For my creative writing class, our first assignment was a fiction short story. I never write fiction, but after infinite critiques/editing help from my angel friend Jenny, I am pretty happy with how it turned out. Sorry if you were hoping for more about fake ~*celebrity boyfriends*~ (that's probably the next post, don't worry). In the meantime, here is a fictional thing I wrote:
My mother’s room always smelled like her. This seems like an
obvious statement, but I’ve never met anyone else with such a distinct scent.
She smelled like lavender and lemongrass and laundry and tobacco and peroxide
and brandy and she smelled like this all the time, not just sometimes. I spoke
about this at her funeral, but it turns out I was the only one who noticed,
which I suppose isn’t very surprising, since I was the only one who noticed a
lot of things about my mother.
I
thought she was perfect my entire childhood: the smartest, most beautiful woman
in the entire world. Maybe most kids think that about their moms, I don’t know.
I don’t know most things about what a regular childhood is like, it turns out. Relating
to other people’s memories of youth is often a difficult thing for me. So what
I guess I’m saying is, let me tell you about my mother.
I
didn’t know anything about how she grew up until well after she died, which was
fifteen or so years ago now. I realized that I knew countless details about
her, what hair color she used and how she took her coffee (Platinum Blonde
#105, black with a shot of brandy), her favorite Beatle and the TV weatherman
she had a crush on (George and Wayne Baker from Channel 5). From all these
countless details, I figured I knew her better than anyone, when it turns out I
knew all the trivia of a mother and none of the facts of a woman. She never had
a lot of friends or ran in the same circles for very long, so it took a while
for me to learn more about her. I had to find old boyfriends and coworkers and
I’ve had more comfortable and easier pastimes, but I had to know about her.
My
mother was born Christina Jacobs at her parents’ home just outside of Omaha.
She was named after some aunt she had never met, I could never really get a
clear answer on that. I do know that she hated the name and went by Chrissy by
the time she was three. She was stubborn and strong-willed and had a
personality far too big for the farm town her family lived in. I wanted to be
like her. I still do, I think, even after I know everything I know.
She
was the popular girl in school, if you can say that about a school of maybe a
hundred. She was bright and quick-witted, and had every cliché dream of leaving
for the big city. She actually did it, though, as soon as she turned 18. Didn’t
even wait to graduate high school. She never did get that diploma, at least as
far as I could find.
When
she left home, she went to Las Vegas. I think she was looking for the brightest
place she could find, and boy, did she find it. I spent my first few years with
my mother in Vegas. We lived in a tiny apartment way too close to the strip
that I thought was endearing at the time, but looking back it was probably just
unsafe for the two of us, always walking alone at night. My mother decorated it
in such a way, though, that there was no question of who lived there. Cramped
at kitschy, with walls too dark and somehow too bright all at the same time.
She never was a trendy woman, my mother.
Before
I was old enough to be in school, it was just me and her all day long before
she went to work. She never kept the same job for very long, but she always
worked at night, waitressing at one place or another. During the day it was
just the two of us. She made me cereal and turned on cartoons so she could
sleep longer; I was always an early riser, still am. When she got up for the
day a few hours later, I would sit and watch her get ready for however long it
took.
I
say that last part because my mother viewed everything as a performance, so
sometimes her getting ready took a very long time. I was a captive audience.
She would waltz around the apartment singing with her curlers in her hair. Her
favorites were Billie Holiday and Patsy Cline. I think she genuinely thought
she sounded like them when she sang, and I never corrected her. I sat on her
bed and watched and listened. When she was done with her hairbrush, I would
pick it up and try to mimic her motions. Her hair was smooth and blonde and
short like a 50s movie star, and mine was mousy and frizzy, so the effect was
never even close. I wasn’t the star, though, she was.
“Ya
know, Patsy Cline would’ve been much prettier if she were blonde. It’s just a
fact, Sadie,” she would remind me every time “I Fall to Pieces” came on her
Greatest Hits record. It was our favorite song, and it was getting worn out and
would skip.
“Would
I be prettier if my hair was like yours?”
“No,
honey, we’ll have to figure something else out for you.” She would laugh and
kiss me on the forehead and put on her lipstick, a shade called “True Red” we
got at the drugstore, a new tube every month. My mother was the star of the
show, and I was there to be the audience. I did a really good job at being her
audience.
It
wasn’t until I started school that I realized that I was living a life anything
less than ordinary. Mother would go to work at night and I would fix myself a
TV dinner and read until I went to sleep. I only took a shower or two a week,
maybe, and wore mostly hand-me-down clothes she got from other girls at work. I
went to my first week of school looking dirty and dressed in mostly boy’s
clothes.
Teachers would ask me questions
about my mother, my home. The first time she came to my school, she won them
over, though. She always won people over. My mother was the most magnetic
person most people had ever met. No one could fault her for anything, no matter
how much they wanted to before she walked in the room and sucked all the energy
right out of it. The world was her stage and she relished in every moment of
people trying to be upset with her. Having an audience made her stronger.
Even after I saw how other kids
dressed and what other kids were allowed to do, I too never faulted my mother.
How could you be mad at someone so beautiful? Our daily routine changed
slightly with me being in school, but I was still home before she left for work,
and I was still her audience, and I did a really good job at being her
audience.
When I was a junior in high school,
I was going to school and working at a diner. I wasn’t home as much, and it
really bothered my mother. I think that’s when she started drinking more, or
maybe that’s just when I figured out what brandy smelled like. I’d get home
from work, and she still hadn’t left for her job yet. She’d ask me where I’d
been, get upset, and I’d put her to bed by nine. Our daily routine had changed,
but we still had one.
I loved school. I was a good
student, always enthusiastic, had my work done on time and done well. I really
excelled at math, and was seriously looking into some good colleges. I had
saved up some money from my job, and was applying for scholarships. I could
never understand why my mother wasn’t excited about these prospects for me. My
friends’ parents were all happy for them, and even showed real enthusiasm for
my future. My mother just appeared cold and bitter. She still looked beautiful,
but just harder.
When I started receiving acceptance
letters, my mother would throw them away before I got home. I didn’t find out about
that until the admissions department of one of the schools called for me. That
was the first time I was ever truly angry with my mother. After years of what
was clearly questionable parenting, she had gone too far, and was losing her
precious audience. I was eighteen when I finally figured out that my mother
loved herself far more than she would ever love me.
Everyone
reacts to profound realizations differently. I reacted by making my first act
of defiance against my mother: I left her. I left her alone, without an
audience, to perform her act. I lived with friends until school started, which
was only a few months, and then I was out of state, far from her. I think she
stopped trying to call after a month or so, which I wish I could say was
surprising. But it was never about me, it was about her, and she must have
figured something else out. Maybe she got a boyfriend or a new job or
something. I never asked, and hardly could even make myself care.
When
I found out that my mother died some ten years later, I wasn’t surprised. You
can’t live a life like she did without paying the price at some point. From
what her doctor told me, she just wore herself out. That was maybe the only
surprising part. She always seemed like someone who would die in a much more
theatrical way than “get sick”, but I guess everyone has to die somehow.
I wasn’t surprised either that I
was the only one around to take care of things. I planned the funeral hastily.
My husband told me that I should speak at the service, and I did, reluctantly.
I talked about how my mother smelled, and how she took her coffee, and how she
was beautiful. After all those years, even dead, she was still beautiful.
Apparently it was a good speech. People got choked up. I didn’t feel too much
of anything at the time, honestly. I didn’t know, and I still don’t know, how
you’re supposed to feel when this kind of thing happens.
Sometimes
loving someone isn’t a choice, I think. My mother may not have loved me like
she should have, but I do think she still did. Even in my anger, my years of
bitterness, I know I loved her too.
It’s
been years, now. After a while, I realized that I could learn everything about
my mother and ask everyone she had ever known any question, and I still would
never truly know her. That’s the thing about being a performer all the time, no
one ever really knows you. I think that’s what she wanted, though. She was a
great performer and I, for a very long time, was a really good audience.
