Not My Mother

by Miranda Smith

  “I can’t do this,” Mom wails.

  “Maybe we should try this another time,” Carmen says, her voice a little more soothing.

  But I can’t be soothed. I’m enraged. You would think Mom might show a little concern for me. For Ava. For what we must have been going through. Not only is she refusing to answer my questions, she is trying to ignore me altogether, wishing me away.

  “You can’t do this,” I tell her, my voice cracking, but my anger providing strength. “You’ve avoided questions my entire life. You hid things from me, like about my father, without ever thinking how it might impact me. You can’t do that anymore. You have to start being honest.”

  Now Mom is sitting on the floor next to the door. She is hunched over, like a child grappling with a nightmare. Her eyes remain closed, her hands cover her ears. “No, I can’t. I won’t.”

  A guard rushes in, brushing past me to get to Mom. He swoops her up in one swift movement, escorting her through the door.

  “Mom, wait. Please!”

  But she is gone. The door is shut, the vertical window only giving me a small glimpse into the dark hallway. This was it. My opportunity to find out the truth. Now it’s over.

  “I told you not to bring up specifics of the case,” Carmen says, marching toward me. “I told you she was fragile.”

  “She won’t even talk to me, Carmen.”

  I’ve never seen my mother break down like this. Being a single mother, it’s not like she didn’t have trials and tribulations. She rose above each and every one. She exemplified control. Now she’s crumbling before me, and I’m no closer to learning the truth.

  The woman I just saw. The behavior she just showed.

  I don’t recognize that woman.

  10 Eileen

  Then

  Thanks to the convenience store incident, I had to attend two counseling sessions a month. This was supposed to last until I turned twenty-five or got in trouble again, whichever came first. Of course, I’d already promised myself the latter would never happen. And really, the sessions weren’t as bad as you’d think. It wasn’t like on TV, where some pretentious therapist with gray hair and wire glasses asks about your childhood.

  Did your dad beat you? Yes.

  Did your mother stop him? No.

  Is that why you’re a screw-up? Maybe.

  No, it was none of that. We rarely talked about the past. Our sessions were focused on the present. Where was I living? Working? Who were my friends?

  My encounters with the counselor were brief—Ms. Lang, if I remember correctly. She spent more time placating the people in the waiting room than she did working in her office. That’s where the real show was, let me tell you. Not every person sentenced to counseling was as adjusted to the idea as I was. Some people downright refused. The younger the person, the louder they were, I noticed. Always spitting their upset at the secretary and Ms. Lang.

  I don’t need this shit, they’d shout. As if it was Ms. Lang’s choice they were here. It’s like they ignored the fact their mistakes brought them to this place, and their refusal to participate would keep them here longer.

  No, I wasn’t like that. I sat in my chair, legs crossed, biting my fingernails, waiting for the tired secretary to call my name. I rarely talked to the people in the waiting room. It was a private building, with only a small staff of counselors. I feel I need to stress that word. Counselors. There weren’t PhDs in this place. Sessions weren’t meant to provide treatment; they just wanted to know if you had plans to off yourself or someone else, so they could pass along the paperwork.

  There I was, as usual. Sitting alone and minding my own business.

  “Yucky day today,” said a woman. Another counselor.

  We’d never spoken before, but I had noticed her during previous visits. She was hard to miss. This woman was tall and thin, her brown hair pulled away from her face and fastened with a clip. She had pearl studs and a matching necklace. Simple and classy. She wore the prettiest outfit in the place—probably the prettiest outfit on the block. Always vibrant colors, the material perfectly ironed. On that day, she wore green.

  Yes, I had watched her several times, but she had never spoken to me before.

  “Yeah, it is,” I said, staring at the same gray skies.

  “Sarah, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  I straightened my posture, as though possibly being selected for a grand prize. It surprised me this woman knew my name. Dozens of young girls came to the center; I often felt invisible. I expected this woman to see through me like everyone else, like even Ms. Lang tended to do.

  “We’ve talked before, haven’t we?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I hated to correct her, but I had to be truthful. More than once, I had wished to speak with this woman over Ms. Lang. I wouldn’t be unruly and rude, like the other girls in the lobby. They didn’t know how lucky they were. Who wouldn’t want to spend a few extra minutes of their day with someone who appeared so… perfect?

  “That’s right. You’re waiting for Ms. Lang?”

  “Yes.”

  For a moment, I had this fantasy she would whisk me away to her own office instead. No sense in you waiting out here, she’d say. But she didn’t say any of that.

  “I’m Mrs. Parker.” She held out a hand. French tips on her nails. When this woman smiled at you, you wanted to return the kindness. “I work with some of the younger visitors. How do you like Ms. Lang?”

  “She’s great.”

  It was an overstatement, but I felt compelled to be positive in this woman’s presence. In Mrs. Parker’s presence. She seemed perfect. The exact type of woman I wanted to one day be. It’s like her talking to me made me special, if only for a few seconds.

  “Good. You know, my family helps fund this place. It’s important to hear people are getting the help they need, even if some are more reluctant than others.”

  Both our eyes fell upon a girl sitting across from us. She had her feet kicked up onto an empty chair, headphones over her ears. She couldn’t hear anything we were saying, but she fit Mrs. Parker’s description to a tee. In fact, she was one of the girls I’d seen yelling during my last visit.

  “Amelia?” The receptionist called her by her first name, and just like that, Mrs. Parker was gone, disappearing into one of the counseling rooms on the other side of the wall.

  Not long after, I had my meeting with Ms. Lang. I barely remember what our sessions were about. Probably we talked about my job at Buster’s and my relationship with Cliff and everything else going on in my life. Our conversations are a blur, and yet, all these years later, I can remember my exchange with Amelia Parker verbatim. That’s the kind of impact she had on me.

  I thought about her for the rest of that day, as I worked my closing shift at Buster’s. I had been working there for almost two years at that point, my most serious job by far. The pay was good and the neighborhood was safe, but I know it was the people—mainly Jamie and Cliff—that kept me coming back. Not long after we went out for drinks, Cliff and I started dating, and Jamie became our best friend.

  Most of my life I’d been a loner, but now I saw the benefit in talking to others. Really talking. Counseling wasn’t like that; that was just reciting facts, offering updates. With Jamie and Cliff, it was different. When I spoke to them, I felt heard. I told them about my abusive upbringing, which became easier to accept because they had their struggles, too.

  Like Cliff, Jamie was more than her outward appearance. She had people in her past she was trying to forget. She told me about an aggressive teacher at her private school. A known predator, she said. We used to call him Fuzzy Sweater Gray Gums. As usual, she did her best to make light of the ordeal. He’d gotten away with it with students in the past. This teacher and his behavior had become a running joke at the school, half rumor, half ghost story.

  Until he targeted Jamie.

  “There was a line for the girl’s bathroom,” she said, exhaling a puff of smok
e. It was one of those nights I’d offered to stay and help her close, but as usual, we wasted time talking. “This teacher tells me I can use the restroom in the employee lounge if I didn’t want to be late to class. So I thought, what the hell? Anything beats a call to my parents about too many tardies, right?

  “I swear I locked the door behind me, but somehow he got inside. He walked up behind me while I was washing my hands. Tried to pull my skirt up.”

  “My goodness, Jamie. At school? What did you do?”

  “At first I froze. Wasn’t sure how to react. The guy was a teacher, after all. Then my fight kicked in. I pushed him off me. Tried to knee his crotch. We went back and forth for a while. In the end, I rammed him into the paper towel dispenser on the wall. It made a nasty cut on his forearm. That’s when he finally stopped.”

  “Did you report him?”

  Jamie scoffed. “No. Like I said, he’d been accused of doing things in the past. Nothing ever seemed to happen. I just left campus. Ended up grounded for two weeks for skipping school.”

  “Why didn’t you tell your family?” I asked her, trying not to sound judgmental.

  The biggest difference between Jamie and the rest of us was she actually had family. A big one. The talk around Buster’s was there were mafia connections, a rumor that seemed far-fetched at first, but became increasingly believable the longer I knew Jamie. I didn’t understand why she didn’t go to her family, tell them about what almost happened. She at least had people to turn to, which is more than I ever did.

  “My family does things,” she told me. “I’ve had an uncle or two end up in prison. It’s nothing new, but if any of the men in my family found out what that asshole did to me, they’d be sent away for life. I don’t want to be the reason one of them gets locked up for good. I dodged the creep, even left him a nice little scar. That’s all that matters.”

  And yet her explanation had holes. On nights I stayed at her place, she’d wake up with night terrors. Every now and then, during a smoke break, I’d catch her staring in the distance, as though the brick wall in front of her had something written on it.

  An image.

  A face.

  A small, more mature voice inside me wanted to suggest she talk to someone about what happened, but I never did. Jamie was handling what happened in the best way she could. And counseling had done little for me.

  Sometimes, she talked about the ordeal around Cliff, too. He listened, then would offer another yarn about the khaki pant pricks. We figured most of those guys grew up to do the type of thing that teacher did to Jamie. A different type of cycle, rooted in privilege and entitlement. Someone needs to give these people what they deserve, we’d say, trying to laugh about it.

  These discussions were morbid, I knew that. But it seemed a natural way for us to explore our shared grief. We were all three tired of people never getting their comeuppance. The creepy teacher. The cruel bullies. My father and his abuse. Why did no one ever step in and do something about the bad that was happening? Why let it persist?

  Befriending Jamie and Cliff was a form of kismet, I still believe that. They came into my life at precisely the right time, helping me process all the parts of myself I needed to accept, the parts of myself I needed to expunge. It was interesting how our past struggles played into our present desires. Jamie was determined to fend for herself. Run Buster’s. Live alone. She was kind to me, but she was also hardened. Soft material sealed beneath a man-made shell.

  Cliff was trying to prove he could do better than his family and his bullies, the people who had tormented him during his youth. He was on the right track, I’d tell him. But I think he was also fearful of that rage inside of him, the one that was brought to light that day in the alley.

  And me. I was searching for family. For people who would love me unconditionally, and who I could protect in return. At night, I’d close my eyes and try to picture it, this future I might one day have.

  Maybe I’d be like that Amelia lady at the center, I thought. All clean clothes and modest jewelry. I might not have it all right now, but I’d get it in time. If I was lucky.

  11 Marion

  Now

  I’m sitting alone in Carmen’s car while she tries to talk with investigators. She wants to make sure that Mom receives medical assistance before returning to her cell for the night. The breakdown I witnessed was much worse than anything I’ve ever seen from Mom before.

  I’m feeling my own anxiety take over, a wave crashing into my mind, carrying with it memories of the woman I thought I knew. My breathing picks up and my vision blurs. I have to close my eyes, fight to keep my emotions from taking over my ability to think.

  Mom’s admission is startling. Until now, I’d hoped the police had made a mistake, that they’d arrested the wrong person. Now that she’s admitted to being Sarah Paxton, I dread what other parts of her past she is covering up.

  I’ve often joked about having two Moms.

  Most people assume I’m talking about Des. In many ways, she’s like a second parent. She’s been Mom’s best friend and business partner almost my entire life, which means she’s been there when I’ve needed her. Des never married or had children of her own, so I think she enjoys stepping into that role, offering me guidance when Mom is not enough.

  But I’m not referring to Des when I mention my second mother. I’m talking about the woman Mom is now, compared to the nervous, possessive woman I remember from my childhood. The two are completely different, almost separate entities.

  I don’t think the label worrier would cut it. All parents worry. I know that now more than ever because I am one. But Mom’s nervousness was more intense, almost proprietorial. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without her, even reasonably safe places, like the local playground with Des. I didn’t have my first sleepover until I was in high school, and even then, it was only after I begged a teammate’s mother to convince her. I was sixteen. I had a driver’s license. Still, it was like she didn’t want to let me out of her sight for even one night.

  Field trips were another point of contention. She’d sign permission slips for me to visit the local attractions. This was a whole new adventure to my younger self. Spending a few hours on a weekday exploring an aquarium or museum felt liberating, even if our teachers were only the next row over. In seventh grade, after watching a Christmas film at the local cinema before holiday break, I spotted Mom’s car in the parking lot. She was sitting inside it, watching me as I got on the bus for our return to school. I never mentioned seeing her, and thank goodness none of my friends noticed, but knowing she was there ripped away my notions of independence. Even when I thought she wasn’t watching me, I was wrong. I felt violated. Smothered. Like she somehow found me less capable than my peers.

  If the trip meant venturing outside of North Bay, she wouldn’t allow it. No overnight trips. No visits to D.C. with the Honor’s Society. The weeklong trip to New York City my senior year of high school was out of the question.

  And I hated her for it. That vitriol feels fresh even all these years later.

  “Everyone is going,” I shouted at her. “Why can’t I?”

  It was right after I told Mom I’d saved enough money to pay my own way. Des let me start working the cash register at The Shack once I entered high school. For almost an entire year, I saved every paycheck, making sure I’d have enough to pay the trip fee plus spending money.

  “Those trips are overpriced,” Mom said, washing the dishes, an attempt to ignore me. “They hike up the prices for school groups to take advantage of you.”

  “It’s not about the money. I already told you, I have it right here.” I dropped an envelope with cash on the counter. She barely looked at it.

  “You’re not going.”

  “But why? It’s a safe trip. There will be an adult chaperone with each group. They take a trip like this every year, and nothing has ever happened before.”

  “New York isn’t going anywhere. Maybe we’ll plan a visit sometime—�
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  “Oh, come on! You never go anywhere. I’ve been asking you to take me places my whole life!”

  “And you have your whole life ahead of you. You can go to New York and anywhere else you want.”

  “But I want to go now. With my friends. It’s safe. I have the money. Please let me do this.”

  “You’re not going.” She averted her eyes. Didn’t look at me for several days after that conversation, as I recall. “You’re a minor, and I won’t allow it. I’m sorry.”

  That anger festered within me, only growing worse with time. Not all moms were this overprotective. Why did mine have to be? Was it because I was all she had?

  For weeks, all my friends talked about was the trip. They bought special outfits and then came back with bucketloads of souvenirs and stories. All experiences I’d never have. I spent that week moping, working my regular shifts at The Shack. Des would never disagree with Mom in front of me, but I think even she questioned Mom’s stubbornness. Within a few months, I’d be off at college, if Mom would allow it. Why not give me this one week of freedom?

  I first noticed the shift in Mom’s behavior right after I turned eighteen. Out of all my birthdays, that one remains the clearest in my mind, and not just because it signified my entry to adulthood. Since my birthday was close to the end of senior year, it turned into a pre-graduation celebration of sorts. Mom and Des didn’t spare any expense decorating The Shack. Des even set up a miniature bar in the back of the restaurant.

  It was an all-around good night. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so loved or celebrated. And I don’t think I’d ever seen Mom look so proud. She seemed to float around the room, mingling with my friends and their parents. At previous parties, she always seemed to hang back. She avoided any small talk that could blossom into full-blown conversation.

  But not at that party. She rejected her nervous ways, undressed her introverted layers. She laughed and danced. Danced! Even made herself a drink. It was the first time I’d seen Mom partake in the fun, not simply observe from a safe distance. From that point on, Mom became less possessive, more demonstrative. The panic attacks ceased. She became a different person.