I'm Glad My Mom Died(30)

I usually just try and think of Disneyland when Mom’s doing the exams. I think of the next time Grandpa will sign us in. I think of the parade and the fireworks and the characters all happy and everything.

By the time the exams are done, a huge wave of relief washes over my whole body and I usually realize that’s the first time I’ve felt my body since the exam started. It’s weird… when the exams are happening, I feel like I’m outside of myself. Like my body is a shell I’m disconnected from and I’m living entirely in my thoughts. My Main Street, Fantasyland, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride thoughts. (Actually, I usually don’t think of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride because as much as people love it, I think that ride’s mediocre.)

“Net?!” Mom calls out again.

My body’s still frozen. I swallow and force a response up my throat.

“I’m ready!”

She’s showering me alone tonight. I know because I have an audition for House tomorrow, and I’ve noticed this pattern that whenever I have an audition, Mom showers me alone. I think it’s because she wants to make sure she gets the shampooing and conditioning just right so that my hair will look perfectly glossy for the casting director. Mom says this business is shallow and that glossy hair can be the difference between getting a callback or not.

My breathing is shaky as I set down my schoolwork and get up off the couch. My hands are clammy. I try and focus on the relief I’ll feel as soon as the exams are done and I know the shower’s just about over. I try and focus on that lightness. That feeling that everything’s better and rosier for the rest of the night. I’m trying. I’m trying. I’m trying.

I get to the bathroom. Mom won’t let me turn on the faucet because she says it’s tricky to twist the handles and get the right temperature, so I wait for her. While I wait, I take off my pants, then my underwear, then my shirt. I step into the shower and hear the drip of the leaking faucet. I study the mold on it. It’s white and blue and crusty. I hear Mom’s footsteps as she approaches the bathroom. I’m off to Fantasyland.





28.


I’M SITTING IN THE BACK seat of the Ford Windstar. We’re driving to the Art Supply Warehouse to visit Dustin on his shift. Dustin seems to hate this, but Mom loves it. I think she enjoys knowing people who work at the place she’s visiting. I think it makes her feel like a VIP. Her posture and energy shift completely whenever she walks into Best Buy to visit Marcus, or the ticket stand at Disneyland to visit Grandpa. She gets this aura like she owns the place. I love seeing Mom so confident.

As we drive over, Mom’s on the phone with a bill collector, asking for an extension, when she turns to me excitedly.

“Susan’s calling!”

I know why Susan’s calling. Yesterday I screen-tested for a show called iCarly, a new Nickelodeon show about young teenagers who create a web show together. And next week I’m supposed to screen-test for a show called Californication, a new Showtime show about a man who mistreats women. By the time you get to the screen test for a TV show, they already have the contracts all written up, and apparently it’s good when you’re testing for more than one show at the same time, because your manager can use that as “leverage” to get you the best deal possible. (Mom loves saying the word “leverage” on calls with Susan. She says it makes her sound “in the know.”) There’s also this weird rule that whichever show tests you first gets first choice on whether to pick you or not. They get a designated amount of time to decide if they for sure want you, then if they haven’t decided by that point, the other network gets first choice.

I had my screen test for iCarly yesterday, so they have first choice as to whether they want me. Susan calling right now means Nickelodeon has made up their mind.

As excited as Mom is to talk to Susan, she finishes up with the bill collector first, like she always does.

“I’m not gonna drop the call after I’ve been waiting on hold for an hour.”

Mom weeps her way through an extension, but by the time she hangs up with Brandon at Sprint PCS, her tears are dry. While she dials Susan, she thrusts her hand back behind her and toward me. I’m sitting in my booster seat. (I’m fourteen and still in the booster.) I have to lunge forward as far as I can to grip her hand, and since the seat belt is pulled through the booster seat, the length of the belt is shortened so it locks sooner. The second I lean forward to grab Mom’s hand, the belt makes the clicking sound of it locking. I’m trying to reach her hand but I can’t. Click, click, click.

“Hi, can I speak with Susan? It’s Debbie McCurdy.”

Click, click. Mom’s hand wags around, trying to find mine. Our fingers almost graze. “Okay, yeah, I think I can figure out how to put it on speaker.”

Mom presses buttons aimlessly on her phone until something works, and Susan’s voice starts blaring from the phone speaker.

“She booked iCarly! She booked iCarly!”

Mom’s hand flies forward to accompany her woohoo in what can only be described as a questionable fist pump. Whatever it is, it takes her hand away from mine and my whole body feels that. But just for a second. Because then it hits me. I’ve booked my first series regular role.

Mom pulls into the Art Supply Warehouse parking lot while we both scream at the top of our lungs. She pulls into a reserved-for-handicapped space—she’s thrilled she has a handicapped card since her diverticulitis diagnosis. I unbuckle my seat belt as quickly as I can.