by Schow, Ryan
What an outrageous drag.
“You look cute,” Margaret says. Margaret is allegedly the thing that birthed me. She’s my…oh, God, I can’t believe I’m about to admit this before demanding DNA tests…she’s my mother.
“If I look cute,” I grumble, “then the moon is made of cheese.” I wish Margaret wouldn’t say nice things when she knows that I know how she really feels about me.
What I’m wearing today, it’s not cute as much as it’s comfortable. And strategic. Basically I’m wearing a white floppy hat in the car to hide my face easier. It would be so cute on someone better looking than me. And the long grey cotton dress I’m wearing this morning (the same dress I always wear to therapy), it’s how I can best sit in front of others for prolonged periods of time without obsessing over my belly fat. Basically, the soft cotton doesn’t squash my mess of a body as bad as everything else I own. Plus long dresses stretch me out, make me not look as pudgy as I really am.
“Are you nervous?” she asks. “Is that why you’re being so quiet?”
She glances over at me. I don’t look at her. My bobble-head eyes won’t find hers; they won’t give her that satisfaction. Besides, I don’t do eye-contact. It’s overrated. Well, unless I’m talking with Netty, a mouthy little blonde and my best friend. I wish I was with her right now rather than heading to some new therapist with Margaret.
Netty’s Russian born name is Anetka, but this isn’t the Soviet Union, and her mother (who’s also Russian) believes if you’re going to live in America, you’d best embrace the culture. The reason Anetka goes by Netty is because her mother’s always saying she should do the best she can to not be the sore thumb that sticks out. She says anonymity is safety.
That’s hilarious considering the way the Feds are unearthing everything to do with her husband these days. Netty’s father. He’s about as anonymous as the Pope.
And Netty?
She isn’t a sore thumb until she opens her mouth and unloads on you in Russian. It’s hilarious to watch. But she can be really sweet, too. Nowadays, I think of her in two parts: my very best friend and occasionally my bodyguard. Netty’s father is as Russian as her mother, Irenka, and though I think Netty embellishes a bit when she tells me about how maybe he was connected to the mob, it’s really fascinating. She’s so serious. I don’t think she even weighs a hundred pounds, but the way she talks, trust me when I tell you, you don’t want to get on her bad side.
Where she uses her heritage to survive, I use sarcasm. It’s practically artistic. We all have our swords and shields. We all dress ourselves in fancy armor. At least us short, chubby, non-consequentials do.
My armor is to not be seen as best as I can, and to crack jokes at my own expense when circumstances require it. For the most part, this works. Not good. But it works.
So we’re heading to my new therapist’s office for my own brand of therapy, but it’s kinda crazy how all I can do right now is feel sorry for Netty. Her father might be going to prison. That’s what Netty says. She says he’s been crushing the weights and boxing at the club five times a week. At this point, even I think he thinks he’s going to prison. Netty says something about embezzling from his clients. I say whatever. When you live the affluent lifestyle that is our Silicon Valley ecosystem, you’re always finding the shysters.
Maybe he’s one of them; maybe he’s not. When it comes to friendship, he gets a pass.
If this therapist isn’t as officious as all the others, maybe I’ll give Netty her business card. She should have someone other than me and her mother to talk to about her problems.
Slender brown fingers snap in front of my face, drawing me out of my reverie. Frowning, I shrug away from them. Margaret and her freaking manicured claws.
“Hello, I’m talking to you,” Margaret says, still snapping, kind of laughing in a light-hearted sort of way. Like we’re mother and daughter, and we like each other.
Just to be clear, we are, but we don’t.
I shove her impolite fingers out of my face and say, “Of course I’m nervous. How’d you like to go spill your guts to a stranger who’s going to look at you like you’re gosh damn nuts anyway? Plus, I feel uncomfortable in this dress. It used to fit better.”
“You had two ice cream bars last night, so maybe you just need to poop.”
“That’s gross.”
“I’m just saying,” she chides.
When I look at her, I’m thinking her joking with me about my weight and my private evacuation procedures is the same as joking with a burn victim about her scars.
“Your dress is suitable for the occasion,” she says.
“Can we not go this morning? I’m already not wanting to do therapy anymore.”
“It’s good for you.”
“No, Margaret,” I say, folding my arms over my tummy rolls, “it’s good for you.”
She just looks at me. My gorgeous mother with her big sunglasses, her perfect brown skin, those shimmering eyes the paparazzi knows how to photograph just right these days. Some pictures show her looking fresh; other times she looks bombed out of her mind on uppers, downers and any number of prescribed drugs she gets from her underground network of doctors.
“You’ll feel better when you’re there.”
“I feel great right now,” I say, sarcastic. “Amazing actually.”
This comes out sounding deadpan because the truth is I almost never feel good. Margaret says that won’t change much when I get older, that we just learn how to cope with the shittiness of life better. Plus the drugs are always improving.
“Sane people don’t need shrinks,” I say.
“That’s not true.”
“I don’t need to see the shrink as much as I need a high colonic, or better diet pills.”
There’s a snarkiness to my tone that’s totally on point. For all the times I’ve had to go to new therapists, I’m well versed in trying to get out of it.
“It’s a process,” she tells me.
No kidding.
We roll up to a red light, come to a complete stop, and she looks at me, like I should get it already and by not understanding, it’s totally putting her out.
“I know, Margaret,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I get it. Therapy’s a place for me to be heard.”
“Your mental health isn’t cheap, Vannie. You should take it serious. And maybe be a little more appreciative for all the things we do for you.”
“I know I should feel special that you’re paying hundreds of dollars for an hour of me having an audience of one, but I have to say, this would be a lot cheaper and easier for us both if you’d just be a better mother and start listening to your daughter more.” Looking up I say, “The light’s green.”
Behind us, someone honks. Eyes back on the road, we resume our trek through town.
“I listen to you,” she says, almost like it’s an afterthought.
This is her mouth on autopilot. It’s her not taking responsibility for herself or her actions. My therapist would call it an unconscious impulse. Guh…therapist. Saying “my therapist” sounds like I have just one when really this will be number nine.
Well, nine and counting, if you want to split hairs.
“You don’t listen to me,” I say, hypnotized by the buttery-smooth ride in the Bentley and the Palo Alto scenery. Last night’s drugs, they’re burning off. I think maybe I’m starting to feel the grit of life scraping at me from beneath the soft haze I’ve been floating in. “You listen to Taylor Swift, and Madonna. You listen to The Cure. Someday, you’ll listen to me, too.”
“You think I’m a bad mother.”
“I know you’re a bad mother. I keep waiting for you to know that, too.”
She waves her hand at me like it’s no biggie, then looks over at a guy in a convertible red Ferrari with great hair and eyes that are zeroed in on her. When he sees me looking at him, he frowns and turns away from us both. I pull my hat low over my face thinking anonymity truly is safety.
“What did y
ou say, honey?” Margaret asks, totally oblivious.
“Nothing.”
2
Gosh, I’m being rude right now. I’m so sorry. My name is Savannah Van Duyn and this gorgeous Latina she-creature sitting next to me on some of the most expensive leather east of Dubai is Margaret. Technically she’s my mother, but to me she’s just Monster.
The monster loves all her expensive things. She loves her big house, her country club, her three hundred thousand dollar Bentley. Having a billionaire lifestyle like ours, for her it’s validation for her being, well…her. She’s my father’s trophy wife, and this is her trophy life. Well, except for me and my father. Neither of us are especially easy on the eyes. I’m no supermodel. I’m not even the right weight for my height. But my father is ridiculously rich and popular and some kind of a world figure, so whatever. It doesn’t matter that he’s a sort of goofy looking white guy.
The point is, thinking of Margaret gets my insides in a tussle.
I can’t stand her.
It’s okay…you can say it: that sounded bad. Me saying that, it sounded like some ungrateful douchebaggery coming from a spoiled brat. But I’m not ungrateful. I swear. I just feel things inside me unzipping. Like I might be coming unhinged.
Margaret sometimes reminds me she grew me in her belly for nine months then shat me out of her vagina for like fourteen hellish hours in a hospital bed of all places. She says this like I should feel sad for her. Or apologize.
Then she tells me I turned her peach into a prune.
Yeah…it’s like that.
Life is me taking the blame for everything wrong with her. The worst part is she can’t see how empty I am without her love. Can’t she appreciate me the way I am?
I crack the window a little, breathe the fresh air and try to smile. I can feel it, though. All the little things that are wrong with me. How that soft haze has burned off completely. All that remains is the grit of my life. Outside, my eyes watch the passing scenery with that thousand yard stare you see in the eyes of the abused, the forgotten, the dead.
All I’m thinking is eighteen can’t come fast enough. Me turning eighteen and being able to leave home?—oh God, that day feels millennia away.
Thinking about leaving home, it’s the dream that hangs on the far edge of possibility. The dream that’s light years away to a creature like me.
The monster signals right, then pulls into the parking lot of an upscale Palo Alto strip mall. My stomach plunges. Did I tell you I hate shrinks?
Oh yeah, I wasn’t exaggerating.
Turning my pudgy body to face the monster, I lay my eyes on her, use my entire demeanor to beg. My sad puppy dog eyes are pleading, watery wet and dying for clemency. I blink twice, lower my chin and give her that look. I know I’m wanting the impossible, but at this point, all I’m thinking is please, let’s just leave! All I’m thinking is, if she makes me do this again, I swear to Jesus I’m going to emancipate. I can do it. I really can.
Note to self: Google “emancipate from my parents” when I get home.
If I decide to divorce my parents, the judge would want me to prove the monster was an asshole or something. Ha! That’d be easy. All I have to do is point to Margaret’s giant “Wall of Fame.” It’s this wall in her exercise room and it’s literally blanketed by photos of all her paparazzi shots. The judge, if he saw that, he’d lift an eyebrow.
Most normal people would.
“Now when you’re in there,” Margaret tells me, like it’s my first day of school, “I want you to be as honest as you can. The thing about a therapist is, unless you tell her you’re going to commit a crime or kill yourself, she can’t tell anyone anything. By law. So just be honest. And try to have some fun.”
Is this her way of ignoring me? By telling me to try to have fun? WTF?
Seriously…WTabsoluteF?
My expression falls flat and I’m like, “This isn’t a music concert, Margaret. It’s not a stroll through the mall on a Saturday afternoon. I’m going to meet with some uptight lady who thinks I’m the screwed up one here. She’s going to treat you like you’re a saint trying to help me because I’m the one with the problem. But I’m not. I don’t have problems as much as you have problems.”
“You tried to cut off your ear,” the monster says, real freaking gentle so I get the point.
I draw a deep breath so I don’t erupt. I count to ten. There’s fire in my eyes and she’s seeing it. Thinking my bad attitude justifies my therapy.
Every time I point the finger at her, she flips me the psycho card and I still haven’t figured out a decent rebuttal. So I tried to cut off my own ear, so what? Van Gogh did the same thing and look how many people loved him!
My beating heart screams in frustration; my beating heart mourns that patience and understanding that will never be there for me.
“If you want my time with my multitude of therapists to be more productive,” I tell her, “you should join me. She’ll ask about you anyway. They always do.”
“And what will you say this time?” she asks, shutting off the car.
“That you suck as a mother and you’re putting all your eggs in the wrong basket.”
She rolls her eyes and says, “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re the problem, Margaret, and fixing me isn’t going to fix everything wrong with you. Why don’t you go in and get your own therapy and I’ll just sit here and look fat in your pretty car.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not leaving the car.”
“Get out.”
I cross my arms. “No.”
Right now, we’re parked in the parking lot outside the therapist’s office. We’re just sitting here like an old married couple, irritating each other, jostling for position perhaps. She blows out a sigh, looks at me like I’m such a sad case, and I am.
I really, really am.
She shrugs out of her seatbelt, turns and stares at me. Like a total weak sauce mustard mouth, I turn away. If this was a staring contest, I’d be the loser.
I am a loser.
I say, “Just please go check her out, make sure she’s not a crackpot or something. Because if she smells like a heavy smoker, or if she’s wearing too much perfume, I’m not staying.”
“Fine. I’ll be right back.”
“Leave me the keys,” I say.
“Why?”
“Would you leave a dog in the car without a/c?”
She frowns. Really makes a production of it. I hold out my hand, but she starts the car by remote and shuts the door, taking the keys with her.
Ugh!
As I watch her walk away—as I marvel at her amazing, exercised body, her perfect hair and her runway model walk—I’m thinking when she comes out to fetch me, I’m going to be long gone. It’ll be like Thelma and Louise, but without Brad Pitt or Louise. It really blows that there aren’t any decent cliffs to drive off of in Silicon Valley. This place, it’s just a bunch of presumptive buttholes thinking therapy is the gateway to a better you.
Here’s a newsflash, a little blast of truth not worth arguing over—there is no better me.
3
So I’m sitting in the car, thinking of a dozen excuses to not go in to whatever crackpot Margaret has set me up with when this gorgeous, ice silver Audi rolls up like a freaking rock star to a Vegas nightclub. There’s a girl behind the wheel. A girl so beautiful my heart practically stops beating for a good second or two.
She parks in the parking lot not twenty feet away. Gets out of her car. Shuts the door and leans against it. Then she just looks in my direction through big black glasses. No, she looks right at me. If I was into the whole lesbian phase of my youth, I’d want the shit out of this girl right now. I look away, embarrassed. Then back.
She’s still looking. Smiling now. I remind myself to breathe. To not stare at strangers because it’s rude.
Opening my cell phone, I peruse my horoscope, then blanche when it starts to tell me about my love life, h
ow I’ll meet someone who will either bring me closer to myself, or open a chasm of adoration that will last for many years. Guess I’m going to be closer to myself.
These apps suck.
I look up and the brunette girl with the dark Jackie-O glasses and the Audi, she’s still looking at me. WTF? Then she’s looking at the office Margaret went into, then back at me. Again. I think she wants me to come talk to her.
Um…hell no.
My fingers creep below the glass to the door, make sure the locks are…well, locked. There will be no kidnapping of fat girls today.
Twisted Pigeon
1
Margaret strolls into the office of Dr. Tiffany Oaken, PhD, and the woman’s office is drenched in high-brow elegance. Then again, at five hundred an hour and being booked out two months in advance, if her office was anything short of spectacular, she would’ve turned and walked out.
The psychologist was ready for her. And her bright, understanding eyes? Blue eyes that were both professional and inquisitive? They were looking around in delicate glances for Vannie. Dr. Oaken looked like she shouldn’t be fazed by anything, but her expression was saying, where is my client? That’s how it was.
“Hi, Dr. Oaken,” Margaret says, “I’m Margaret Van Duyn.”
She shook Margaret’s hand and said, “Is Savannah with you?”
Her hand was warm and moisturized, her nails tastefully done in a sophisticated brick red. Margaret hated it when professional women smiled really bright while flashing overly pretentious nails. Talk about not dressing the part! A woman’s hands said so much about her, and Dr. Oaken’s were tastefully done, classy even.
“Vannie’s in the car.”
“And will she be joining us?” Dr. Oaken inquired.
“Yes. But first I wanted to talk to you. I understand the whole doctor/client privilege thing, and how you’re bound to it and all, but my daughter’s a special case.”
Dr. Oaken shifted from one foot to the other, her eyes losing that little bit of shine. An eyebrow raised, but her lips stayed perfectly shut and her ears wide open.
