I'm Glad My Mom Died(41)
I didn’t see him much during tour because he wasn’t on the road with us the entire time, but he was flown out for a few of the shows, the ones not in malls but rather on bigger festival stages when we did full-band sets instead of acoustic ones. In between seeing him, we’d text every day and have phone calls whenever I got some privacy, which is hard to come by on a tour bus. He’d say things like “I miss you so much” and “I really really really like you,” both of which made me uncomfortable but I didn’t know why. On one hand, I liked that he was saying these things to me. On the other hand, I felt physically unable to say them back, like I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth.
I’d get excited to talk to him but then the excitement waned whenever we’d actually talk. He’d talk about music and reference all these different songs that I didn’t know, which was fine, if there were other things we talked about too. But there really weren’t. It was either music or he’d be showering me with generic compliments like “the sun rises and sets in your eyes” or “you’re my favorite person I’ve ever met.”
The few times that he joined us for festival dates were okay but a bit awkward since the rest of the band was around too. There was no space for private conversations, and yet I was all right with that. When Lucas tried to pull me aside to have one, I’d come up with excuses for why I couldn’t. I was tired, needed to prepare for press, practice my songs, respond to emails from my managers or Mom or Miranda. I’ve been so unsure about him for the past month.
But now the tour’s over and I’m back in Nashville for a week to record some new songs. And I’m staying at the Hampton Inn, room 223. And I’m sitting on the couch in 223, processing the fact that I just had my first kiss with him. And as much as I’m relieved to have my first kiss over with, I’m even more relieved to know that now I am sure about him. I’m sure I need to end this, whatever this is.
I pull out my phone to text him, but just as I’m about to, there’s an odd pulse in my vagina. It feels warm. I reach my hand into my pants and pull it out. My fingers are wet. This is gross. I need to shower. I’ll text him after.
40.
I’M WALKING OFF THE PLANE and tugging my shirt down so it lies flat. I’m sucking in and trying to look as thin as possible. “Maybe Mom won’t notice. Maybe if I tug my shirt again she won’t notice; maybe if I hold my breath for ten seconds she won’t notice,” says my OCD voice, formerly known as my Still Small Voice, but which I’ve since accepted as the pounding voice of mental illness. It’s more sporadic than it used to be, and almost exclusively related to food and my body, but it’s still here.
I take a deep breath and step on the escalator heading toward baggage claim. A young dad with a nervous laugh asks for a picture for his daughters.
“Sure, as soon as we get off the—” He starts arranging the girls in front of me before I can finish my sentence. He snaps a picture just as he nearly trips off the escalator. He nervous laughs again.
As I step off the escalator, I look out to the lineup of people waiting and there I see her. The sight of her shocks me, and for a moment I’m more focused on her appearance than I am on mine.
She’s lost a dozen or so pounds, which is hugely noticeable on someone with as small a frame as she has. Her face is gaunt and sickly. Her bones protrude from under her skin. She doesn’t have any eyebrows or eyelashes. She’s wearing the turquoise Ugg hat I got her for Christmas to cover up her bald head. I’m shocked at the sight of her. I don’t know what to say.
Dad is standing next to her but he might as well not be. I can’t focus on anything but her. I can’t believe she didn’t warn me of this in any of our five daily calls.
By the time we exchange hugs and “I love yous,” I’ve settled slightly. I’ve adjusted just enough to be able to take in Mom’s reaction, which is the same reaction as mine toward her: a combination of shock and horror with a vacant smile on top.
I feel sick to my stomach while I wait for her to tell me how ugly I am. How fat I’ve gotten. How I’ve made horrible mistakes. How I’m incapable of handling life on my own. Of keeping myself in order. I brace myself while we pile into the car (a Kia Sorento replaced our old Ford Windstar).
“Net, what happened?” She doesn’t face me when she asks it. She stays looking out the window at the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the 5. “You’re getting chunky.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“We’ve gotta get you on a diet. This is getting out of hand.”
“I know.”
I’m full of remorse, for sure. But there’s also a piece of me that picks up a little bit of enthusiasm, a little bit of a lift in spirit, because this is the mom I know. She’s not weak, or frail, or soft, or beaten down by cancer like whoever the person was that I saw as soon as I got to baggage claim. Whoever that wilted excuse of a person was, I refuse to believe that person is my mother. The mom I know is the person sitting in front of me, the person who is strong-willed and forceful and sometimes vicious. This is the mom I know.
41.
“COME ON, TAKE A SIP.”
“No thanks.”
“Come on.”
“I’ve never had alcohol before. And I’m only eighteen. Couldn’t I get in trouble?”