She had a way of beating me down until I didn’t want to get back up.
I pinned a smile to my face, trying to resurrect the perky girl I had once been. “I know, Mom. I’m trying though,” I said, my voice unnaturally high.
“Sometimes trying isn’t enough,” Mom intoned critically.
I was more than happy when I had stayed long enough that I could politely make my excuses to leave.
My weekly visits to the Cook house were akin to torture. I knew they were necessary but god, how I hated them.
“I told Vivian I’d go to the grocery store with her, so I’d better get going,” I lied, wishing I could run for the door.
My mom dug her wallet out of her purse and pulled some money out, handing it to me. “I’m sure you need this. I doubt you make enough at that magazine to live on, let alone go grocery shopping,” she said.
Not a question, just a statement. I didn’t want to take the money. I hated how she always assumed I couldn’t take care of myself. That I wasn’t even capable of paying for my own groceries. My part time job paid me more than enough to cover my rent and utilities and yes, even have some left over for food and other essentials. But I didn’t bother explaining any of that to my mother. Again.
So I took the money, with no intention of using it, and tucked it into my pocket. “Thanks, Mom,” I said, my smile fake and brittle.
“I really think it’s best if you move back here. Let’s plan for the end of the month, okay,” she said as I was leaving. She held the kitchen door open for me, letting in a blast of cold, January air. It looked like snow, which sucked majorly given the fact that my tires were on the bald side.
I hoped my mother wouldn’t notice as she followed me out to the driveway. I half expected her to inspect the car before I left. It wouldn’t have been unusual.
“Mom, I’m not moving home,” I replied, feeling like I was banging my head into a brick wall.
She waved away my words, pretending I hadn’t said them. “I’ll take you to lunch on Friday. I have a hair appointment. We can meet at the café on 7th.”
I wasn’t sure I could stomach more than one meal a week with my mom. “Fridays are usually my day for interviews,” I excused.
“I’m sure you can rearrange whatever you have planned. It’s not as though you run the magazine or anything,” she dismissed, cutting me down so easily.
I jangled my keys in my hand and started to get twitchy with my need to flee. “No, it’s not like I run the magazine,” I agreed through clenched teeth.
“Okay, well I’ll see you then. Kisses,” she chirped, her smile as fake as mine. She gripped me by the shoulders and air kissed my cheeks.
Finally, I was allowed to escape and I couldn’t get away fast enough.
“Hey, you’re looking decidedly manic today,” Vivian commented after I arrived back home twenty minutes later.
My roommate and friend was on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table with some sort of reality show on in the background and her phone glued between her hands. Her fingers never stopped texting as she looked at me. Her ability to multitask was impressive.
I slammed the door behind me, kicked off my boots and hung up my coat. I joined her on the couch, tucking my ice cold feet under the blanket Viv had draped over her lap.
“Visit with Mommy Dearest,” I explained, grimacing.
Vivian winced. “Ah, okay then.” Her eyes returned to the screen of her phone.
“Cole?” I asked. I really didn’t need to pose it as a question, because Vivian spent at least three hours a day either talking or texting with her boyfriend, Cole Brandt, former male whore, now reformed one woman man, and lead singer of the rock band, Generation Rejects.