I resist the urge to roll my eyes, get my hopes up, or react in any way. Even if I’m in a bathroom all by lonesome, I’ve come to learn that I need to guard and coach myself when it comes to my mother. Our interactions need to be strategically run from my end, to protect every fragile piece of my heart I have put back together numerous times on her account.
“I’m at school.” My lack of excitement is blatant.
“I just had to call because I’m at this gorgeous retreat in Arizona, and we’re being put up in the most beautiful yurt village. This morning, I saw a cloud shaped like a heart, and I thought immediately of you. I’ll put it on my Instagram so you can see it.” She completely ignores that she’s disturbing me in the middle of a day of learning.
My blood pressure seems to be rising, but I tamp it down, because this is how she gets me. I haven’t heard from her in months, probably about four to be exact. She missed my birthday, my last first day of school, and every milestone leading up to this point. And the first thing she does when she calls me is talk about herself and her retreat. Her biggest means of communication with her own daughter is social media. If there were ever a case study on narcissism, my mother would be patient zero.
She left my father to pursue her own dreams and had no qualms about leaving her little girl behind either. I don’t even remember a time when she was a real staple in my life, or when I depended on her for anything more than the validation and self-loathing a little girl takes on after being abandoned by a parent.
“Great. I have to go.” I want to hurl my phone against the brick bathroom wall I’m looking at.
“But wait, baby, I want to hear about school. How are your college applications going? You still thinking about going into political science?”
And this is how she really gets me. Because just when I’m convinced the only person she cares about is herself, she whips out some piece of knowledge about me to reel me right back in. I think she knows she does it, her manipulation gene is so strong. But she’s my mother, and I want so badly for her to love me, that I break like the straw on that damn camel’s back.
Cautiously, I dip one toe in. “I’ve actually been looking more into colleges, refining my essay. I think it’s definitely going to be political science, maybe with a marketing minor because that might help on some kind of campaign, and—”
“Wait, what’s that?” I can tell she’s talking to someone other than me, someone there with her in person. “Oh, Blair, I have to go. We’re getting mud baths and massages for the next three hours. Can you even imagine how beautiful my skin is going to look?”
“Oh, well—” I want to interject that I haven’t even told her anything about senior year as my heart stutters, then plummets.
“We’ll talk soon, okay, sweetie? Love you, ciao!”
And with that, the line goes dead.
“God dammit,” I say to the empty bathroom.
She got me again. I was strong, my heart was steel, and then she got past my defenses. I crumbled like a fool, and it made me feel even more shame than I had going into the conversation. It’s unnatural for a child not to crave their mother’s love. But it’s even more unnatural for a mother not to want to know every intimate detail about their child. Or at least that’s how I thought about it.
Maybe that’s why I still harbor this lingering affection for Sawyer in my heart. Because for as badly as he hurt me, as much as he taunted me and made a mockery of me to all of our peers, I still hold this tiny flame of hope inside that we’ll mend our friendship.
My mother conditioned me to be a punching bag, to see or hope for the best in people, even when they downright don’t deserve it. But she also conditioned me to, at the same time, be guarded and wary of everyone around me, even if they’ve never shown me an ounce of malice. The effect is dizzying.
One thing is for certain, though. I am always going to keep allowing these people to hurt me, unless I once and for all make peace that I don’t need their validation and love in my life.
10
Blair
The other bad thing about hating the guy who used to be like family?
That his family still kind of is your surrogate family.
I walk the hallway of the Roarke home to their dining room, a walk I’ve done about a hundred thousand times in my life. This home is as about as familiar as mine; I know every picture on the wall, every secret spot for childhood games of hide and seek, and all of the creaky stairs leading up to the second floor.
I’m also extremely close with the woman who put this house together, and the reason why I’m here today.
Mallory Roarke is like the mother I never had. While my dad gives me enough love and support for two parents, there are still things he just isn’t equipped to handle.
Like the time my boobs seemingly grew in overnight in sixth grade, and my nipples began to show through my shirts. Mallory was the one who took me to the mall and helped me shop for my first bra.
Or the time I got my period for the first time, the morning of seventh grade picture day. I was freaking out so much about putting a tampon in, until Mallory came over and showed me exactly how to do it.
Over the years, she has been my trusted source on all things female, and helped in the area Dad never could: boys and broken hearts. My father handled the birds and the bees talk, somewhat awkwardly, but Sawyer’s mom had been the one to talk about emotional connection. About respecting my body and my heart when I chose to fall in love.
If only she knew that I was basically head over heels for her son … but that wasn’t something I was ever going to disclose.
And thankfully, she hasn’t let our bond diminish since Sawyer and I had our falling out. She also hasn’t pressed for the details or tried to make me forgive or apologize to her son. That just proves how much she cares about me; she’s willing to piss off her own child to keep a relationship with a girl who isn’t her own blood.
So it was no question that Dad and I would be invited to her small birthday celebration the weekend after Sawyer allegedly punched Matt during their lunch period. And as much as I loathe her son, I would never not show up for Mallory. She’s always shown up for me. Plus, Dad is their closest friend, it would be strange if he didn’t attend.
Which is how I find myself on my enemy’s home turf, literally, about to sit down to enjoy dessert while he glares at me across the table.
“Blair, can you help me get the serving utensils?” Sawyer’s mom asks, smiling warmly at me.
I’d never say no to her. “Of course.”
I follow her into their cozy kitchen, the one that Thomas custom built for his wife. It has the stone walls she wanted all those years ago when he designed the house, and they always remind me of some quaint Tuscan villa. The counters are dotted with miniature pig figurines, collector items that Mallory’s husband and son have brought home for her throughout the years.
“You look so grown up, I still can’t believe it.” She shakes her head at me, ducking her eyes as if she’s seeing something unreal before them.
I shrug. “Still just the same old boring me.”
“Blair Oden, there is nothing boring about you.” She clucks, pulling silver spoons and pie-servers out of a drawer.