Notes from a Former Virgin Page 4

  I opened the door and there was my mother, standing at the top of the stoop.

  “Mom,” I said stupidly. It had been over a year since I’d seen her, and she looked older. Skinnier in the face, maybe a little wrinklier. She was wearing black jeans and a peasant blouse with a square-cut neck. Also open-toed wedges, which was unlike her. How many times has she lectured me on the spectrum of patriarchal physical oppression running from high heels to foot binding?

  Anyone halfway normal would look nervous, showing up out of the blue like that after ditching her family. But Mom stood there beaming at me, already opening her arms for a hug, like she’d forgotten that I hate her now. “Sweetheart,” she said.

  To get out of hugging her, I said, “Do you want to come in?” and stepped aside.

  “If it’s a good time,” she said, and didn’t wait for an answer before striding in and heading to the kitchen.

  I followed her, watching her familiar walk. I thought of that vampire movie. They can’t come in uninvited. You have to want to ruin your life. I could have slammed the door in her face. Instead I’d ushered her inside. My heart jumped around as we got closer to the kitchen. Should I call out and warn my dad and Miss Murphy?

  My mouth felt frozen, and I couldn’t speak, but it didn’t matter: when we walked in, it was obvious they’d already heard her voice and knew she was coming. They were standing shoulder to shoulder behind the island, like it was a barricade they were prepared to defend. Dad was white around the lips.

  “Veronica,” he said, and that was all.

  “Hello, Charlie,” she said. “I’m sorry to spring myself on you like this, but I couldn’t wait to see this little dumpling.” She turned to me and cupped my cheek tenderly. I wanted to slap her hand away, but I only leaned slowly out of her reach.

  Dad took a breath. I thought he might be gearing up to tell her she was out of line, surprising us like this. Before he could speak, Mom looked at Miss Murphy and said, “This must be your adorable girlfriend.” She said “girlfriend” the way you’d say “half-witted teacup terrier puppy.”

  “Hello,” said Miss Murphy. Her voice was low and even. One word and you could tell she wasn’t someone to mess with.

  “Well,” Mom said. “It’s surreal to be here.” She laughed. No one else did. She looked down at her own exposed toes with admiration. They were painted bright orange. “I forgot how chilly it can be in New England, even at this time of year.”

  “Are you back for a visit?” I said.

  “I’m back for the foreseeable future,” she said, smiling at me. “I couldn’t bear to be apart from you any longer.”

  My entire body started sweating. I looked at Dad in a panic. He caught my eye and said, “Veronica, there are custody concerns to address. You can’t—”

  “I’m not going to kidnap anyone, Charlie,” she said, rolling her eyes at me like it was the old days and I was still a member of her two-person anti-Dad club.

  “I thought you were living in Mexico City,” I said. I couldn’t make myself understand what she was saying. She’d moved back? To our town? The one where I lived?

  “That was true for a time,” she said.

  “You said Dad and I would never find you,” I said.

  She looked at me with an oh, come on expression, like I was being a melodramatic teenager. “I would never say that, Chloe.”

  I wanted to pull out my phone and show her the email evidence, but if I’d done it, she would have said she’d clearly been joking around and I needed to lighten up.

  “What’s your plan?” my dad asked her.

  She opened her arms wide. “To seek my own truth and follow my muse wherever it leads me.”

  I snuck a glance at Miss Murphy. Her face was expressionless, except for maybe a flicker around the eyebrows. What must she think of me and Dad? He’d married this person on purpose. I shared half my DNA with her. It was humiliating.

  “Where are you staying?” I asked, trying to bring her out of fake-artist cotton-candy-sparkle land and into the physical world.

  “For now, a dreary little Airbnb, but I have a lead on a condo unit for rent not far away.”

  She was here. She’d found a condo. She wanted to be my mother again.

  Dad took a look at me and said, “Well, Veronica, we should really get started on dinner, so . . .”

  She inhaled theatrically. “It smells delicious. Your cranberry chicken, am I right?”

  She looked at us expectantly. She really thought Dad was going to invite her to stay.

  Finally he said, “Let me walk you out.”

  Mom came at me, trying for a hug again. I didn’t see a way to escape, so I got it over with as fast as I could.

  While my parents were outside, I set the table and Miss Murphy poured the drinks.

  “You OK?” she said after a few minutes.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I don’t know what Dad told her about Mom, but she must have been surprised to see the full extent of her. Well, not the full extent. She hasn’t seen Mom lose her temper yet. She probably never will. Mom keeps it together around acquaintances and friends (which proves she is capable of keeping it together when she chooses to). She only pops off with blood relatives and with her husband. And with strangers who have disrespected her or done something she considers unforgivable, like driving too fast on a residential street.

  When Dad came back inside, Miss Murphy offered to leave. “I’m sure you and Chloe want to talk,” she said. She was right. I wanted to ask Dad about what would happen next. But Dad insisted that she stay. We did discuss Mom while we ate, of course, but we were all being polite. I said things like “I wonder why she came back,” instead of “I hate her.” I wanted to pretend to Miss Murphy that everything was OK and that the woman who gave birth to me isn’t a malignant narcissist.

  Wednesday, September 20

  What’s Mom going to do for work? Did Javi move back with her? How much does she expect me to see her—once a week? Once a month? Do I have to see her at all? Is she going to show up at my school events? Is she plotting to get back together with Dad?

  Of course she comes back now, right at the moment when everything was going so well, I felt like I was walking on a rainbow. I woke up this morning and thought Grady! as usual, and then I thought, But Mom. She’s here, a few miles away, and it ruins everything.

  Thursday, September 21

  Miss Murphy slept at her own house tonight. She said her mother needed company, but I bet she wanted to give me and Dad time alone. I asked him all my questions about Mom, but he couldn’t answer them. I knew he wouldn’t be able to. It still helped to talk about it.

  She’s been calling me once a day. I decline the calls instantly and hope she thinks my phone is turned off. She calls Dad, too, which I know because I’ve overheard him talking in a low, strained voice. Once he said, “Just try that and see what happens,” which was thrilling (he was threatening her!) but scary (he was threatening her). He doesn’t exactly hide his feelings about Mom from me—he lets me see him grimace; he doesn’t contradict me when I say she’s awful—but he never outright complains about her. Sometimes I wish he would. We’re on the same side, but not openly.

  Friday, September 22

  Having sex with Grady is the only thing that helps. It’s like a miracle cleaner that wipes all the grease and dirt and dead bugs out of your mind. And we’re so lucky. We love each other (although we still haven’t said it, which I’m trying not to stress about). Miss Murphy doesn’t come home early. The condoms don’t break. I’ve stopped worrying. Nothing bad’s going to happen. I mean, bad things are going to happen all the time, but not with me and Grady and sex.

  Saturday, September 23

  Mom left a voicemail for the first time. “Chloe, hi! I have some good news: I got the condo! I’m moving in tomorrow, and I’d love for you to see it. Maybe sometime next week? It’s a two-bedroom unit. I’ve ordered a bed from IKEA for you, in case
you ever feel like sleeping over. A double bed, I might add! Let’s see if I manage to get it assembled. Anyway, call me when you can.”

  “In case you ever feel like sleeping over”—at least I know she doesn’t expect me to spend half my time with her. But now I have to call her back, or not call her back and feel guilty. I have to think about her, and I don’t want to.

  Sunday, September 24

  Grady and I rode our bikes to the football field. It was warm out, almost 80 degrees. We sat on the bleachers looking down at the empty grass. I told Grady about my mom and the invitation.

  “Oh, man,” he said. “Are you gonna go?”

  “I haven’t decided,” I said. “But what’s the other option—refuse to see her for the rest of time?”

  He shrugged. “You could.”

  “I’d feel so guilty. Even though I hate her.”

  He looked up at a plane sailing through the blue sky. “We’re like robots,” he said. “Everyone, I mean, not just kids. It’s like we’re programmed to be loyal to our parents forever, even when they abandon us or whatever.”

  I wanted to tell him he shouldn’t worry about his father, or even think about him. Anyone who could abandon Grady doesn’t deserve a second of thought, much less a lifetime of loyalty.

  “Grady,” I said.

  He turned to look at me. “Yeah?”

  My face was so close to his, I could see where one of his dark eyelashes had gotten misaligned. “Close your eyes,” I said, and smoothed the lash back into place. “OK, open them,” I said. He did. There he was again: attentive, smart, wry, looking right at me. Oh, I love him. I love him. I can’t wait to tell him. But I don’t want to do it now, when my stupid mother is looming over me like a storm cloud.

  Monday, September 25

  Tris thinks I should block my mom on my phone and on social media and in life. Hannah thinks I should try to forgive her. I think they’re both right.

  Tuesday, September 26

  I texted Mom to tell her I’ll stop by after school on Thursday. Whatever—I’ll stay for 20 minutes, I’ll get out of there, and then I won’t have to feel like a terrible daughter. This approach is easier on me. Also, I’m kind of curious to see what her new place looks like.

  Wednesday, September 27

  Kept Noelle company in the clearing while she smoked a cigarette after lunch. I asked her for advice on dealing with my mother.

  “If you’re upset, don’t let her see it,” she said. “Pretend you’re a statue.”

  “Is that what you do with your dad?”

  She picked a dot of tobacco off her tongue and flicked it onto the dirt. “I try.”

  We were alone in the clearing aside from two goth kids with their heads together, watching a video on one of their phones. I wondered if their parents are nice.

  “Here’s a tip,” Noelle said. “If you need to stop yourself from crying, pick a spot on your palm and pinch the skin as hard as you can between your nails.”

  “What’s wrong with crying, though?” I said.

  She raised an eyebrow at me. “It’s undignified, dude,” she said.

  I guess it is.

  It’s hard to explain to my friends what my mother is like and what my parents’ relationship is like. And I can’t really understand Noelle’s dad or Grady’s stepfather. Every divorce is unique, like a snowflake. A snowflake made of poop.

  Thursday, September 28

  I never should have gone. I don’t want to feel sorry for Mom. I want to keep hating her.

  Her new place is in the same complex where Mac’s mother lives, which makes sense, since divorced people flock there. Mac! I used to love that guy so freaking much, and now I bike past his mom’s place and think, Hey, I wonder how Mac’s doing. I should text him sometime. It doesn’t even rise to the level of nostalgia—it’s not that strong of a feeling. I never would have believed my obsession with him would fade. I thought it was tattooed on my heart.

  “You’re HERE!” Mom said when she opened the door. She was wearing billowy pants with metallic stripes, a gauzy top, and a teal scarf wound around her neck in a complicated way. Also tons of clattery silver bangles. Her posture has really improved since she left, I guess from all that yoga. Also, her arms have gotten muscular. She looks like my mother, but not.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Come in, come in! Let me give you the tour!”

  She’s on the second floor. On the side, she has a view of trees and grass, but the front of the condo looks out on the parking lot. It’s all on one level: kitchen (brown cabinets, plasticky countertops), living room (dark), master bedroom (empty aside from Mom’s bed), hall bathroom (small, pink). The ceilings are low and the wall-to-wall carpet is the color of Band-Aids. The worst part is the guest bedroom. Mom opened the door with a flourish, and I saw that she’d managed to assemble the IKEA bed. It was all set up with sheets and a pillow and a bedspread and everything.

  “I found a tutorial on YouTube,” she said proudly. I couldn’t believe it. The mother I knew couldn’t even change a battery. She’d bring her electric toothbrush to Dad like she’d just crawled out of the woods and didn’t know + from -.

  “Wow,” I said. “I’m impressed.”

  Her place is fine. It’s luxurious compared to the way plenty of people live. I know that. But it’s not our creaky, comfortable old house with the well-proportioned rooms and the afternoon sun. She can never come back home, which is her own fault, but still, how can she stand to live there when she used to live here? If she’d complained about how dumpy the condo was, it would have been easier. But she was trying so hard to be enthusiastic, showing me the decent counter space in the kitchen and the en suite bathroom in her room, pointing out the spot where she planned to write. My throat got sore with pity for her.

  She made green tea, and we sat at her kitchen table and talked.

  “I guess Javi didn’t come with you,” I said.

  “He didn’t,” she said. “We parted ways.”

  “What happened?”

  She put both hands around her mug. “There was another woman involved. A younger woman, I might add.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  She shook her head fast and smiled at me. “Que será, será. And it’s all for the best: now I’m reunited with my darling one.”

  Jesus! It was like she’d dropped a pillow over my face. I felt smothered with love and pressure. I drank my tea as fast as I could.

  “See you soon?” she called from the doorway.

  “Bye!” I yelled back, and then ran to my bike like it was a lifeboat.

  Friday, September 29

  If she wants to move back here and sit in a tiny apartment by herself, that’s her business. I didn’t force her to do anything. I don’t even want her here. She doesn’t want to be here either! I’m sure if she could, she’d choose to be back in Mexico, living with her hot boyfriend. She’s only here because she got dumped. It has nothing to do with me.

  Saturday, September 30

  It’s ridiculous to worry about her like this. We’re talking about the person who told me she was leaving for four months and then stayed away for two years, working on her tan and sending me nastygrams about how selfish I am. I’m allowed to hate her! I want to hate her.

  Sunday, October 1

  Miss Murphy slept over last night. I woke up early and was heading to the bathroom when I heard my name. Dad and Miss Murphy were talking in his bedroom. I froze in place to listen.

  “Not to me,” Dad said. “Has she to you?”

  “No,” Miss Murphy said. “But I haven’t asked. I don’t want to pry.”

  I could hear them bustling around in there, probably straightening up. They’re both tidy, in contrast to Mom, who leaves a trail of receipts, Luna Bar wrappers, and empty coffee cups wherever she goes.

  “Do you think I should intervene?” Dad said.

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know. Set a maximum number of visits per month. Insist on
going over there with her. Remind her that her mother’s batshit.” I heard him sigh and thump down onto the bed.

  “I doubt she needs reminding,” Miss Murphy said.

  Dad must have looked some way—sad, skeptical?—because she added, “Chloe’s a smart kid. She can handle herself.”

  I walked to the bathroom, shut the door carefully, and sat on the closed lid of the toilet.

  They treat me like a toddler. To my face they pretend everything’s fine. Behind my back they tell each other the truth. And they know I know the truth! So why can’t we discuss it honestly, like adults?

  I doubt she needs reminding. So mean. So scornful. Laughing with my father about my mother.

  She’s right, that’s the thing. Of course I don’t need reminding that my mom’s a mess. It’s all I can think about as it is. But I don’t want Miss Murphy to be right; I want her to be nice.

  Monday, October 2

  At lunch with Grady and Tris and Elliott, I threw myself into gossiping with the passion of a French courtier. I proposed conspiracy theories (what if Harper and Lianna are collaborating to take down Reese?) and dredged up ancient rumors dating back to freshman year (is it possible that Mrs. deWitt and Coach Patel are having an affair?). Elliott looked like he’d rather be reading. Tris and Grady are great gossips, but after a while even they seemed overwhelmed. It worked, though: I distracted myself for 23 minutes.