I'm Glad My Mom Died(72)

I feel interrogated, like I can’t say the right thing. I speed up, trying to explain myself.

“Well, but I mean this was different from most parents.” Shit. I hated how that came out.

“How so?”

I pause to compose myself. Laura won’t rattle me. I speak in an even, measured tone.

“She sacrificed everything for me. She constantly went without so she could take care of me. She put me first, ahead of herself.”

“Hmm. And do you think that’s healthy?”

What kind of fresh hell is this? What is this impossible-to-ace quiz? I have no idea how I’m supposed to be answering to make Mom look good.

“Well, I mean, I put her first too, so that kind of balanced it out. We balanced each other… putting each other… first… out.”

Laura holds a look at me. An unreadable look. She says nothing. The silence is deafening.

“We were best friends,” I clarify.

“Oh? Did your mom have any friends her own age as well, or was her main friendship the one she had with you?”

What do you want from me, Laura?! I squirm in my seat.

“Are you comfortab—”

“I’m extremely comfortable.”

“Did your mom have any friends her own—”

“Yeah, no I heard the question,” I say in bitch-voice.

Laura looks slightly startled. I feel sorry. Her tone this entire time has been a gently curious one, even though I’ve been treating it like a personal attack. Maybe she doesn’t mean anything by her questions. Maybe this is all harmless.

“Sorry.”

“It’s absolutely fine.”

Couldn’t it have just been fine, Laura? Did it have to be “absolutely” fine? Why is she bugging me like this, I wonder. I smile at her, tenser than I’d like. She smiles back, softer than I’d like.

“So…” she starts.

“She had acquaintances, yes. She always said she didn’t really have time for friends.” Before Laura can sidle in with another question, I get ahead of it. “Which makes sense to me because she was really busy taking me to auditions and to set and everything.”

“Ah, yes.” Laura nods a wistful nod. “So when did you first want to start acting?”

I know a trick question when I hear one.

“Actually, Mom wanted me to start acting because she wanted me to have a better life than she had.”

“Oh, so you didn’t want to start acting? Your mom wanted you to start?”

“Yes,” I say with a little more heat on it than I would’ve liked. “Because she wanted me to have a better life than she had. It was very kind and generous of her.”

“Okay.”

“It was.”

“I understand.”

Beat.

“Can you tell me the first time you were aware of your weight or your body in a…” Laura pauses to find the right words. “… significant way?”

This one I don’t want to answer but I feel like if I wiggle around it Laura will just come right back for the jugular with her follow up. I tread with caution.

“Well… when I was eleven I was concerned about getting boobs, so Mom taught me about calorie restriction to help me out.”

“To help you out?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean, to help you out?”

“Well, I was concerned about getting boobs.”

“Right. But how does your mom teaching you about calorie restriction help you out?”

“Because watching my calories meant I could delay adulthood.”

Laura holds another of her trademark unreadable stares at me. Even though I can’t gauge the specifics, I can tell there’s a lot of speculation going on. I feel the need to add more.

“Plus for acting. I always played characters younger than me, so if I wanted to keep booking, looking younger was important. By teaching me calorie restriction, she was helping to ensure my success.”

I give a little nod to punctuate my statement. I’m hoping that moved the dial on Laura’s judgment, but after a few seconds I can tell it didn’t.

“Jennette, what you’re describing is… really unhealthy. Your mother essentially condoned your anorexia, encouraged it. She… taught it to you. That’s abuse.”

My mind flashes back to the first time I heard the word “anorexia,” when I was sitting on the paper-covered table in room 5 at Dr. Tran’s office. Suddenly I feel just like that little eleven-year-old girl who was confused and scared and uncertain. That eleven-year-old girl who was doubtful that I knew the whole truth of my situation, who was unsure that my mother was the hero she pretended to be, but who shoved that doubt down.

I feel tears welling in my eyes. I’m embarrassed. I’m well-trained in crying and not crying on cue, so I resort to my usual tricks—gritting my teeth to distract from the tears and blinking a few times rapidly to try to churn them away.

“It’s okay to let it out.” Laura leans forward.

SHUT THE FUCK UP, LAURA. I can’t take this anymore. I get one day of not throwing up under my belt and now we’re trying to dethrone my mother and demolish the narrative of her that I’ve clung to my entire life?

“I have to go,” I say quickly as I stand up and start to leave.