Come Back With a Bonus Excerpt: A Mother and Daughter's Journey Through Hell and Back

by Claire Fontaine

  She’s right again. I’m avoiding my feelings by pretending they’re not there. But knowing this isn’t enough. I have to live what I’ve learned—right here, right now I have an opportunity to create a stronger relationship with Mia.

  “I’m afraid of what you’ll do with your spare time. Actually, I’m terrified. So, I want you too busy with school to have any.”

  “If I’m going to screw up, I’ll do it if I’m taking ten classes. You can’t control it, only I can. I know I have to earn your trust back little by little, but it would feel nice to know I started out with some. You know, you sent me all the way to Morava basically so I could learn to let go of what my old dad did to me. Well, the things I did to me are part of my history, too, and you have to learn to let go of that.”

  Mia needn’t have worried about coming home to a “program parent.” I’m the one who should be worried.

  Halfway through opening the pastry box with Mia’s birthday cake, I realize that I’m doing it again. I’m afraid the top of it got smashed on the ride home. I’m afraid I won’t have time to iron the napkins or put on lipstick. I didn’t push my cuticles back after my shower, the street’s full and her friends won’t find parking, why aren’t my inner thighs responding to exercise, what if Jordana doesn’t find financing, what if Mia comes home and tanks, what do I do with the rest of my life?

  And that’s just in the space of two minutes.

  Guests are coming in ten minutes and I’m having another Bing! Moment: I am completely fear driven, every minute of the day. And not just about negative things. Even in the midst of happiness I am, like right now. How did fear become my driving force?

  As stressful as the fiasco at Morava was, I felt so alive there. The crisis forced me to be in the moment, to experience myself firing on all cylinders for the first time since I was in film school with Mia and battling Nick in court. I’m setting out the silver on the buffet and thinking this: if crisis makes me feel so alive, then to have that feeling when there isn’t an actual crisis, I create potential crises, up in the penthouse suite. That’s what fear does for me. Keeps the adrenaline going; it makes me feel alive.

  I share this with Mia when she comes to help me with last-minute preparations.

  “Mom, please, you’re a total adrenaline junkie. All drama queens are,” she says matter-of-factly, eating cherry tomatoes out of the salad. “Don’t tell me you just got that.”

  “Well, yeah, I did. Stop picking out the tomatoes.”

  “You’re usually the last one to know anything about yourself. I knew you would be Morticia before you even took Focus. So did Sunny when she saw you at Morava.”

  “No way.”

  “Come on, Mom, everything in our house is black, it’s all you wear, all your stories were depressing, it felt like The Addams Family here sometimes.”

  She gives me a kiss as she takes the salad out. “Don’t worry, The Addams Family was a cool show.”

  I open the door and we both scream. It’s Hilary, but she looks so different! So…cool. Her hair is no longer the long frizzy halo I remember but a very chic, short bob which she’s gelled into place. A leopard print purse dangles from her shoulder and she looks great in a black miniskirt and top. I have just enough time to give her a hug when my two other friends come running up the driveway.

  We do the girly oh-my-God-look-at-you screaming session before moving inside. The conversation starts as small talk, which is funny to be doing with the same girls I used to stay up late with talking about the gross things adults do to each other. A lot’s changed since slumber parties when we were fourteen.

  I keep making excuses to leave. It’s not their fault, they’re not trying to leave me out, but I can’t relate to anything they’re saying—boys, hair products, music.

  “Mia, go back out there, you’re being rude,” my mom whispers.

  “But it’s so awkward! They keep bringing up movies or songs I’ve never heard of! It’s my birthday and I don’t want to feel like an outsider on it. There’ll be plenty of time for that once I’m home,” I add as I huff back into the room.

  I listen to my friends gossip some more. Finally, Jenna asks the question.

  “So, what’s it like in there?”

  “Yeah, your mom told us about it, but, to be honest, it sounded kind of weird,” Leila whispers.

  I try to explain to them how different it is, how open, how real, how much you learn about yourself even though there are months where all I want to do is murder everyone, but I don’t think I’m doing much better than my mom did. They say oh and nod politely, but I know how it sounded to me when I first heard it. Leila’s right, to an outsider it is weird. I’d need a whole book to explain it.

  I think Hilary can tell I’m uncomfortable because she brings up her recent trip to Europe to change the subject, which doesn’t much help because then they all start talking about places they’ve visited, road trips they went on. I’d love to have something of my own to add but somehow I don’t think being driven into town in a locked van to see a doctor is much of a road trip. I feel so different from them, on the one hand older and on the other so far behind. It’s not a good feeling.

  Paul and I eavesdrop shamelessly from the kitchen. The girls are so excited to see Mia, and I can see that she feels it both as special and as a burden. They’re ahead of her socially; Mia’s ahead of them psychologically.

  We can hear in Mia’s voice that she’s nervous, trying to fit in and ask the right questions. But when Hilary complains about her parents wanting her to spend New Year’s Eve with them in Paris, Mia’s nervousness vanishes and she says soberly, “You wouldn’t say that if you hadn’t seen them for a long time.” There’s an embarrassed silence, as if Mia’s inadvertently chastised them.

  At one point the girls are talking about where they’re applying to colleges, rattling off Ivy League schools, elite private colleges. Other than Harvard or Yale, Mia’s not familiar with most of them. She’s been out of the academic world since the tenth grade, though she doesn’t want to show it.

  “Yeah,” Mia chimes in spiritedly, “after a year at Santa Monica, I’m thinking of transferring to Chico State!”

  Bam! It’s a fist to my chest. We can see her smiling, excited to be part of the discussion—and that she has no idea that it’s a school that’s the butt of jokes. God bless these girls, because they pretend to be excited with her. Tears well in Paul’s eyes, and it’s one of those moments when you just die for your child.

  How much she’s lost is all I can think. All the excitement these girls share, over first dates, senior trip, bright futures, and what to wear to prom. Most of the kids Mia’s with at Spring Creek just hope to stay away from drugs, jail, or abusive boyfriends. I’m afraid Mia isn’t going to fit in either group.

  Here I am again, picturing her future based on my fear that she’ll be an outsider. Mia will either find other creative, energetic young people like herself at the college or she won’t. The big question for me is this: can I be with her wherever she’s at? Can I be a conscious and loving presence even when I don’t support her choices? Can I let go of fear and anger and hold in my mind an image of Mia as strong and healthy even when she doesn’t hold that for herself? This is the mother Mia will need when she comes home.

  One aspect of our relationship has never needed to change, however, and never will. Every night after Paul kisses her goodnight, I still sit beside her and sing lullabies. She still holds my hand and falls asleep smiling.

  We’ve noticed that Mia is more conscious of her femininity. She takes longer to dress and doesn’t hide in big clothing. She puts on a bit of mascara and comes out of the bathroom with a new shade of lipstick every day. When I ask what color it is, she replies mysteriously, “It’s a blend.” I think she likes having something all to herself, something that I can’t know.

  I find all of this so endearing that when we leave to go to dinner, Mia carefully balancing herself in my heels, in a new dress and blended lipstick, I ge
t that big sigh feeling. Paul smiles and squeezes my hand as we follow her to the car.

  She knows it, too, how she’s blooming. As she walks a little ahead of us through Century City, she looks at her reflection in a store window and turns back to us, smiling from ear to ear and raising her shoulders up to say, can you believe it, it’s really me!

  The morning before Mia leaves is the actual day of her birthday. Paul and I are taking her to the beach. We have a tradition of coming to the beach on birthdays to write our wishes in the sand and watch the ocean carry them out to the universe. I can still see her scrawly six-year-old printing our first year here:

  When we return home the phone rings.

  “There’s been a verdict in your case this morning, Claire,” my attorney says. “I’m conferencing in the judge to read the final judgment to you.”

  Fourteen years after the fact, on her seventeenth birthday, the court finally held Nick accountable for what he did to Mia. And for more than a dollar a month. The same week of our trial, a precedent was set in another trial where a man with a nice retirement account claimed he was too poor to pay what he was ordered. Giving the family of Ron Goldman access to O.J. Simpson’s retirement nest egg.

  Our judge cleaned out Nick’s pension.

  35.

  For Hilary—my purple wand. I know it’s kinda dumb but I’ve had it since I was three…it’s managed to keep away most of the bad guys.

  For Leila—my pink pig.

  This note falls from the pages of one of Mia’s books, telling us what to give to her friends after she ran away. As if she was never coming back. Two years ago, I went through the things in Mia’s room so I could feel something of her in my arms after she’d left home. Today, I am going through them because she is coming back. Setting everything out for her to put into new bookshelves and furniture. And to hold something of herself in her own arms, to remember.

  It seems severed, her childhood. Another Mia and me in another lifetime. I used to think of it as the magical time Before. But, what has till now been the painful time After is becoming a new kind of before. I’m rushing about, getting my home ready with the same excitement I did when I was pregnant with her.

  Sometimes, we have to give birth to our children twice.

  I walk down the path I could now follow in my sleep. Mike’s little cabin is half-buried in the snow. It was always hard for me to accept that I was just another client. It sounds childish, but I always told myself that I was his favorite patient. Maybe all the kids do.

  I walk up his cabin steps, smiling at the girls because they’re on silence. I can see them eyeing my makeup and earrings with envy. I peer in Mike’s window. He’s on a call but he motions for me to come in as he reassures a parent whose child just dropped from Level 5 for cheeking his meds. I grab a handful of Tootsie Rolls and sit down.

  “No, this doesn’t mean Justin’s going to come home and fall back into drugs, it just means he has more work to do with himself than we anticipated. And that’s okay.”

  Mike’s always in the middle of a crisis. He finally hangs up, picks up his now cold cup of coffee and exhales.

  “Long day?” I ask.

  “Long year!”

  I’m suddenly aware of the fine lines around his eyes, the tension in his forehead. Maybe he’s always looked this way, maybe because it’s our last session I’m allowing myself to see this, that however much he loves his work, it takes a toll.

  “Do you ever get sick of hearing about people’s problems?”

  He looks down a minute, thinking. “No,” he responds. “There are times I want earplugs when people don’t want to deal, just whine and blame. But those moments when I really connect with a kid, when I witness a breakthrough, honest to God, I wake up every morning excited to come here because of them.”

  “Yeah, but there’s got to be days when you want to kill us, and you don’t have anyone to go and bitch at.”

  “I talk to my cows. When I’ve had a long day or I’m feeling blue, I just blow through the house, grab some feed, and spill my guts.”

  “I guess you couldn’t get better listeners.”

  “No, you can’t—and they moo in all the right places. One night a while back I needed to blow off some steam, personal difficulties, a bunch of stuff. It was ice cold out, but the stars were just beautiful. I sat up on the bale feeder watching the stars and suddenly about eight of my cows came up. Just stood there with me. But then my bull—and this is a two-thousand-pound, big-ass bull—comes up to me and bends his big old head down before me. I scratched behind his ears, looked around at what I had. Made me remember all over again that I am one lucky son of a gun.”

  He smiles at me. “So, how ya’ feeling, kid?”

  “Good, actually. I’m nervous, but more about little things, like learning how to drive, making friends. It might sound cocky or unrealistic, but I’m not that worried about drugs. I don’t have the desire. I’m a different person now, I guess.”

  “Or you’re back to being the same, depending on how you look at it. To tell the truth, I’m not too worried either. I think your biggest struggles will be with your mom, the whole control thing, and with your own mind. You’ve always been your own worst enemy. And your own best friend. Just make sure you stick with the latter.”

  It’s silent for a minute. He could give me all sorts of last-minute advice, I could list every fear. Instead I jump up and hug him as hard as I can.

  “I love ya, kiddo.”

  “I love you too, Mike.”

  I turn and walk out quickly. I know he understands.

  “How can you be so selfish?” Brooke demands, appalled and confused.

  We came to say good-bye to Sonia, who dropped three days after seminar for passing notes to a boy and biting a staff member when confronted. She’s been in the Hobbit ever since, alternately screaming, crying, and sleeping. With Discovery, the pendulum swung too far in one direction and now she’s swinging back as hard as she can.

  She talks about missing heroin, how one night of stripping pays for a week’s supply. She taunts the male staff, flirting with them one minute and saying fuck off you disgusting pig the next. Brooke’s been trying to instill some last-minute sense in her before going home.

  “Me? Selfish?” Sonia smiles coyly.

  Brooke is fighting tears, and I have the urge to shake into Sonia the knowledge that she’ll only end up killing herself, either quickly in an overdose or more slowly, probably AIDS.

  “I’ll meet you at the bonfire, Mia,” Brooke says, turning and quickly leaving.

  I sigh. I understand Brooke’s reaction, Sonia’s going back to her old lifestyle is selfish, a fuck you to her parents and friends. But, it’s more than that.

  The first time I ran away I knew it would hurt my parents, but I truly thought they’d get over it. I convinced myself that their being sad for six months (or whatever the standard time is for getting over your child) was worth my happiness and that once they stopped missing me, they’d be happy I found a life that made me happy. Ridiculous, I know.

  But, in trying to better understand my mom and build a relationship, I’m beginning to understand the ability of love to both create and destroy. I’d never been in love, never had a child, I’d never loved unselfishly. So I couldn’t fathom how someone’s love for me could also be their undoing, make life unbearable. I wasn’t capable then of understanding the pain I caused, just as Sonia isn’t now.

  Nor did I grasp the capacity of love’s absence to destroy, that my lack of love for myself made my own life unbearable. You take someone whose life experiences have taught them they’re worthless, string them out on drugs, and you have one miserable person. How could I have given what I didn’t have? It’s hard to value another life when you view your own as dispensable, hard to understand how you can have so great an effect on someone else when you don’t think you matter.

  I want to tell Sonia this, but she’s in no frame of mind to hear it.

  “Sonia, I was on
Level 1 when Roxanne said good-bye to me. I’d been in the program only a month less than her, but she was going home. I know you hate me for finally getting out of here and leaving you behind. But I also know you want to hug me good-bye.

  “There’s a lot I want to say to you but you’ve either heard it already or aren’t yet ready to. I guess I just want you to remember. I’ll never forget how peaceful you looked after that one process and wherever you go after this, I want you to remember that there are people who’ve seen you happy. That you know how to create that for yourself whenever you choose to. And that I love you.”

  Sonia stares at me in silence. I lean in to hug her, but she stiffens and turns away.

  I walk out of the Hobbit and get about twenty feet away when I hear a pounding. It’s Sonia, one hand pressed against the window, the other clenched in a fist pounding it. Tears stream down her face and she stares at me like a caged animal. One that doesn’t realize it holds its own key.

  “The girl is trouble, she’s garbage.” Malka frowns as she scissors off chunks of my hair. My hairdresser has a daughter who’s begun hanging out with a troubled girl. She doesn’t know about what happened with Mia.

  “Her mom’s gone, her dad drinks. I know she does drugs, she dresses like a slut.”

  “Do you think your daughter is doing drugs?” I ask.

  “No, that’s the thing, she thinks she’s gonna help this girl. It’s not her responsibility!”

  “You’re right, it’s not. But the girl isn’t garbage. She’s hurting and scared.”

  Malka stops cutting a moment, then starts again. I look at my reflection in the mirror and I see a very different woman than the last time I was here. Once your child becomes the “garbage” other parents are afraid of, you never look at any teen, or yourself, the same again. All you see is the child they once were. And their miserable parents.