for a daughter who didn’t conform to their way.
Lauren was
proof of that. Not that there was much evidence that she even existed
anymore. If my mom could, she’d put all her uncooperative family members in
the Spring Hill Retirement Home. Then she could dress us like her very own
zombie Barbies.
Suddenly, my
48 days left at home seemed like an eternity. Besides, even when I left, Karen
and Tom would still be my parents, my family.
Unless I did
something to screw that up.
There was a
time when I hadn’t grouped my mom and dad into the thoughtless, dead-in-the-eye
gossip zombie fiends who cheated on their spouses, or collected Ivy League
husbands more competitively than Glen and Tommy Brisling warred with anime
trading cards in the fourth grade. Not until I realized their marriage was
just as phony. Before that moment, I actually considered my parents as somehow
immune to it all. I used to look up to them in one of those immature, clueless
ways. I baked with my mom, and my dad built me a tree house and told me
stories about law school. I even sided with my parents on the whole Lauren
thing—although I didn’t understand any of it. All I knew was that they
couldn’t handle her divorce, or her new unapproved lifestyle. I think I
thought of my sister as stubborn—or that she just didn’t like our parents. And
that the feeling was mutual from our parents. But I considered myself separate
from it all, at least, until last summer, when I saw my dad in the lobby of the
Hyatt.
I’d been
helping with Felicia Bennett’s decorum class in the ballroom. It was a community
service requirement, but I liked the job, even if Katie joked that I was helping
indoctrinate new Bloom zombies. I just didn’t see it, not with the tweens,
anyway. Maybe it was the order and everything having its place, but I found
the idea of high tea somewhat comforting. Besides, who wouldn’t crack a smile
at raspberries sandwiched between two pink macaroons? I figured that at least
the girls were learning manners, and maybe one day they wouldn’t tote their
casseroles around with gossip.
On that day
though, the topic was using a thumb to steady a saucer. A girl named Molly
(who liked to sneak extra sugar cubes) spilled tea on her napkin. It was her
third spill, and I was out of extra cloth napkins, so I left the room to get
more. When I walked back, folded white napkins in hand, I saw my dad with
another woman. He didn’t see me, but still, in my stunned state, I ducked
behind a tall, potted tree. It only took a moment to figure out what was
happening. I instantly felt sick, but I waited for the next Sunday dinner to
voice my opinion.
That was
when I got another surprise. The moment I broached the subject, my mom pulled
me into the kitchen and informed me that we weren’t going to talk about that,
as if it were simply the wrong choice of dinner topics, like talking about
athlete’s foot or menstrual cramps or something. I was so confused because I
had been prepared to defend her, protect her, something, except she shot me a
pointed look, effectively shutting me down. When the realization sunk in that
my mom knew about my dad’s indiscretions, and accepted them, I shut up. I
stood silently in the kitchen, paralyzed as she picked up the jellyroll she
baked—one of my dad’s favorite desserts—and walked back into the dining room.
Then they both told me it was none of my business and continued on with life as
if nothing had changed, like every other member of the Living Dead in Bloom. Suddenly,
their comments and critiques on how I lived my life were no longer helpful
advice to improve my life but a part of the glossy-eyed, single-minded, zombie
diatribe that would have me shuffling along with the rest of them in no time.
That’s when
I decided I wanted to be far from Bloom and my parents. So when senior year
started, I focused on applying to colleges, and when I got my
Lauren was
proof of that. Not that there was much evidence that she even existed
anymore. If my mom could, she’d put all her uncooperative family members in
the Spring Hill Retirement Home. Then she could dress us like her very own
zombie Barbies.
Suddenly, my
48 days left at home seemed like an eternity. Besides, even when I left, Karen
and Tom would still be my parents, my family.
Unless I did
something to screw that up.
There was a
time when I hadn’t grouped my mom and dad into the thoughtless, dead-in-the-eye
gossip zombie fiends who cheated on their spouses, or collected Ivy League
husbands more competitively than Glen and Tommy Brisling warred with anime
trading cards in the fourth grade. Not until I realized their marriage was
just as phony. Before that moment, I actually considered my parents as somehow
immune to it all. I used to look up to them in one of those immature, clueless
ways. I baked with my mom, and my dad built me a tree house and told me
stories about law school. I even sided with my parents on the whole Lauren
thing—although I didn’t understand any of it. All I knew was that they
couldn’t handle her divorce, or her new unapproved lifestyle. I think I
thought of my sister as stubborn—or that she just didn’t like our parents. And
that the feeling was mutual from our parents. But I considered myself separate
from it all, at least, until last summer, when I saw my dad in the lobby of the
Hyatt.
I’d been
helping with Felicia Bennett’s decorum class in the ballroom. It was a community
service requirement, but I liked the job, even if Katie joked that I was helping
indoctrinate new Bloom zombies. I just didn’t see it, not with the tweens,
anyway. Maybe it was the order and everything having its place, but I found
the idea of high tea somewhat comforting. Besides, who wouldn’t crack a smile
at raspberries sandwiched between two pink macaroons? I figured that at least
the girls were learning manners, and maybe one day they wouldn’t tote their
casseroles around with gossip.
On that day
though, the topic was using a thumb to steady a saucer. A girl named Molly
(who liked to sneak extra sugar cubes) spilled tea on her napkin. It was her
third spill, and I was out of extra cloth napkins, so I left the room to get
more. When I walked back, folded white napkins in hand, I saw my dad with
another woman. He didn’t see me, but still, in my stunned state, I ducked
behind a tall, potted tree. It only took a moment to figure out what was
happening. I instantly felt sick, but I waited for the next Sunday dinner to
voice my opinion.
That was
when I got another surprise. The moment I broached the subject, my mom pulled
me into the kitchen and informed me that we weren’t going to talk about that,
as if it were simply the wrong choice of dinner topics, like talking about
athlete’s foot or menstrual cramps or something. I was so confused because I
had been prepared to defend her, protect her, something, except she shot me a
pointed look, effectively shutting me down. When the realization sunk in that
my mom knew about my dad’s indiscretions, and accepted them, I shut up. I
stood silently in the kitchen, paralyzed as she picked up the jellyroll she
baked—one of my dad’s favorite desserts—and walked back into the dining room.
Then they both told me it was none of my business and continued on with life as
if nothing had changed, like every other member of the Living Dead in Bloom. Suddenly,
their comments and critiques on how I lived my life were no longer helpful
advice to improve my life but a part of the glossy-eyed, single-minded, zombie
diatribe that would have me shuffling along with the rest of them in no time.
That’s when
I decided I wanted to be far from Bloom and my parents. So when senior year
started, I focused on applying to colleges, and when I got my
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