And then my mom joined a reality show.
Even though the drama is slightly manufactured—I mean, obviously there’s going to be drama when you force a group of people to spend extended amounts of time together—it’s still their real lives. And my mom was my best friend, so of course there were times when I filmed with her. I just didn’t realize that by doing so, I was taking my career that hadn’t even started and flushing it down the toilet.
The directors I had started fostering relationships with canceled auditions. I was told I wasn’t needed for callbacks I’d already booked. Everything I’d been working for vanished. How could anyone take me seriously when the only place they knew me from was the episode of Hollywood Housewives where Jacinda Thomas pulls off Veronica Watson’s wig and throws it out the window?
But I guess without that, I wouldn’t have my social media platform. Maybe I would’ve failed miserably at acting and this was the universe’s way of guiding me elsewhere. I guess if there’s one bright spot to what I’m sure will unravel into a mess of unknown proportions, it’s that I could really use some extra income. And considering Hollywood Housewives is what got me into this mess to begin with, it feels pretty full circle.
“I know you’re trying.” I squeeze her hand, hoping she won’t notice how flat my voice is or catch the uninterested expression I know is written across my face.
“Good. So.” She pulls her hand away from me and picks up her fork, pushing around the salad on her plate without actually taking a bite. Her Emmy-winning smile is back on her face, the one that’s for the onlookers, not her daughter, as I see the paparazzi flashes through her sunglass lenses. “What do you have planned for the rest of the day?”
“Lauren was going to get Addy, we’ll probably just make some dinner and watch whatever Disney movie Addy is infatuated with this week.” Just the mention of them eases some of the tension in my shoulders. It’s almost impossible to stay upset around that little girl. Lauren was so worried I would hate living with them, but they’re the only thing I know I can depend on anymore.
“That’s nice.” She lifts her fork for the first time since her food arrived and takes a bite of the dry lettuce. “Tell Lauren I said hi. You guys should bring Addy over to swim one day.”
“That would be fun, I’ll tell them.”
That’s a lie.
As much as I’m sure Addy would love to take her mermaid moves from the bathtub to my mom’s pool, it’s not an invitation I want to extend. I haven’t told Lauren about any of the things happening with my mom. And, unlike my mom, Lauren is super sensitive to the people around her. One afternoon in my childhood home and she’d be relentless about figuring out what’s going on between us.
I’m honestly not sure why I haven’t told her. I don’t know if I’m protecting her, me, or my mom. Maybe it’s all three? Lauren has enough on her plate to worry about without me adding my mom drama to it. My mom would be mortified if other people knew about all of her struggles. I know that’s not on me, but for some reason, it feels like it’s my job to keep her secrets.
Me? Well, I’m not sure I could look anyone in the eye if they knew how I felt about my own mom. You only have one mom, they’d say. They’d tell me about all the sacrifices she made for me. And still, at the end of the day, my skin would still crawl with resentment. And what does that say about me?
“By the way.” Mom’s voice drops to a whisper, the guards I just dropped shooting right back into place. “You know I hate to ask you this, but is there any way I could borrow a couple hundred dollars? I’ll pay you back. This is the last time. I promise.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve heard that promise, and I can guarantee it won’t be the last.
“Sure.” I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and focus on the french fries I haven’t touched on my plate to ignore the stabbing ache in my chest.
Just once—once!—I want my mom to ask to see me without having any ulterior motives for it. I know I gave up hope a long time ago, so why does it still hurt so fucking bad?
Our waitress chooses that moment to come back with my freshly poured, very pale mimosa. Goddess. “Can I get you ladies anything else?”
My mom smiles at her like they’re old friends. “Just the check, please.”
I guess because she’s gotten everything out of me that she needed, she’s ready to go.
Figures.
At least I didn’t have to pay for brunch today, and on that note . . . “You know what? Why not bring one more of these, please.”
My mom’s fake smile falters for a second, as if she’s not only been counting my drinks (three) but has something to say about it. Thankfully, before she follows through, she must remember how many scenes she filmed brunching and think it will be good for appearances, so she turns to our waitress and says instead, “I’ll take one more as well.”
Mimosas pass the wholesome image test.
Good to know. I have a feeling I’ll be needing many more cocktails as this mother-daughter bonding progresses.
EIGHT
• • •
Lauren
I don’t know how it happened, but somehow, Wednesdays have turned into my favorite day of the week. I get off work early, do a Target run to grab Adelaide a snack before I pick her up from day care, and then we head to her favorite activity.
“No, Auntie Jude!” Adelaide’s giggles fill the living room so much that even though I still need to hang up about a dozen more pictures on our “gallery wall,” it feels like the homiest room in the entire world. “That’s not how you do a cartwheel. Watch me.”
We got home from gymnastics practice an hour ago, but Adelaide’s still prancing around in the rainbow-covered leotard I got her for Christmas. My parents, who never so much as let me jump in our house growing up, gave Adelaide a gymnastic mat she insisted on being the focal point in the living room. It’s her most prized possession and she somersaults and cartwheels on that thing all day long.
Jude seems to like it too.
“See? See how I kept my legs straight like this?” Adelaide lifts her arms over her head in example, just as her gymnastics instructor does. “You had noodle legs like this.” She flops her arms around in an almost insulting manner. Jude’s form wasn’t that bad.
“Oh, I see.” Jude nods as she watches Adelaide intently, like she’s really focused on perfecting her cartwheel form. “So like this?”
She walks to the mat, strikes a pose with her arms raised in the air, and takes a deep breath before executing a perfect cartwheel.