Chapter 17 Luca
I’d always been a selfish fucker. It was a necessary evil when trying to make it in Hollywood.
The industry was too competitive and too cutthroat to consider how your actions might affect others.
But I’d fucked up yesterday. I grimaced at the memory of Matilda’s tear-filled eyes.
Even if I was right about what I’d said, confronting and tormenting her in a way I knew she’d find distressing was wrong.
I’d slept fucking horribly. My back ached from the constant tossing and turning, and a dull headache throbbed behind my eyes, probably from checking my phone too many times in the night hoping she’d replied. She hadn’t, and I deserved that.
She was right. I was a hypocrite. She’d called me out for not just asking if she was hiding something, instead choosing to be an asshole toward her for weeks. I’d missed my hypocrisy because I thought I’d been so blatant about my dislike of her, but I’d never outright asked her until yesterday.
That said, when I had eventually asked her, I’d caught her red-handed. So, if I’d asked her weeks ago, would she have told me the truth then?
But it had finally clicked. Matilda’s phone conversation with her mother last night had reminded me of something similar I’d heard from Mom. It was still early, but my mother would be awake.
I muted the TV that I hadn’t been able to concentrate on and shifted to the edge of the sofa, forearms braced on my knees. Wasting no more time, I dialed.
“Hey, my love,” she answered after a few rings.
Her voice was quiet, as it often was in the morning.
Like many people with ALS, she suffered with dysarthria—a disorder that weakened the muscles that control speech.
Most of the time, you could barely notice, but it seemed to be worse in the mornings.
“Hey, Mom. How are you? The nurse said you weren’t feeling too great yesterday.”
“I’m fine this morning. Feel lots better after a quiet day and a good sleep.” Some of the tension immediately eased from my neck. “How about you?”
“I…I’m OK.”
“What’s wrong?” Her soft tone now carried a worried edge.
“I messed up.”
I recited the events of last night, feeling every word as if it were sticking in my throat. The look on Matilda’s face when I’d hurled insults at her was not one I’d easily forget.
Once I’d finished telling my mother what had happened, silence greeted me from the other end of the line.
“Have you spoken to her since?”
“No. I texted her last night apologizing, but I wanted to give her space. But, Mom…some things Matilda was saying…it reminds me of some stuff you’ve said before.”
“And what’s that?”
“Well, yesterday she said that when people make her feel upset or bad about herself, she’d rather just deal with it herself than make anyone else upset. Even if they’re the ones in the wrong.”
“Ah, yes.” She paused for a moment, taking a few short and shallow breaths before continuing. “We haven’t spoken about this since your father and I first split, but do you remember me saying that he was extremely manipulative?”
“Sure…” I ran a hand through my hair, confused.
“I’ve always struggled with people-pleasing, ever since my parents’ divorce. It was ingrained in me, and I didn’t realize I was doing it until it was too late.
“When your father and I met, I think he knew and exploited it. It started with small things. At first, he’d ask me to cut down my hours at the bar to spend time together.
Or, he’d ask me not to waste so much time painting or cooking, things I loved doing.
And I listened to him. Because I was so desperate to be loved, I’d do anything to ensure I was. ”
I ground my palm into my eyes, hoping to erase the burning building behind them. Hearing my mother talk about herself as unworthy triggered something within me.
And I feared I knew where she was going with the story.
“I tried to say no to his requests sometimes; I wasn’t a complete pushover at that point. But if I didn’t do it, he’d ignore me or be short with me for hours until I eventually agreed. I felt a sense of accomplishment when I made him happy, so I kept doing it.”
A pause and a quiet slurp sounded through the phone as she sipped.
“Before I knew it, I’d given up everything I loved for those temporary highs of validation.
I’d moved away from my family, given up all of my hobbies, and lived in this world of Hollywood where I never felt good enough.
I felt underappreciated and disconnected from who I was; I didn’t know what I wanted unless it was to please someone else.
“The stress I felt constantly accommodating people was exhausting. I was burned-out and resentful. I felt guilty for feeling like that, so I would overcompensate, starting the cycle again.”
She’d mentioned some parts of this when we’d decided to leave the United States, but never in so much detail.
“Mom,” I whispered.
“It’s fine, Luca.” Her voice was decisive and assured. “If my diagnosis gave me anything, it was clarity. Time is finite, and I’d wasted so much seeking approval, and for what?” Silence blanketed us while I pondered her thoughts.
“I…” she continued. “I digress.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I had such low self-esteem that I believed no one would love me just for being me. I’d have changed anything about myself to make someone else happy.”
I put my phone on speaker and placed it on the coffee table so that I could rub my hands across my face.
“I understand why you don’t want to trust Matilda.” She exhaled softly. “So many people have so thoroughly broken your trust that it’s no wonder you’re skeptical about everyone’s motivations.”
“Mom, I don’t think she’s ever been honest.”
“She won’t see it as being dishonest because, to her, it’s normal.
The lines blur between understanding what you want for yourself and what you want because it will please others.
” I thought back to Matilda’s face when I’d accused her of lying.
“From what you’ve said, it sounds like all Matilda’s done for the past six weeks is try to get you to like her. ”
I froze, unease settling in my stomach. “I wasn’t trying to manipulate Matilda like Dad did with you.”
“You’re not the one who’s made her this way; you’re just experiencing the effects of someone else’s actions and years of repeated behavior.”
Things were starting to slot into place. If what my mom was saying was true, and all Matilda wanted was to be accepted, I felt like an even bigger asshole.
I’d shouted in her face that she was the complete opposite.
“God, I feel awful,” I admitted out loud.
“Don’t disregard your feelings here either. I disagree with how you went about it, but I understand your frustration. But it’s not lying, Luca. I bet she thought she was just doing you a favor by being accommodating.”
I was too overwhelmed by our conversation to articulate an answer. My mother sensed my guilt and changed the subject to talk about trivial matters.
God, I love this woman so much.
The irony of that wasn’t lost on me.