Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake (21 page)

“Do you see a friend?” mom asks, setting aside her bongos.

I don’t answer. I’m not here to talk about boys. Boys have caused me enough grief. Right now, it might be better to place the focus on mom. You know, make her feel bad in order to feel better about myself. “Why is your make-up so scary?” I inquire. “Seriously, looking like a clown for work is one thing. But we’re at the beach.”

“Honestly, I never got the hang of make-up,” she shrugs. From where I sit, I can see she’s telling the truth. The color of the foundation on her face is three shades lighter than her neckline. Her bright red lipstick seems more fitting under a circus tent.

“You could use a makeover,” I say.

“I know. I’ve been told that before but I’ve tried expensive make-up. It’s not me. Besides, Ronald prefers me to be colorful. He thinks colors bring out my personality.” Outlined in electric-blue eyeliner, her eyes sparkle when she mentions Ronald.

“Ronald?”

“My manager.”

“Oh.”

“He says I’m pretty in pink but beautiful in blue.”

Suddenly, I’m uncomfortable with the conversation. I not ready to hear mom talk about men. Therefore, I flip onto my belly to signal the need for a change of subject. Applying sunscreen to the tip of her nose, mom takes the cue and switches up things by informing me the real reason she prefers theatrical make-up. “Department store make-up makes me feel like a mom,” she says.

Absorbing her words, my world goes silent. Is being a mom a bad thing? If it is, why is she trying so freaking hard? Is she insecure about it? Does she blanket her insecurity with her wild and whimsical ways? Doesn’t every girl in life dream of getting pregnant? I do.

“You are a mom,” I whisper.

“You think so?” she says. Her lack of confidence stings like the sun at my back. I tell myself to be strong and refrain from coming to her aid. Let her question her ability to mother me. Let her think she failed. “You know, being a mother wasn’t my plan. But your father was so persistent. He thought being a parent would ground me. Somehow, he made me believe it, and it all just happened so fast. I was pregnant, married, and then we were buying a house. It was such a blur.”

“Wait. Hold up. You were pregnant with me before you got married?”

“I thought your father told you.”

“No. Dad said you planned to have kids right after you got married. And you tried to get pregnant for a year.”

“That’s not true,” mom says. “I don’t know why he would…” she trails. “He wanted a child, but I never felt I could handle one.”

“So you never wanted me?” Anger fills my heart and I sit up. “I was a mistake?”

“No. You were a blessing.”

“Then why did you leave?”

Mom grants me an answer, and the world becomes still. The men on the beach, the scattered clouds overhead, everything becomes motionless.

“Your father gave me no choice,” she states. “One morning, he packed my things and demanded that I go.”

Mom drops me home after our beach trip and I’m in oh-so-dramatic mode as I exit the car and run up the driveway with a face full of tears. This is the sick, sad consequence of learning the painful truth. This is my chance at the Oscar.

Meanwhile, mom is up for best supporting actress in a dramatic role. Playing the part of the dippy parent turned circus freak turned psychic, she wows the members of the Academy with her ability to say the wrong thing at just the wrong time. Then shifting the car and my life in reverse she misses the next scene.

He demanded that I go. This is what she confessed. However, she failed to state why. “Why?” I scream at the fading blue sky. Then entering the house, I slam the front door behind me, leaving the answer outside.

“That you?” dad calls. Drinking coffee with James in the kitchen, he stands, causing his chair to scrape along the tile floor. In uniform, he rushes into the living room.

“Why did you lie to me?” I cry.

“Where have you been?” Double faulting, he fails to acknowledge my statement or my tears. He’s too busy trying to be the head rooster. “School called. Said you missed class. You want to explain?”

“Not really!” I toss my book bag and sand falls off, powdering the wood floor. Dad takes notice.

“You skipped school for the beach?” He searches my eyes for a lie. “Talk to me, bud. I want to understand this.”

“No you don’t.”

Gathering patience, dad turns to James, still seated in the kitchen. Using hand gestures, James urges dad to settle. Gritting his teeth, dad tries. “I don’t have time for games, Tye.” Dad raises a finger. “Don’t push me or I’ll….”

“What? Kick me out like you kicked her out?”

Baffled, dad squints. “Huh? I didn’t kick Jenny out. She’s in your room. Her mother dropped her off ten minutes ago.” James approaches, verifying his statement.

“What?”

“Didn’t you get my message?”

“I haven’t checked my messages,” I say, as the wind leaves my body. I don’t know what’s happening. Losing balance, I feel like I’m undergoing a vertigo attack brought on by confusion. I fall in the direction of the leather couch. Reaching out, James catches me. I figured he would, my ace in the hole, my first crush.

“Hey, what’s got into you?” James asks. He clears books off the couch.

Sitting, I notice the books are about creative visualization, about finding your inner-self. Since when does dad own books?

“I can’t breathe,” I state, feeding off the attention. Dad spoils the moment though. Standing near the bay window he’s nothing but mean.

“Quit being a baby,” he says.

“Fine, I CAN breathe, but I don’t want to. I’m so lonely all the time. I want to die!” I can’t tell who reacts first, dad or James. Straight away, they both start yelling, ordering me to stop that kind of talk. Dad is the first to shed a tear though. Approaching, he kneels down before me.

“How can you say that?” he asks.

Burying my face into James’ chest, I’m shielded by his warmth. “Why did you make her leave?” I begin, before uncovering my face. “You lied to me. You said mom chose to leave. You told me it was her decision.”

“You think I kicked her out?” he says. “Did she tell you that?”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” He refuses to answer. “Isn’t it?”

No longer part of the conversation, dad stares through me. His body is motionless, his limbs appear dead, but a light flashes in his eyes. It’s like his brain is taking a mental picture of a moment he never wants to repeat or a moment he’ll be repeating the rest of his life.

“Tye, check on Jenny,” James says. He’s sparing me from seeing dad lose his mind. I understand. No boy should witness his father’s downfall. So I go. Along the way to my room, I wonder if dad will ever forgive himself for lying to me and if I’ll ever understand why he chose to lie. This is my truth: my birth was a mistake, and my life is a series of half-truths told commercial-free.

Why should I go on? I’ll never be loved. Dad, he’s reading books for mom about being reborn, books he would normally ridicule. This is the kind of love I want.

Love where sacrifices are made.

Love forever enough to earn interest.

Oh, forget it. I’m over love. It’s nothing but a weapon. Properly used, it protects us. Properly abused, it dissects us.

Take Jenny. Though emotionally sliced, she appears whole, propped up in bed by a pillow, as I enter the bedroom. Then quickly, the pleasantries are cut and the remnants of Jenny are carved into two pieces.

First and foremost, there’s blank Jenny: the Jenny who fails to say hi and looks next to me instead of at me when she tells me the breakdown has really helped her see things clearly. Water, that’s all she drinks. That and prune juice. The prune juice helps keep her regular, she tells me. “Houston, we had a problem down there,” she says. But now, she’s doing better. Well, kind of....

Then there’s crying Jenny. The Jenny who still talks about drinking water but sobs when she adds the piece of the puzzle not mentioned earlier, the fact the new medication makes her mouth so parched she can barely feel her tongue.

To be precise, Jenny is on three new medications. She used to rely on Ralph. “But Ralph was weak,” she says. “So now, Ralph has friends.” The problem is Ralph doesn’t always play nice. “But this happens when you introduce meds in your system. It’s a risk you take to be sane.”

Describing the side effects of the new medication, Jenny tells me her vision is blurry and she’s constipated. “That’s why I drink prune juice,” she says. “It’s messed up. I just can’t go. And when I do, it’s small like rabbit shit. It hurts, Bub. It feels like knives.”

This is Jenny, amplified. The old Jenny, the one-pill-per-day Jenny, would have never talked to me about bowel movements. It’s most unladylike.

Cuddling up beside Jenny, I admit to myself that my glamorous best friend is gone, and the thought saddens me. I note how her hair no longer glistens like sunshine, and how her skin no longer glows. A few pimples coat her forehead, and her hair, dark and oily, matches the dry skin beneath her eyes. “I know I look bad,” Jenny says.

“No, you look great.”

“The medicine makes me numb. And then I’ll be in a dark hole for hours.” Angered, she squeezes my hand. “I hate my mother, Tye. I know I’m not supposed to say that, but it’s true.”

“Shhhh,” I say, calming her.

“Tomorrow, she’s bringing my things.”

“That’s nice.” Stroking her arm, I keep her from escalating.

Later, as she takes a sip of bottled water, I realize she’s wearing one of my new tee shirts. Still, I don’t get mad. Well, I do inside. I mean, this is messed up. I’m already battling dad. Now I have to fight Jenny for clothes and closet space too? If she’s staying, where do I sleep? Am I supposed to put aside my problems and focus on what is wrong in Jenny’s life? Is that what a friend does? Share the sandbox? Stick around even if you feel as if you’re sinking too? Why is running away running into my mind? No, forget that. Real friends stick around. Real friends bruise with you, I think, as soon, very soon, Jenny voices enough rage for the both of us.

“She tells them I made it all up! That’s what she tells her PTA friends. How could she say that? I’m her daughter!” she yells. “You don’t think I lied. Do you, Bub?”

“Of course not.”

“I’m not crazy.” Beginning to tremble, she points to a bouquet of pink carnations in a vase on the dresser. “If Greg loved me, those would be red. Red means love. Pink means nothing.” Jenny shakes harder.

“No baby. Greg loves you.”

She shivers. “How do you know? Have you ever been loved?”

And here I go quiet. I have no choice.

After all, Jenny’s right.

How can I give advice on something I’ve never had?

Picture me acting like I’m happy to be alive. It’s the crack of morning, bluebirds are tweeting and I’m spread on the leather couch wearing a tight black tee and a snug pair of briefs. Right now, I should be heading to class but I’m not. Dad allowed me to stay home today, the day after Jenny arrived. So instead of attending the school of knowledge, I’m attending the school of style. The TV is my substitute teacher, promising me I can create the perfect outfit on 50 cents or less; the TV says yes, I can be shabby chic and still have friends.

The problem is I’m over the TV. Maybe I should have gone to school. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with crappy commercials and the awkwardness of dad pacing around the house, avoiding me like he’s got so much to do. I wouldn’t have to deal with Jenny’s every whim either. I figure she’s the main reason that dad wants me home. He’s not used to having girls in the house, especially girls on meds. So presently, he overwhelms himself with making certain she’s all right. Personally, I think he’s grateful she’s here. It takes the focus off me. Since yesterday, not once has he mentioned my meltdown over mom. Not once has he tried to explain his reason for lying. He’s too busy. Cleaning this and fixing that, less than an hour ago he finally took a break to dart off to the 24-hour market for prune juice. “For Jenny,” he says, arriving home. “The juice was on sale. Oh, and I also picked up
this
....”

This
is the reason dad and I may never ever speak again.
This
is a tiny, silver bell for Jenny to shake, rattle, and roll in the event of an emergency.

Three minutes after being handed the bell, Jenny hauls off and pulls a 911. Of course, I ignore her at first. Resting on the couch, I simply react like we’ve adopted a new pet cow and the rattling of the bell is merely the bovine way of alerting the family she’s just pissed milk. Still, the fantasy fades when the bell rings for the fourth time in three minutes.

Muting the TV, I yell for Jenny to cut the crap. This initiates the fifth ring. “Stop it, Jenny!” I holler.

Taking a call from mom in the kitchen, dad ceases from whispering to instruct me to be nice. As if he knows a thing about being nice. Sure, he may be whispering but I hear him cursing mom for telling me the truth about our past. “Go on. Get off your butt and see what Jenny wants,” he tells me. “I can’t do it all, bud.”

Dad’s right. He really can’t do it all but he sure can piss me off. And speaking of piss, I guess that’s why I have to be the one to check on Jenny. Earlier, dad said that she pees on the bed every time he nears the bedroom. Dad thinks she’s afraid of him, either that or she fears men in general. But dear God, if Jenny doesn’t pee on the bed when I enter the room, what does that make me?

“A boy! A boy!” Jenny screams. I open the bedroom door and find her bouncing on the bed. Pulling a white sheet to her chin, she points a trembling finger to the window. “He’s knocking,” she says. “He’s coming in. He’s coming.”

“Who?”

“Him!” she says, pointing to a shadowy figure beyond the window. The blinds are closed, and I can’t decide if the figure is a tree, a person, or a side effect of the medication. It can’t be the medication, I think. I can see the shadow too. Someone is really there. “He won’t go away!” Jenny screams. “I told him to leave but he keeps coming back.”

“Calm down,” I say, attempting to be patient. “And quit jumping on Puddy’s head.”

Jenny changes her stance, but continues bouncing, insisting someone is staring in the window. “I’m sorry. Just make him leave. Please.”

“Fine,” I say, hoping this is a hallucination.

I raise the blinds and a light stream of sunshine filters into the room. There is no man though, just an overgrown vegetable garden with tomatoes rotting on the ground – another sign of life that mom left behind to die. “See, it’s just your wild imagination,” I say. “Relax.”

“There!” Jenny says, pointing again.

When I turn, Billy appears. “Uh hey,” he says, wide-eyed. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

This isn’t happening. It can’t be....

Billy’s freshly showered, and I look like something a cat on its ninth life would puke up. But why should I care? Billy and I are just friends. At least, that’s what he says. He has a girlfriend now. Her name is Ashley. She asked him to the dance and they’re just perfect for each other.

“What are you doing here?” I mouth to him. Unable to read my lips, Billy conjures the most adorable smile before asking me to open the window. I comply. I don’t know why. “To set the record straight, I’m not always this easy,” I tell him.

“I never thought you were.”

“Yeah whatever, I’m still pissed at you.”

Guilty as charged, he laughs, putting on the silver sunglasses hanging from his shorts pocket. He’s smart to avoid my eyes. “I figured you’d be mad.”

“So why are you here?”

“I noticed you weren’t at school, and I thought....”

“That was your first mistake,” I say, interrupting him. “Boys should never think.”

“Enough with the digs,” he says. “I just wanted to tell you that Mr. Dolby is holding a sneak peek of the film tomorrow night. It’s a rough cut for school board members and family and friends of the cast.”

“Isn’t it a little early for that?”