Chapter 28
Priscilla
My old neighbor has his garage door open, and it’s right there—the cherry-red Camaro, glistening from a fresh wax.
I want to run my nails along the side and scratch that perfect paint. It would feel so good to destroy something else in this already-cruel world.
But what would it change, in the end? What would it fix?
Instead I turn toward my childhood home, face-to-face with the grime-tinged siding and those weird little shrubs in the front that never fully grew in but weren’t brave enough to die either.
The front windows are open today, just as they so often were at the end of summer.
We didn’t get air-conditioning until I was in high school, so the open windows and the ceiling fans were the only defenses we had against the heat.
It was still breathlessly hot, but at least the air was moving.
My mom must not know it’s going to rain soon, or she’d have closed the windows already. Rainwater will drench the back of the couch and turn it mildewy. She’ll be so upset.
I could reach inside and close them for her. I’m right here. Only a few feet away. But what would that change either, in the end?
Years ago, a therapist had me try an activity where I closed my eyes and pictured the adult me visiting myself as a child.
She asked me to come to this very house and find the child inside.
I was supposed to hold the hand of child me and walk her out of the house, telling her she was safe now, and she could stay with me.
I had gone along with the visual right up until the therapist asked me to grab little me’s hand. I couldn’t do it. Where would she go if she wasn’t inside? How could I possibly keep her safe anywhere else? This is where she’s always belonged, even if it’s not the best place for her to be.
The sound of my dad’s voice knocks me out of the memory. I follow it until I’m right outside our open kitchen window, peeking in through the gap in the curtains.
God, I’m so far back in time my parents haven’t even divorced yet.
It’s a time I remember only in fits and starts.
Impressions of fights. Angry footsteps and slamming doors.
Right now, my dad has a take-out bag from a restaurant that’s long since shuttered, and he’s setting out two plates on the kitchen table.
“Lunch is here,” he announces for the second time.
Finally, my mother appears. Her hair is shorter and blonder than I ever remember seeing it. She has on big glasses and a pair of faded denim shorts that come up higher than her belly button. She looks both younger and more tired somehow.
“Johnny’s Pizza wasn’t open?” she asks Dad.
“I got us burgers instead.”
Mom sighs, long and heavy.
“Where is she?” Dad asks.
“In the backyard,” Mom says. “She’s playing with her dolls.”
Me.
My parents begin to eat. In a companionable silence, they nibble on burgers and fries, occasionally getting up for ketchup or sauces or drinks from the fridge.
Suddenly, three-year-old Priscilla bursts into the room, holding a doll and singing.
My hair is done in braided pigtails that remind me of how I’d wear it at cast parties in high school.
I’m in an overalls set and a pink shirt covered in daisies.
There’s a smudge of dirt on my butt, like I’ve been sitting in muddy grass.
My parents look up from their food. They don’t say anything—no coos of encouragement, no clapping for the show—but they do smile, keeping their focus on me as I sing a nonsensical tune that’s mostly oohs and ahhs.
Little me doesn’t notice either way. She’s performing the song for the doll in her hand.
I have no memory of this day. It’s probably too mundane to recall with any specificity, or too far back in my past. The longer I watch, the more I realize I’m waiting for something. My jaw is tight with anticipation, and my breath only comes out in sharp huffs.
Little me trails off mid-note and wanders down the hall.
My parents finish their meal.
“I’ll do the dishes,” Mom announces.
Dad says nothing, leaving his ketchup-covered plate for her and heading to the living room, collapsing onto the couch as he turns on the TV.
I’ve always liked playing characters who have complications that don’t make sense, because I’ve never made much sense, even to myself.
I can stand here right now and know I had a bad childhood while watching two parents who smiled at me as I sang, then went about their business.
I can judge Dallas for what he won’t let go of while knowing I’ve got my own baggage keeping me company at every turn.
I understand contradictions. I am loud and messy and impulsive.
I am quiet and shy and prone to overthinking.
Would it have been easier to see my parents yell at me?
Would that have made me feel more justified somehow in carrying the pain of their neglect for thirty-four years, all so I could feel good about not believing my mom is different now?
Or would I want to see her caring for me, so I could realize our relationship was so much more complicated than I ever gave it credit for?
Maybe this ordinary moment is exactly what I needed to witness.
Not every day is a good day or a bad day.
Some days just are. And I can’t extract meaning from this and turn it into something that makes sense for the story I’ve been telling myself about my life.
That doesn’t change the fact that my pain happened, or that it affected me.
If my childhood was different, then I would be different, and I actually like who I am.
I’m glad I’ve always known how to entertain myself. I make for excellent company.
This is what the psychics meant when they said I had to let go.
This is what they want me to release—my resentment for my mom.
My disbelief that things can be different with her now.
And I think I already have. Somewhere in that conversation with Marlowe in the psychics’ basement.
Just discussing it made it already softer, less impactful.
What I really need to do is the one thing I’ve already failed at.
I have to stop running away from Marlowe Jenkins.