unclear, but just knowing she
had a path to follow made her feel better.
Unfortunately,
she lost her cool in no time flat.
Leaving
her room to get something to eat, she bumped into her mother, who was
dutifully doing her best to make Elisa's life difficult.
"Well!
I didn't even know you were back. You just lock yourself up in your
room and don't even say hello..."
"Well,
now you know. I'm back."
They'd
met in the hallway. Her mother, impeccably dressed and perfectly
coiffed, smelled like the kind of perfume that has full-page ads in
fashion magazines, ads generally picturing naked women. Elisa, on the
other hand, had thrown on an old robe and knew she looked like a
mess. She guessed her mother would comment on it, and she wasn't
wrong.
"You
could at least put on some pajamas and brush your hair. Have you had
lunch yet?"
"No."
She
headed for the kitchen, barefoot, and remembered to tie her robe shut
when she saw the "girl." Dishes of food, covered in Saran
Wrap, were (as usual) artistically prepared and presented. That was
how Marta Morande, baroness of Piccarda, insisted things be done.
Elisa had given up on requesting simple food that she could eat with
her fingers to save time; trying to go against her mother's wishes
was like banging her head against a wall. Today was risotto. She ate
until her stomach stopped grumbling, and then suddenly was struck by
another idea. Elisa played with her fork as she sat in the kitchen
drinking water, stretching her long, bare, tan legs while her brain
tackled the equations in question from various angles. She was
unaware of Marta Morande's presence and only registered that her
mother was standing there when she spoke.
"...
a very nice person. She says her friend's son was one of your
classmates at college. We talked all about you."
She
stared at her mother, glassy eyed.
"What?"
"You
won't recognize her name. She's a new client, and very, very well
connected..." Her mother paused to pop one of the diet pills
that she always took with a full glass of water at lunchtime. "She
asked me if I was your mother. 'They say your daughter's a genius,'
she said. I know you don't like it, but I was very proud to brag
about you. Of course, I didn't have to do much bragging; this woman
already thought you walked on water. She wanted to know what it was
like to live with a mathematical mastermind..."
"Oh."
Elisa suddenly realized why her mother was so happy. She cared only
about her daughter's achievements when they came in handy at the
beauty salon. Especially when she could use them to show off in front
of a new "client," and even more so if she was "very, very well
connected." It bugged her that the word "mastermind,"
lexically speaking, referred explicitly to men. Who ever said
"mistressmind"?
"'And
not only that,' this woman said, 'but I've heard she's gorgeous.' I
told her you were. 'She's the perfect girl,' I told her."
"Save
the irony."
Leaning
against the fridge, Marta Morande turned to look at her. "I'm
being serious..."
"Well,
don't, please."
"Can
I just say something?" Elisa didn't answer. Her mother stared at
her. "When people talk about you like that, like this woman did
today, I feel so proud. It's true, I do. But I can't help thinking
what it would be like if, on top of being perfect,
you just made a little effort to look the
part..."
"Why
bother when you're around?" Elisa replied. "After all,
you're ... what does your Christian psychology book call it? 'Virtue
incarnate'? I wouldn't want to step on your toes."
But
Marta Morande blathered on as if she hadn't heard.
"While
I was listening to that wonderful woman sing your praises, I was
thinking, 'What would she think if she knew how little effort my
daughter puts into anything?' She even said she bet you were getting
job offers left and right, now that you've finished school."
Elisa
went on guard. This was a slippery slope that inevitably led into the
abyss of a bitter argument. She knew her mother wanted her degree
had a path to follow made her feel better.
Unfortunately,
she lost her cool in no time flat.
Leaving
her room to get something to eat, she bumped into her mother, who was
dutifully doing her best to make Elisa's life difficult.
"Well!
I didn't even know you were back. You just lock yourself up in your
room and don't even say hello..."
"Well,
now you know. I'm back."
They'd
met in the hallway. Her mother, impeccably dressed and perfectly
coiffed, smelled like the kind of perfume that has full-page ads in
fashion magazines, ads generally picturing naked women. Elisa, on the
other hand, had thrown on an old robe and knew she looked like a
mess. She guessed her mother would comment on it, and she wasn't
wrong.
"You
could at least put on some pajamas and brush your hair. Have you had
lunch yet?"
"No."
She
headed for the kitchen, barefoot, and remembered to tie her robe shut
when she saw the "girl." Dishes of food, covered in Saran
Wrap, were (as usual) artistically prepared and presented. That was
how Marta Morande, baroness of Piccarda, insisted things be done.
Elisa had given up on requesting simple food that she could eat with
her fingers to save time; trying to go against her mother's wishes
was like banging her head against a wall. Today was risotto. She ate
until her stomach stopped grumbling, and then suddenly was struck by
another idea. Elisa played with her fork as she sat in the kitchen
drinking water, stretching her long, bare, tan legs while her brain
tackled the equations in question from various angles. She was
unaware of Marta Morande's presence and only registered that her
mother was standing there when she spoke.
"...
a very nice person. She says her friend's son was one of your
classmates at college. We talked all about you."
She
stared at her mother, glassy eyed.
"What?"
"You
won't recognize her name. She's a new client, and very, very well
connected..." Her mother paused to pop one of the diet pills
that she always took with a full glass of water at lunchtime. "She
asked me if I was your mother. 'They say your daughter's a genius,'
she said. I know you don't like it, but I was very proud to brag
about you. Of course, I didn't have to do much bragging; this woman
already thought you walked on water. She wanted to know what it was
like to live with a mathematical mastermind..."
"Oh."
Elisa suddenly realized why her mother was so happy. She cared only
about her daughter's achievements when they came in handy at the
beauty salon. Especially when she could use them to show off in front
of a new "client," and even more so if she was "very, very well
connected." It bugged her that the word "mastermind,"
lexically speaking, referred explicitly to men. Who ever said
"mistressmind"?
"'And
not only that,' this woman said, 'but I've heard she's gorgeous.' I
told her you were. 'She's the perfect girl,' I told her."
"Save
the irony."
Leaning
against the fridge, Marta Morande turned to look at her. "I'm
being serious..."
"Well,
don't, please."
"Can
I just say something?" Elisa didn't answer. Her mother stared at
her. "When people talk about you like that, like this woman did
today, I feel so proud. It's true, I do. But I can't help thinking
what it would be like if, on top of being perfect,
you just made a little effort to look the
part..."
"Why
bother when you're around?" Elisa replied. "After all,
you're ... what does your Christian psychology book call it? 'Virtue
incarnate'? I wouldn't want to step on your toes."
But
Marta Morande blathered on as if she hadn't heard.
"While
I was listening to that wonderful woman sing your praises, I was
thinking, 'What would she think if she knew how little effort my
daughter puts into anything?' She even said she bet you were getting
job offers left and right, now that you've finished school."
Elisa
went on guard. This was a slippery slope that inevitably led into the
abyss of a bitter argument. She knew her mother wanted her degree
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