Dreams of 18
Saffron A. Kent
To all the dreamers, the romantics, the outcasts, and a man named Charles Bukowski…
And of course, the love of my life: my husband.
I’m a lover of bad things.
Or so people say.
By people, I mean my mom.
My mom, Victoria Moore, says I love the things that are completely wrong for me. She’s been saying that for as long as I can remember.
In fact, her favorite story to tell at her famous dinner parties is how when I was little, I’d steal strawberries from the kitchen and hide in my closet.
One by one, I’d eat them all and within thirty minutes of that, I’d start throwing up. So much so that my nanny would have to take me to the emergency room, because my mom does not look good under hospital lighting. Cue exaggerated laughter from her riveted audience, that reached me from where I’d hide under the stairs.
After a number of such trips, they found out that I was allergic to a certain component in strawberries, and that was the reason for my nausea.
So one day my mom sat me down – my dad was away on a business trip or maybe he was getting drunk in his study; I can’t remember that part – and told me that strawberries were wrong for me.
They are bad, she said. And if I didn’t want to spend my days throwing up, I should stay away from them.
My answer was, “But I love strawberries, Mommy. And I’m not afraid to throw up because of them. It’s kinda fun.”
I was like five or something.
Mom sighed, took a sip of her chardonnay – she loved her alcohol as much as Dad – and looked away from me. To my nanny, she said, “Take her away, please. She’s giving me a headache.”
I give people headaches. That’s my other thing.
But that’s not the point.
The point is: I like bad things.
I like things that are wrong and harmful and maybe even toxic and deadly. Or almost deadly, like strawberries. Things that no one in their right mind would like.
Maybe I was born a little weird, a little off-beat.
Or maybe I’m too evolved to feel fear or caution. I don’t know. All I know is that I want strawberries today. Like seriously. I’ve got a real craving for them.
I mean, if I can’t have strawberries today, then when can I have them?
Today’s my day.
Or at least, it should be. Not that anybody remembers it but still.
Today’s the day I was born, and well, there’s a story for that, too.
Sixteen years ago, my mom gave birth to moi at Mount Sinai Hospital on the Upper East Side of New York City.
She didn’t want to.
Not even a little bit.
I wasn’t a part of her plan. Especially not after having my sister, Fiona, only a year before. Plus the fact that my father was out of town when I was conceived made it a little difficult for my mother to explain my existence inside her womb.
So she tried to get rid of me before I started to grow from fetus to an actual baby.
She went to a doctor to have her pregnancy terminated, thereby hiding all evidence of her infidelity. It wasn’t as if no one knew of her extra-marital affairs. But before I accidentally got planted inside her, no one could’ve proved it.
Anyway, the doctor said that it was kind of not possible because she was too far along. So she had to keep me and less than nine months later, I was born.
Violet May Moore.
The living proof of my mother’s exploits.
How do I know all this? Because my mom told me once.
She doesn’t know that I know. She was totally wasted and in a very bad mood because she’d gotten a call from my school that I was flunking out of biology.
Again, that’s not the point. My illegitimacy and the questionable circumstances surrounding my birth, nor that my own mother tried to kill me before I was born.
The point is that I want strawberries for my birthday and I know if I eat even one, I’m likely to spend my day throwing up my organs.
The question is: do I wanna commit to that? Do I want that kind of pain on the day that I was born?
I’m lounging in my bed and listening to a song about Brandy. She’s a fine girl who serves whiskey and wine to all the lonely sailors. Apparently, she’d make a very good wife.
I chuckle to myself.
It’s by Looking Glass, a pop/rock band from the early seventies.
I’m a lover of vintage music. Yet another thing of mine.
Wearing giant headphones, I’m nodding my head to the beat when my door bursts open. I don’t even have the time to squeak with shock before a flash of pink and blonde streaks across my room and drops down in front of my window.
It’s my sister, Fiona.
I tear the headphones off and jackknife into a sitting position. “What the…”
She’s grabbing my windowsill and practically hanging out of the window, chanting, “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod.”
I spring out of my bed in fright. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Can you please not use that language?” she says, without taking her eyes away from whatever she’s looking at.
I raise my eyebrows at her. “Is there a reason you’re being so nice to me today?”
“I’m always nice.”
“Not to me, you’re not.”
She rolls her eyes. “Can you shut up? I’m trying to concentrate.”