didn’t matter because it wouldn’t see the light of day under my sweatshirt. Now it was hot, and I couldn’t take off my sweatshirt because everyone would see I was wearing a T-shirt that didn’t match.

  The heat rose under my clothes, and the perspiration stung my cuts. I tried not to cry, but a few tears leaked down my cheek.

  “Don’t cry.” Christy put her hand on top of my hand.

  “My mom says other kids are jealous,” I said, floating a test balloon.

  “Oh, yeah. I am. I’d like to be on TV and do commercials and sing and dance!” Christy seemed ready to burst into song all the time, and she often did.

  “Do my eyes really look like a frog’s?” I asked.

  “Yes.” She smiled.

  By the next week, the Incident was nearly forgotten. Maryjane wanted a piece of Mike, so she didn’t stray far from him. As much as I tried to remind Christy and Mike of Maryjane’s attack, no one could focus long enough to stay mad at Maryjane. I thought it was important to remember who your enemies were, but I got the idea that Christy wanted to play both sides of the fence.

  One day while we sat at our desks, Mrs. Jones walked around the room handing back our music projects. The assignment had been for us to use materials around the house to make our favorite musical instrument. I had forgotten about the project until the night before it was due, when I scrounged around the house for scraps to make something that made noise. There wasn’t much to choose from, but I came up with a white plastic plate and some glitter and glue. Then I cut little bells off an old Christmas stocking I’d found in the garage and attached them to the plate with pipe cleaners, and voila! I had a sad little tambourine. It wasn’t the greatest instrument, but I’d ginned it up myself and it made noise. I thought it wasn’t bad.

  Mrs. Jones didn’t agree. She returned my tambourine to me with an S– scrawled on the plastic plate, which meant my effort was below satisfactory. My heart sank.

  I looked over at Eric, who beamed as Mrs. Jones handed back his papier mâché tuba. His appallingly realistic instrument dwarfed his desk. The paint even shined like solid brass. This thing could have led a New Orleans funeral parade.

  Eric smiled at me. “I got an E+! For exemplary!” He left out the l, so it sounded like “exempary,” but his minor speech impediment didn’t diminish his joy. I leaned closer to Eric’s masterpiece and wondered how he’d gotten the keys to look so real. He read my mind and said, “It took forever!”

  A week later, Mom brought the tambourine home from Parents’ Night.

  “This isn’t good. Did you actually turn this in?”

  I didn’t say anything, since the answer seemed obvious.

  “You can’t turn in crap like this. This is truly horrible. Why didn’t you tell me you had a project to do? What else are you too lazy to do properly?”

  It seemed like a good time to be honest about my next assignment.

  “I have to make a mission. I picked the Santa Barbara Mission,” I said hopefully.

  “When were you planning on telling me about that?”

  I shrugged.

  “Where’s the assignment?”

  I pulled a paper out of my backpack and handed it over.

  “This . . .” She held up the tambourine as if it were excrement. “This is awful. Do not turn in anything like this again. Ever. I was embarrassed for you, and you should be too.”

  She dropped the tambourine in the middle of the floor and one of the bells came loose.

  When she left, I jammed the sorry piece of plastic and glitter in the back of my closet, behind the gray sneakers that I never wore because they gave me blisters.

  The following Tuesday, I walked into the kitchen after school and found my spectacular mission.

  My jaw dropped.

  The model filled a third of our kitchen table, and consisted of three shoe boxes superglued to a cardboard foundation. The walls of the mission were covered in white cake frosting, perfectly feathered and fanned to mimic traditional Mexican stucco. Elbow macaroni lined up like infantry soldiers along pitched pieces of cardboard to create a tile roof. Diced pieces of kitchen sponge had been stapled in the middle, glued to the base, and painted Kelly green and oak to resemble shrubs. The piècé de resistance was a tiny cross, made of carved Popsicle sticks, that hung over the door, underneath which a Play-Do friar waited to greet pioneers migrating west, his arms stretched out to welcome them.

  This was no humble homework assignment; it was an architectural wonder. There was even a color picture attached of the real mission to prove it was a perfect replica. Very few adults had enough artistic talent to produce such a work, much less a first grader.

  Mom stood behind the model. “What do you think?” There was a hesitation in her voice.

  I loved it and was ashamed of it.

  “You can’t tell anyone I helped you with this.” Helped? She looked me in the eye. “Do you honestly think Eric made that tuba?”

  It hadn’t occurred to me that my tambourine and I had been so thoroughly outclassed by Eric’s mother.

  The next day, Mom carried my mission into class. It was far too heavy for me to lift. She set her elaborate handiwork on the counter next to all the others and smiled proudly.

  “Didn’t she do a nice job?” Mom said. Mrs. Jones just smiled.

  I scanned the crowd of miniature buildings with new eyes. For the first time, I could pick out exactly which ones kids had assembled, and which ones parents had built.

  I still didn’t feel right about cheating, but clearly I wasn’t the only one working with backup. Though I felt a little dirty, I was grateful that Mom had figured out the game and won. I decided that if Mrs. Jones handed out grades based on the final product without regard for how it was produced, we had no other option. It was the grade that counted.

  And Mom got an E+.

  Saturday mornings meant getting up early to ice skate at the Topanga Plaza Mall. Tiffany had asked for lessons, and as with everything else, I went along for the ride at first and then joined in after a few weeks.

  This Saturday, we arrived at the rink in our thick tan tights and baby blue skate dresses, with white rabbit fur coats on top. The air was cold in the ice rink, but once we started skating, we always got too hot to keep the coats on. Mom had bought Tiffany her own beautiful white skates, but I still skated in worn tan rentals that I stood in line to pick up once we arrived at the rink.

  We stepped onto the ice and skated off to opposite ends of the rink to start the lesson with our own age groups. I was six now, so I skated with the six- and seven-year-old group, Tiffany with the nines and tens. Today, every time I looked over at her, Tiffany had fallen. Mom sat in the front row of the bleachers looking annoyed.

  I did a small jump, skating forward on my left skate, then leaping and turning backward in the air, and landing on my right foot with my left leg extended. The teacher was trying to teach the group a waltz jump. Tiffany had shown me this trick at home and I’d practiced a million times on dry land. Just as she had taught me to read, Tiffany had taught me the jump before I arrived at this class, so I could outshine my classmates from the get-go.

  I landed it gracefully, and looked over to see if Mom was watching. I thought she’d be proud. But every time I looked, she was staring hard at Tiffany, who was sitting on the ice.

  The lesson ended and I skated to the side with my group. Mom’s arms and legs were crossed tightly, her eyes still locked on Tiffany, who sulked as she skated to the side, looking down at the ice in front of her, shoulders slumped in defeat. I could tell the drive home would be a painful one.

  After the lessons, we ate lunch in the mall’s food cou
rt, as usual. Tiffany ordered a hamburger. I had chicken fingers and french fries. We sat on the bright red molded plastic seats without speaking; the only noise was the crinkling of paper and the conversation of passing shoppers. I could feel Mom’s frustration in the air like a pressure change before a thunderstorm.

  “You don’t have to eat so fast; no one is taking your food away from you,” Mom said, slapping my hand as I grabbed for another fry. Then before I could eat any more, she said, “That’s enough,” and dumped our trays.

  Tiffany and I hurried to our brown station wagon in the mall parking lot, and as the car came into view, we both bolted for the backseat. Neither of us wanted to sit in the hot seat next to Mom when she was in a bad mood. I beat Tiffany to the back door and smiled. She ruefully climbed up front.

  As we drove north on Topanga Canyon Boulevard, Mom started in.

  “What was wrong with you today, Tiffany?”

  Tiffany was silent.

  “You were round shouldered and pigeon-toed the whole lesson. Why am I wasting my money if you aren’t going to try? Every time I looked at you, you were tripping over your own skates. Maybe you’re too lazy to skate, or maybe you just don’t appreciate the time and money I am pouring into you.”

  Silence.

  “Sometimes I think you have no dignity and self-respect. You don’t seem to care about anything.”

  Silence.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” Mom demanded, seething.

  “I have no dignity and self-respect.” She said it quietly but it sliced through the air like a boomerang.

  “What?” Mom screeched, filling the car with her voice.

  “I have no dignity and self-respect.” I watched the volley from the backseat and knew exactly what would come in return.

  Smack.

  Mom raised her right arm and slapped Tiffany with an open hand on the left side of her face without slowing down the car.

  “You have anything else to say?” Mom said, her voice as strong as iron.

  “I hate you.”

  I ducked low in my seat. Mom screeched to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes.

  “Get out,” she said to Tiffany, who didn’t budge. “You heard what I said! Get out of the car! I mean it. I’m done with you. Get out! I don’t ever want to see you again for as long as I live!”

  Tiffany still didn’t budge, so Mom jammed her finger into the seat-belt release button, reached across Tiffany to grab the door handle, and forced the door open. With that she shoved Tiffany out of the car as hard as she could with both hands. Tiffany couldn’t get her hands out in front of her fast enough and tumbled on the sidewalk face-first. She lay there for a few seconds before scrambling to her feet still in shock.

  As Tiffany took a step back to steady herself I could see the tears starting. But before Tiffany could say a word, Mom leaned over again, grabbed the door handle from the inside, slammed it, and drove away.

  I whipped around in my seat to watch Tiffany as we left her on the side of the road. I saw her crumple a little and cry. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I turned back toward the front and accidentally caught Mom’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “You want to go with her?” she asked.

  I didn’t say a word. I tried to suck in the air around me and cry as silently as I could.

  “I am so sick of both of you. I do everything I can to help you. I’ve devoted my entire life to you. My mom never cared about me like this. All she cared about was my brother, her precious son! My sisters were the only ones who took care of me, ironing my clothes and making sure I got to school. They made sure I did my homework, not her. She didn’t care. If only I’d had someone who cared about me the way I care about the two of you I could have achieved anything. But no! It kills me that neither of you appreciate everything I am always doing for both of you!”

  Her cheeks flushed bright red with anger and she slammed her hand on the steering wheel as she yelled. I wanted to be anywhere but in that car. I appreciated what she did, even if Tiffany didn’t seem to. Mom was right about everything, but I still thought kicking Tiffany out of the car was extreme. I looked for landmarks on the road so I could tell Dad later where we’d left Tiffany and maybe he could go back for her.

  After a mile or two she sighed heavily. “I guess I have to go back for her. I’m very tempted not to.”

  We circled back and pulled up next to Tiffany, who was standing on the sidewalk sobbing right where we’d left her. Tiffany got back in the car. I saw her face for an instant before she climbed back into her seat. Tears covered her cheeks, her eyes were red, and the sides of her mouth were slack with fear and humiliation. She was a shadow of the girl who charged across summer camp to save me from the swim counselors.

  I didn’t know why she mouthed off like she did. I would never have said those things to Mom. Her acts of resistance always made things worse. I felt sorry for her but I was angry with her at the same time for causing all this drama. We both knew exactly what to say to mollify Mom, or to bait her. Tiffany almost always, illogically, chose to bait her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Come on, Missy. It’s time to go. Dad’s in the car.”

  I finished brushing my teeth, wiped my face, and looked in the middle drawer of the bathroom vanity for a thin ribbon that would match my shirt. I’d taken more care with my wardrobe in the months that had passed since the fight with Maryjane. I’d switched to wearing only polo shirts or blouses; no more miscellaneous T-shirts now that I was almost seven years old. I brushed my hair long and straight, and tied a ribbon around my head like a headband to hold my hair away from my face.

  If I had time, I also liked to find matching argyle socks. Mom didn’t do the laundry that often, so this new part of my morning ritual could be a challenge.

  I found my backpack and bounded down the stairs. I usually made myself a peanut butter sandwich without jelly for lunch and took it in a bag with a fruit roll, but there was no bread in the kitchen, so we had nothing to hold the peanut butter. And we were out of fruit rolls.

  Mom stood next to the door in a housedress, waiting for me to leave.

  “There’s nothing for lunch,” I reported.

  “Oh, fine. I will go to McDonald’s and bring a Happy Meal to the parking lot at noon. Does that meet with your approval?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “I know! Chicken nuggets. No hamburgers. God.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Thanks, Mom!” I kissed her and ran out. From nothing to hand-delivered McDonald’s, that was quite an upgrade.

  Dad sat in the car with the engine idling. For all the fuss to hurry, he now lounged casually in the front seat smoking a cigarette, letting the car warm up. He wore blue jeans and a crisp blue and white button-down shirt under a navy sweater. His thick salt-and-pepper hair had been blown dry smooth and shiny. He was forty-two years old and still had a full head of hair. When I rode on his shoulders, I liked to grab clumps of his mane in my fists to steer him. Then I’d tease him that I could see a bald spot that he didn’t know he had. He’d laugh at the very idea.

  His sleek, relaxed demeanor hid a serious mind and a sensibility shaped by his childhood on the rough South Side of Chicago. He loved to say his parents were so poor he had holes in his shoes growing up. The button-down shirts and loafers he wore now were all chosen by Mom. It didn’t matter to him what he wore.

  He was an engineer who ran his own business designing and installing screening rooms and commercial theaters. He’d started the company mostly because he bridled when anyone gave him an order.

  With his thick hair and his Marlboro Man swagger, he was the type of dad who was noticed by all the ladies. I’d heard one of the moms at drop-off ask, “Who’s that?” while throwing her shoulders back with a big smile. I’d shot back, “That’s my dad.”

  Our house sat at the highest point on a hill overlooking a golf course in a little suburb of Los Angeles called Porter Ranch. My parents had lived downtown when m
y sister was born, and they’d crammed her into their small apartment. Before long they realized they needed more space, and perhaps some distance from Mom’s parents and sisters, who lived two blocks away.

  All of the homes near them in neighborhoods Mom liked, like Hancock Park, were far out of their newlywed price range. So they’d hunted deeper and deeper into the Valley until they found a four-bedroom house they could afford. Dad loved to tell the story about how, by the time they got all the way out to Porter Ranch, there were only two houses still for sale in our division of tract homes: the pretty little model home at the bottom of the hill that was small but smartly trimmed, and the big expensive one at the very top of the mountain.

  The developer wanted forty thousand dollars for the model, but Dad got him to fork over the crown jewel for just four thousand more. It had already more than doubled in value since we’d lived there, and we weren’t selling anytime soon, no matter how many open houses Mom dragged Tiffany and me to on the weekend. The white stucco façade, Spanish tile entry, and brown shingle roof suited Dad and us girls just fine, even if Mom was permanently aspirational.

  When my parents had recovered from the down payment, they put in a rolling green front lawn to meet the long black tar driveway, creating arguably the nicest home for blocks around. The house itself sat back on the lot for privacy, and the sweeping backyard offered a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of all the unsettled territory to the north and east of our development. The hills just beyond our community rolled on for miles, unspoiled by other homes or any sign of life. We seemed to live on the very edge of Los Angeles, and I imagined that somewhere way off in the distance lay Nevada, or maybe China.

  The cliff our house sat on dropped straight down to the twelfth fairway directly below, and Mom lived in fear that the wind would blow one of us off the edge, tumbling hundreds of feet down the hill. But it never happened. Tiffany and I often made plans to scale the brush down the cliff rather than driving or walking all the way around on the road, but it was impossible if you weren’t a mountain goat. Coyotes lived in the undeveloped area to the north and ventured into the brush on our cliff after sunset, eating more than one of our cats for dinner over the years. Anytime a cat didn’t show up for a few days, we’d know he’d turned into a meal.