Page 93 of The Summer Show
“Susan? I like it. Makes me feel younger.”
“But you’re not younger,” I said. “You’re getting older every day. Sixty is right around the corner, and there are limits to how long all that goop in your face will keep lying for you. And I’m getting older, too. I’m not a little girl you can bully anymore. You can’t burn my books. You can’t tell me you won’t love me if I don’t lie to Dad for you. You have no say in my life whatsoever. As of this moment onwards, you are dead to me. I have no mother. Nod if you understand.”
At first she said nothing. Then:
“You’ve changed.”
“God, I hope so! For a really long time I just wanted you to love me. That’s the only reason I ever answered your calls after Dad saved us from you. I stupidly believed that one day you’d wake up from whatever narcissistic cult bullshit you were involved in this week and realize you have two daughters who still needed a mom. But you’re never going to grow a heart, or a soul, and I know that now. All you’ll ever be is someone whose whole personality depends on whatever cultish nonsense appeals to you in the moment. You’ll never be a whole and happy person, and now that I think about it, I love that for you. You’ve earned your misery.”
My mother’s expression hardened. She wandered to the window and stared out at the view of the sea. “One taste of fame and suddenly you’ve got an ego.”
“No, I got some self respect.”
“I don’t see why,” she said. “I wouldn’t respect myself I were you.”
“And that’s why you’re no longer my mother, Susan. Get out. If you try to contact me again or meddle in my life in any way, there will be consequences.”
“A restraining order, I suppose.”
“Worse. I’ll use my ginormous social media following to blast you. One of us has over a million followers now, and it’s not you.”
In truth, I wouldn’t have those followers for long, and I was at peace with that. I had never courted them in the first place. They were there for the show, and once the season had aired, followers would drop off like flies.
Beneath her thick contouring, the color leaked out of Susan’s skin. Finally I was speaking her language. Law enforcement requiring her to keep her distance was nothing compared to being tried by a jury of her TwitFace peers.
“The best thing your father ever did was take you,” she said, and on that cruel, final note she swept out of the room.
But you know what? I didn’t care. She was right. The best thing Dad did was bundle up Brit and me and flee our family home. He gave us a childhood, followed by a functional future. We thrived because of him. Everything about us that was good came from ourselves and the people who loved us and cared for us after our mother was out of the picture.
And now I would never again have to sit through another self aggrandizing phone call that left me feeling small and unimportant.
Angels sang a chorus in my head.
The chorus of Queen’s I Want to Break Free, if you must know. Not perfectly apt, but good enough because of the word free.
I suppose Free Bird would have worked, too, but who wants to spend that long with a song?
* * *
Between the steroids and albuterol, by sundown I felt great. The hospital refused to discharge me until the next day, but they said I could take walks in the corridor with my IV stand if I wanted to move around.
In this hospital gown? With Nick here?
Never.
Instead of wandering the halls, I chose to play with my bed. Very addictive, a fully manipulative hospital bed.
“Want to see a cool, new trick?”
Nick laughed. “Is it cooler than raising just the middle, turning you into a Greek L?”
“Way cooler. Watch.” I pressed the buttons. My legs and feet slowly rose into the air, leaving my torso and head flat on the bed. “Weeee!”
“You’re easily entertained,” he said, his voice full of wonder.
I patted the bed. “Hop on.”
Without quibbling, he kicked off his shoes and climbed aboard. I offered him the remote.