Amy. “It was a tragedy.” Jillian says something else, something that makes my mother glare at me. “No, we didn’t give her the alcohol—Michael and I were in DC when she threw the party,” she says, waving a hand as if todismiss the entire thing, even though Jillian can’t see her. She’s lying, too. I don’t know where Dad was, but he wasn’t in DC with Mom. “You know how these things go. She’s a brilliant girl, so talented; she’s just made a few youthful indiscretions.”
I lift my eyes to the ceiling. For the entire first week after Amy died, my mother had to defend me to people like this. Jillian must have missed the memo on my bad behavior because of her Bahamas trip. “That’s okay about the ride, Mom,” I say, calling her away from Jillian for a second. “Mark will probably swing by soon.”
Mark always swings by. He has ever since he got his license. But after Amy died, he only gives me lifts to school on certain days. Other days we go to the mall, Ghost Town, the local pool.
Once or twice we’ve gone to the barn.
“Listen, Jill. I’m so sorry, but I have to go. I’ve got something on the stove and it’s burning, but I look forward to seeing you when you get home!” She clicks the cordless phone back into its cradle and turns to me.
“You’re not waiting for Mark.” She glares at me for what seems like the millionth time this morning, as if she knows exactly what we’ve been up to. Her lips tighten into a toothpick-thin line. “I’m driving you to school.” She readjusts her suit, picks up her car keys.
Guess this business meeting’s over.
In the car, she insists on talking to me.
MOM: So how was the child care center yesterday?
ME: Sadistic.
MOM: Ella, I know it’s hard for you to see this right now, but I’m just trying to help. I’m not trying to be sadistic.
ME: I didn’t mean you. I meant that everyone there is a sadist, especially my boss. And the children are perverts.
MOM: I’m sure it’s not that bad.
ME: They’re either drawing some seriously fucked-up bananas or penises on that blackboard, Mom.
MOM: Watch your mouth.
Cue silence. It hums and thrums between us. Eventually, Mom departs from her usually perfect driving behavior: she takes her eyes off the road and trains them on me. They linger on my scabby knee.
Mom’s lip curls. This is not a face of concern. This is a face of Contempt and Shame.
She pulls into the school parking lot and reverse-parks expertly, settling the car securely between the white lines. She even manages to avoid the pothole at the back of this car space.
I swear, sometimes it’s as if my mother’s inhuman.
She stares straight ahead, through the windshield atthe boring brick wall of my school, and swallows. “Ella,” she says.
Is it possible that I scare this woman?
“Ella, are you—”
“I have to go or I’ll be late.”
I open the door, kick my legs out of the car and onto the pavement. I turn back to my mother, a good-bye ready on my lips. But she’s opening her mouth again, and I’m sure something hideous is about to crawl out.
I slam the door shut before I can hear what it is. Her words pummel the window instead of me.
Meeting. Fucking. Adjourned.
But I know what she was going to say.
I know
. Her words stalk me across the parking lot. They ring in my ears, loud and clear.
I’m sorry, honey, so sorry; but this situation really is of your own making
...
She’s said it before. She keeps on saying it. Every time she bothers to talk to me. Which is usually whenever I look too sad. Whenever I stop being fine, fine, fine.
It kills me, because I know she’s right. Despite what the school counselor told me in that one session we had right after Amy died.
It’s not your fault. You should never think it’s your fault
.
But who threw the party?
Who let wine and whiskey and beer and vodka-spiked punch into the place?
Who drank so much that she can’t remember shit about the party?
Me. Me. Me,
I lift my eyes to the ceiling. For the entire first week after Amy died, my mother had to defend me to people like this. Jillian must have missed the memo on my bad behavior because of her Bahamas trip. “That’s okay about the ride, Mom,” I say, calling her away from Jillian for a second. “Mark will probably swing by soon.”
Mark always swings by. He has ever since he got his license. But after Amy died, he only gives me lifts to school on certain days. Other days we go to the mall, Ghost Town, the local pool.
Once or twice we’ve gone to the barn.
“Listen, Jill. I’m so sorry, but I have to go. I’ve got something on the stove and it’s burning, but I look forward to seeing you when you get home!” She clicks the cordless phone back into its cradle and turns to me.
“You’re not waiting for Mark.” She glares at me for what seems like the millionth time this morning, as if she knows exactly what we’ve been up to. Her lips tighten into a toothpick-thin line. “I’m driving you to school.” She readjusts her suit, picks up her car keys.
Guess this business meeting’s over.
In the car, she insists on talking to me.
MOM: So how was the child care center yesterday?
ME: Sadistic.
MOM: Ella, I know it’s hard for you to see this right now, but I’m just trying to help. I’m not trying to be sadistic.
ME: I didn’t mean you. I meant that everyone there is a sadist, especially my boss. And the children are perverts.
MOM: I’m sure it’s not that bad.
ME: They’re either drawing some seriously fucked-up bananas or penises on that blackboard, Mom.
MOM: Watch your mouth.
Cue silence. It hums and thrums between us. Eventually, Mom departs from her usually perfect driving behavior: she takes her eyes off the road and trains them on me. They linger on my scabby knee.
Mom’s lip curls. This is not a face of concern. This is a face of Contempt and Shame.
She pulls into the school parking lot and reverse-parks expertly, settling the car securely between the white lines. She even manages to avoid the pothole at the back of this car space.
I swear, sometimes it’s as if my mother’s inhuman.
She stares straight ahead, through the windshield atthe boring brick wall of my school, and swallows. “Ella,” she says.
Is it possible that I scare this woman?
“Ella, are you—”
“I have to go or I’ll be late.”
I open the door, kick my legs out of the car and onto the pavement. I turn back to my mother, a good-bye ready on my lips. But she’s opening her mouth again, and I’m sure something hideous is about to crawl out.
I slam the door shut before I can hear what it is. Her words pummel the window instead of me.
Meeting. Fucking. Adjourned.
But I know what she was going to say.
I know
. Her words stalk me across the parking lot. They ring in my ears, loud and clear.
I’m sorry, honey, so sorry; but this situation really is of your own making
...
She’s said it before. She keeps on saying it. Every time she bothers to talk to me. Which is usually whenever I look too sad. Whenever I stop being fine, fine, fine.
It kills me, because I know she’s right. Despite what the school counselor told me in that one session we had right after Amy died.
It’s not your fault. You should never think it’s your fault
.
But who threw the party?
Who let wine and whiskey and beer and vodka-spiked punch into the place?
Who drank so much that she can’t remember shit about the party?
Me. Me. Me,
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