Chapter 11 #2
When I was a child, I dreaded birthday parties. My friends would immediately forget it was my birthday and they would all gather around the piano to sing along with her rather than play games.
When I was thirteen, Danny, the boy I liked, brought his guitar to my party.
At first I’d been touched by this gesture, but all too soon I’d realised it was so he could perform a duet with my mother.
My mother. On my birthday. I practically grew up in her shadow.
And even now, it seems, I can’t come out from under her huge presence.
I’m like a tiny egg that’s trying to get out from under its huge, meddling, dominating mother hen that stifles her baby chicks before they can take their first breath.
‘Come on, Olivia, join in! Have some fun with us!’ she insists as she plays the intro to ‘Against All Odds’. Apparently my escape from the music room the other night meant nothing to her. Why does she keep doing this to me? Doesn’t she understand?
Have fun. After twenty odd years, she still doesn’t get how much it hurts to be in her shadow.
To not sing as well as she does, to not play the piano as well either because she left and there was no money to pay for a piano teacher, to not be as beautiful or sociable or happy.
After all this time, she still doesn’t understand that it viscerally hurts to be her daughter.
‘No, thank you,’ I repeat through a clenched smile.
It is becoming more and more difficult to maintain a semblance of civility, but she is truly getting on my nerves with all these efforts to make me be like her.
Why is she doing this to me? Doesn’t she remember that the last time I sang with her was before she abandoned me on a stage?
And why won’t she accept that I’m not like her?
We see life in a different way; I can’t be happy or have fun if someone I love is having a hard time. Take Cassie, for example.
We are going through a rough patch. Only she chooses not to talk about it. The irony is certainly not lost on me here, but with all due respect, I’ve always been there for my family.
‘Oh come on, Livvie!’ my mother calls. ‘Live a little!’
Live a little? My whole life has been ruined because of her and she has no idea. Her lover came before her own child. If there’s someone who’s lived more than just a little, it’s definitely her.
‘I’m okay,’ I repeat, firmer this time, my nerves ready to snap, but I hang in there. After all, we’re not alone.
‘Come on, chickieeeeee!’ she shouts again, only this time into the microphone so everyone can hear. ‘Why won’t you join in?’
‘Because not everyone is a party animal like you!’ I snap, slightly too loud.
Her eyes widen and I expect her to stop playing and the room to fall to a hush at the audacity of my reaction.
But no. As if she hasn’t even heard me (or perhaps she hasn’t, so wrapped up in her own talent that our pseudo-dramatic exchange was only an aside to her), she continues to sing and is soon lost in a new verse, bringing everyone else in with her.
It is indeed like standing alone in this great hall, and I am suddenly transported back to my childhood birthday parties, where it didn’t matter whether I was there or not, because this was the fun part of the evening for everyone.
It would be easier just to leave the hall, but I stick it out and simply wander away from the piano so at least she’s not in my line of vision.
I never pretended to be more important than anyone else, of course.
My father had taught me better. But growing up in a family where we had to walk on eggshells so as not to hurt my mother’s feelings was a bit much.
I had never been allowed to have teenage outbursts that my parents would softly coax me out of.
Oh, no. The only one who could lose their rag was our mother. Which she often did.
But then she swung straight to extreme gaiety, leaving us flummoxed, to say the least. We never knew quite where we stood with her from one moment to another.
And I still don’t know. When you expect her to have one of her tantrums she instantly brushes it aside, and when she should be happy she’s absolutely miserable.
When she finally comes to bed later that night I pretend to be asleep. An argument with her is the last thing I need right now.
I listen to the soft sounds of her getting ready for bed: the way she lifts the chair at her make-up table to not wake me, how she softly opens and closes her cream jars and how she shuts the bathroom door before turning the lights on in there so as not to blind me.
These are all things I have taught my own kids.
I thought I’d picked them up from my dad, who was the mildest man you’ll ever meet, but obviously these were traits that they both had.
Funny, because my mother is a steamroller during the day.
It is only at night, when all is quiet, that she seems to tune in to her surroundings.
*
Breakfast is the usual luxury experience.
Everyone else at our table is as vibrant as ever.
It’s only my mother who keeps her eyes glued to her plate, as if she’s never going to speak to me again.
How do I feel about it? Like when she was living with us: regretful that I’ve rocked the boat, yet at the same time seething about the fact that only she was allowed to express disappointment.
Not one reference to the night before, but trust me, it’s all there, in the awkward space between us.
‘Would you like to go for a walk?’ Mother asks finally as they clear our plates, literally shocking me out of my rumination.
‘A walk?’ Of course, this is her olive branch and I have to take it for both our sakes. ‘Sure, some fresh air will do me good.’
‘Okay, then. Meet me at the gates after your spa appointment.’
This could be a good time to have a private chat with her.
I don’t expect an apology for leaving almost twenty-two years ago, but perhaps she wants to apologise for being so pushy last night.
I would graciously accept, of course, because I don’t want to provoke an argument.
If I know myself, I’ll probably end up apologising for ruining her fun last night. It’s so much easier this way.
Someone once said, ‘You can be right, or you can be happy.’ I’m never either of the two, but it’s okay. I’m a big girl. I can take it. It’s what I learnt to do a lifetime ago.
She’s right on time, waiting for me at the gates, just like she said. I confess I’m actually surprised she’s remembered to show up, what with all her friends vying for her time. Pleasantly surprised, indeed.
‘Hello!’ she chimes, waving to attract my attention.
As if I could miss her, in that turquoise gym suit and sparkly turquoise sneakers.
She’s wearing a silver glitter baseball cap and her face is, of course, done up completely.
Who does she think we’re going to meet on our walk, George Clooney?
Nevertheless, she still looks great, and not just for her age.
She’s curvy and luscious and I stop to wonder why I don’t look like her in the least.
‘I’m ready to go,’ I say, pushing down a sense of jealousy and forcing a smile. I can’t be jealous of my mother. How loser-y would that be?
‘You look nice, Livvie,’ she says. Well, at least she’s making an effort.
‘Thanks, Mother. So do you. Shall we hit the road?’
‘We need to wait for the gang,’ she tells me.
‘The gang?’
‘There they are!’ she sing-songs, pointing to her friends ambling slowly towards us. ‘Come on, you lazy bones!’ she calls out to them, waving her bangled arms. ‘Let’s get going!’
Oh. I should have figured. Why would she want to spend one-on-one time with me?
Especially now that I’ve made it more or less clear that I’m not an emotional spiller?
What would we talk about, the two of us on our own, anyway?
We would probably end up quarrelling about which bend to take. Perhaps it’s for the best.
But as we set out on this glorious late spring day, surrounded by towering pine trees on one side and the dizzying escarpment above Lake Maggiore on the other, I can’t help but resent how many friends she has, and how at ease she is with the world and herself.
I should be happy, too! I deserve to be happy. And yet, here I am, in my mid-thirties, lagging behind a bunch of over-sixties who are all used to these fitness walks, while I am wondering if my next step is going to be my last before I collapse to the ground.
But it’s not just about me and my well-being.
It’s about my family as well. Not only should I be happy, my daughter should be happy too, but she’s angry at me for coming here.
I would never have left if I’d had the slightest inkling that she didn’t want me to.
I’m used to her treating me like a burden, so I’d figured she’d be relieved if I went for a while.
We’re walking downhill now, which isn’t so bad.
We are surrounded by Mother’s squawking friends and I’ve pretty much disappeared into the background, so I take the back foot and concentrate on calming my breathing.
Up this high, the air is different. Almost…
rarified. And… the path down is so steep I feel like any minute I’m going to blow a hip joint or a knee-cap.
And my lungs? They’re on fire. The breath is soughing in and out of me like a loud wind howling through a narrow cave, and I’m wondering how long I’m expected to last.
Yes, Cassie is most definitely cross with me. We haven’t spoken since I got here. Not that it’s any different at home, but I was hoping that a little distance would have made me more precious in her eyes. Well, the joke’s on me. Precious my arse. She reminds me so much of myself.