Chapter 15 Bellatrix
Chapter fifteen
Bellatrix
“What have you done?”
I expected that horrified gasp the second my parents walked into my place. Mom spins around, taking in the kitchen and living room from every angle, her mouth parting further and further with every movement. Her horror is telegraphed more than clearly.
Dad keeps his lawyer face in place, where he gives nothing away, but his hand quickly shoots to the small of my mom’s back to keep her from stroking out.
I have a ham in the oven that’s just about done cooking, potatoes that are ready to mash, and homegrown corn because I went to the farmer’s market yesterday.
I’ve been half dreading and half looking forward to this dinner for the past five days.
I had to schedule my parents in. I’m lucky they had time this month for a family dinner.
I lift my shoulder in a shrug. It drives my mom mad, as evidenced by the way both eyes twitch on and off, but never at the same time. “Renovations. Mostly just paint and wallpaper at this point.”
“It’s monstrous!” she exclaims.
Dad’s hand slides up to her shoulder. I’m not sure if the way he squeezes it is a warning or an agreement. I try not to let my hurt show. I expected this. I prepared for this. It’s going to be nothing compared to when I tell my parents about Rowleigh. “Maybe. But I like it.”
“The resale value will—”
“It can all be taken off and changed and painted whatever color before I sell.” I point to the table, which I have already set.
The flamingos on the wallpaper surrounding it look extra cavorty in the late evening golden sunlight streaming through the two windows in the corner.
“If I sell. I like this place. It’s mine, and that means I want it to feel like me.
This is what I’m into right now. I’m going to be changing the flooring and the lights too. ”
Mom makes a sound in her throat that might indicate a heart attack for real. I take a step forward, but Dad guides her into one of the clear plastic ghost chairs. He sinks into the one beside her and rests his hand lightly on her knee, probably as a containment measure.
I finish up the dinner prep, pulling out the ham, mashing the potatoes, and bringing everything to the table.
At least Dad is polite enough to carve some meat off onto his and Mom’s plate and then give her a scoop of potatoes. He even eats woodenly.
I shouldn’t press any more of Mom’s buttons, but instead of shaving the corn off my cob the way she would do, I smear butter and salt all along the golden length, lift it up, and bite into it, eating it the way everyone eats corn on the cob.
With messy gusto. Juice sprays all over as the kernels pop, which adds an extra slurp now and then.
I watch Mom over the corncob. She’s so pale. Eventually, her eyes lift from me and shift to the wallpaper. She winces. “How did you pay for all this? It’s a lot of money just to undo it all.”
“Mika leant it to me.”
“Michael?”
I sigh. I wasn’t even chewing with my mouth full. There’s no way she could have misheard. “Mika. The Mika who has been my bestie for years now.”
“Mika,” she clarifies with a nod. “Yes, right. You’re still a little nasally.”
“I’m fine. I’ve been over the cold for a week now at least.” Dad shoots me the same kind of don’t sass your mother look that he’s been giving me since I was four. That’s as far back as I can remember. “I’m doing much better. I got a job, actually.”
“What job?” Dad asks that with the ultimate caution. They both tense up like I’m going to tell them that I applied to wrestle squid in the murky depths of the river—I don’t believe any squid actually exists there—or that I’m going to become a professional stuntwoman with zero experience.
“Playing piano at a lounge.” I take a deep breath, gearing up for the next bit. “My boyfriend actually offered it to me.”
“No! Kevin is a bum,” my mom grumbles.
“You’re right. He was. We broke up a while ago, but it had been over for a long time before that. Maybe as soon as it started.”
Mom rolls her eyes without looking the least bit sympathetic. “I told you that—”
“You did,” I interrupt before she can get going on a lecture that will take us way past dessert and teatime.
Not that they’ll have ice cream cake. They’ll both politely decline.
“I should have listened.” I set the corncob down and reach for my napkin, then fold my hands in my lap.
“You’ll probably say that now because what I’m going to tell you sounds like the worst-case scenario, but you’re going to have to trust me.
Please.” I flick my tongue behind my front two teeth, certain I have a huge piece of corn stuck there.
“Your life is yours to ruin if that’s what you want to do,” she huffs, graceful to the last.
“I haven’t even said anything yet!”
“Yes, but you have history.”
If I’m good at counting to ten internally, I would do it, but I’m not.
It’s also bullshit. I don’t have to sit here and let anyone tell me that I can’t make mistakes and grow.
That I have to be perfect. And by perfect, she means a direct copy of her.
That because I have different passions and I like different things, I’m wrong, and I’m always going to be wrong.
That my feelings and emotions aren’t valid.
I’ve let my parents have a pass on this since the dawn of fucking time because I know they don’t mean it. I’ve always told myself the same thing. They love me. They care about me. They want what’s best for me.
But is love constantly putting someone down? Making them feel ashamed, belittled, and invalidated? Is love covering up wounds until they scar over, over and over and over again?
“I do have a history of making bad decisions,” I state with more calm than should be possible, given the way the corn I just ate is churning in my belly.
Maybe I should have followed my mom’s example and had this conversation on an empty stomach, but I spent hours cooking, so just…
nope. “I have a history of not coming to you first because I feel like you don’t really care, and even if you do, you want to just make me a mini copy of you.
” Her lips part to defend herself, but I steam on, or I’m not going to be steaming at all.
“I’ve always been a great disappointment to you both, and the rest of the time, I haven’t been seen.
I’m doing me the best way I know how, and that’s constantly evolving with every single thing I learn.
Yes, it’s messy, and I know you hate that, but I’m not you.
I’m never going to be you. I’m my own person, and I think you both need to realize that and make your peace with it.
If you can’t love me as I am, then I’m not really sure what to even say. ”
I didn’t mean to go that far.
It’s eerily silent.
Even the happy flamingos on the wall suddenly look distinctly uncomfortable, like they want to take flight and get the heck out of here.
I’ve never seen my parents look so uncomfortable.
They share a look, a whole silent conversation passing between them.
Dad breaks first. “You’re not invisible. We see you.” At least he manages not to sound insincere.
“I know you do. I just sometimes feel that you don’t.” I drop my eyes to my folded hands. “Almost always.”
“No!” Mom whispers, so horrified that my gaze shoots back up. “No! I never…we never…that’s the last thing we want you to feel. We see you, and we love you. We’ve just always wanted what was best for you.”
“I know. But the amount of pressure you’ve put on me to be the best version of both of you versus the best version of who I am is insane. I can’t live up to that.”
Mom blinks quickly. I’ve never seen her even borderline close to tears before, and the shock reverberates through me like stubbing your toe judders all the way up your leg.
“We were just trying to keep you safe. You’re our only child.
I can see you’ve felt pressured, but we want to protect you.
We know what’s out there in the world. We want to see you succeed, not be hurt repeatedly or have to struggle because you’re not financially secure or because you’re with someone who doesn’t value your worth. ”
Even now, at the height of struggling to control her emotions, she’s so elegant and eloquent. Dad nods, agreeing silently but genuinely.
“I understand.” That’s true. I do. “I think we just need to learn how to talk to each other. It’s half my fault for never saying anything before.
I’ve just taken it and internalized it and either tried to do better or just moved on.
I don’t mean to say you’ve never been supportive.
I know you didn’t want me to be an event planner or work in the hospitality industry, but you still paid for my school.
You didn’t want me to get a music degree, not because you didn’t think I was talented, but because you didn’t want me to struggle.
You worried I wouldn’t be able to own my own home, so you helped me find this place, and you made sure I had the money for a down payment.
“You’re both busy, both with demanding careers, but you made sure I went to a great daycare, that I had friends growing up, and was involved with school and community, even if you couldn’t be because you didn’t have the time.
I shouldn’t say that I’ve been invisible to you.
I just sometimes feel you don’t see what I truly want or that it doesn’t matter.
I know you’re both busy, and you’re both trying your best, but at the same time, I did feel lonely as a kid, and I still do.
That’s all contradictory, I know.” I hang my head despite wanting to get this out and stand strong.
“I don’t know. It’s hard to try to voice everything I’m thinking and feeling. ”
Dad rises immediately. He rounds the table, bends down, and takes my hands. He doesn’t say anything, but he does pull me into his arms.