My mother was doing that thing that
she did. That thing with the rag in the sink.
“Who drank the
orange juice and didn’t rinse out their glass?”
I hear my mom yell this question from the kitchen
just about every other day.
I decided to humor her, and I went into the
kitchen. My mom’s back was to me, and her poofy hair swished with her vigorous
washing and scrubbing.
“Sorry Mom.” I
mumbled, but of course my apology was drowned out by her flow of annoyed
threats.
“I pay good money
for that orange juice for you girls! Maybe I’ll buy the pulp less kind because
APPARENTLY you girls are not MATURE enough to handle it!” and on and on and on.
I rolled my eyes
and opened the refrigerator. I stared at the glowing leftovers and beverages,
willing a food to appear for me, and tuned out my mom’s incessant nagging.
Until I turned to see her standing inches from me.
“Nobody listens to
me! I might as well be a nameless person on the street the way you people-what
are you looking for? How many times do I have to tell you to not stand there
with the refrigerator door open? You’re wasting electricity!”
She took a breath
to let her slew of assaults sink in, and
to make sure that I felt the full
effect of her words.
“Whatever.” I said, as I slammed the
refrigerator door shut and walked away.
I smirked to myself
as I walked up the stairs, the image of my mom’s shocked and thoroughly pissed face
still fresh in my mind, and I felt so powerful, so superior to my idiotic
mother. At the top of the stairs, I saw Eloise dancing around in her room like
a 7 yr old monkey.
“You’re so lame.” I
told her.
She stopped
mid-swirl and looked at me with her big green eyes as if I had just kicked a
puppy.
“No I’m not...” she
said hesitantly.
“Whatever. You’re
just stupid.” I replied, and then made my dramatic exit from her room to mine,
slamming my door for emphasis.
Through the door I
could hear her clambering down the stairs, whining and ready, to go tell on me
to our mom. You see, we have different dads, but the resemblance is still
there... unfortunately. Eloise is my half-sister, but everyone thinks she’s my
cousin.
I knew it would only be a matter of time
before she beckoned me, so I grabbed
a book and flung myself onto my bed. Three minutes later my mom called up the
stairs in a strained voice, “Quinn! Can I talk to you for a second?”
I checked my watch and thought to myself, huh, she’s
ahead of herself today.
I sighed, memorized
the page that I was on, slid off my bed, and trudged downstairs. They were in
the kitchen; my mom’s arms were folded, Eloise was next to her with a huffy
expression on her face, and I could not have cared less.
I cared more about
the fly buzzing around the kitchen light. I cared more about Ken, Eloise’s
lazy-ass father, lying on the couch in the TV room, ruining the couch cover
that I had just made that morning. I even cared more about the lemon sherbet
that melted over the counter because Eloise forgot to put it back in the
freezer. As my mom opened her mouth to reprimand and wag her finger at me, I
told her to shut up. Miraculously, she did. In addition to my amazement, she
started to cry. Her face crumpled, her shoulders slumped, and she turned around
so I wouldn’t see the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Eloise looked scared out of her freaking mind.
Now I don’t know why, because I’ve made my mother cry before, but I felt an
overwhelming sense of guilt. Maybe I had one of those super-enlightening
epiphany things…who knows? All I know is that before I could figure out what
the hee-haw hell I was doing, I found myself walking towards my mother, putting
my arms around her, and horrifyingly enough, giving her a hug! And a real hug
at that. Not like when she enthusiastically squeezes me, and I roll my eyes to
someone over her shoulder. This time I
was hugging her!
I heard myself say, “I’m sorry, Mom. Really.”
When I eventually
recovered from the shock of hearing my self apologize to my mother, I started
to notice things. Like how her poofy hair felt against the side of my face, the
smell of her perfume, how her sobs had noticeably subsided; and I really did
feel sorry. It struck me then that this was the closest we had been since
before she married Ken.
Eloise had vanished; probably off in her room
or trying unsuccessfully to wake up Ken, but I was grateful for the privacy. I
guess I never realized how much I really missed moments like this.
“I love you,” my mom said into my shoulder.
From underneath the ice and harsh words deep
within me, I felt the truth peek out. I really do love my mother, despite when
her voice makes me want to scratch my eyes out, or when we’re in public I feel
as though I’m wearing a shirt saying “I’m with stupid”.
So I told her, “I love you too, Mom.”
My mom sniffled,
pulled back, gave me a smile, and said, “I know you do. Now how bout some
orange juice?”
This woman knows my
very soul.
“Thank you, that
would lovely.” I replied, and I smiled back.
