Girlish

walking in her terrible jeans—she only owns terrible jeans—that are too tight in the belly and rolled up at the hem because they are always a foot too long for her five-foot-two frame. She doesn’t believe in the value of nice things, so her clothing is always bought on extreme discount and looks it—some things are put on sale for a reason. I picture the stubble at the back of her neck that sticks out horizontally, because she always gets the same haircut, one where they shave her neck, but she never keeps up on it between appointments. At seventy her hair is still more brown than gray. I think of her walking in dead autumn leaves, listening to me talk—she always has time to listen to me. I know her words have saved me. She has always felt that no one I have dated was ever good enough for me. She has pulled me out of the fire time after time, and she would do so again, if I needed it. She will always tell me I am better than I think I am. She will always tell me how proud she is of me, how much she loves me, how much she loves my children. She will always make time to listen to me talk about anything and everything. She will always encourage me to be weird and different and not just like everyone else. And she will always be the one person whose hugs make me curve my shoulders forward, my sternum sinking back, tension held in my arms, gut, and thighs.

As a child, I never felt like my stepmother loved me. Oh, she said the love word often enough, and hugged and kissed me—only on the cheek, never the lips like Mom did. She went to my school concerts and stayed home from work on occasion when I was home sick and Mom couldn’t take time off. She was very invested in my brother and me. But I never felt it. There was a wall she kept between us. Now, I am the one who creates distance when she reaches toward me.

What do you do when the person who has saved you is also the person who makes you the craziest? How do I explain that great love and loyalty are at her core, yet our day-to-day interactions are constantly fraught with animosity? My children love unconditionally, and she loves them back the same way. Isn’t that enough—that she can give them what she could not give me? I avoid seeing her in person, so that I can try to write her with mercy. She is easier to love from a distance.

Pat texted me today:

“My love please go to utube and listen to susan boyle sing wild horses I dedicate the song to you no matter what you have written about me in your book. Love to you my dear and only daughter, your pat.”

the last fight

Girl and her boyfriend moved into a new house. The house Stepmother had bought was put up for sale. Girl paid off the five-thousand-dollar loan she had owed Stepmother for a decade. For the first time in a very long time, she was no longer beholden to her parents. They came to visit one weekend and stayed in Girl’s new house.

“I’m making egg sandwiches for breakfast, do you want any?” Girl asked.

“Yes, but I don’t want a sandwich,” Stepmother said. “I want two eggs, over easy. And I want an English muffin.” Girl turned on the stove, but Stepmother wasn’t done with her instructions.

“On the plate, here’s how I want it to look: I want one half of a muffin, then an egg, then the second half of the muffin, then the other egg—all laid out on the plate.”

Unreal. Cooking for four adults and two children was enough to manage, now Girl had to arrange it to Stepmother’s satisfaction? Ever since Stepmother had left Mother, everything about her infuriated Girl. She was still waiting for an apology, an act of contrition.

“How about I’ll cook and you plate it however you want. This isn’t a restaurant.”

“I guess I didn’t raise you to be a proper host,” Stepmother said.

It was stupid, but Girl was fuming. Stepmother couldn’t be bothered to pick up after herself—not even throwing out her own apple core—and she was never satisfied with just eating what she was offered. Every meal had to be slightly different. If Girl planned to serve turkey, Stepmother only wanted ham. She took up all the space in the house, napping on the sofa, so no one else could watch TV or visit in the living room. There was a bed upstairs, not that she’d use it.

Mother was happy to be subservient to Stepmother, but Girl had this crazy idea that everyone should be treated politely, even grown-up daughters. Still, she said nothing. Arguing with Stepmother wasn’t something she was capable of—she shook so hard with rage that she lost her words. Besides, Girl’s children loved Stepmother. Stepmother always came to visit with crafts and games and taught them magic tricks. Girl swallowed bitter bile and did the dishes, glad for a reason not to have to talk to anyone. After the children went to bed, Girl and Mother drank wine, ignoring Stepmother’s comments about drunks. Girl encouraged Mother to drink more.

The next time her parents came to town, Girl asked them to stay in a hotel. Perhaps, if she had downtime at the end of each evening, she could resist throttling Stepmother.

“I never thought there would come a time that I wasn’t welcome in my own daughter’s house,” Mother replied.

“It’s not you, it’s Stepmother. She’s a horrible guest,” Girl said. She knew she wasn’t the first person to say so. Heck, one of Mother’s close friends was supposed to stay with them after surgery, but left after only one night. No one would explain what happened, other than “Stepmother was tired, and she said some things she shouldn’t have.” Girl