Chapter Thirty-Eight
I sat on the edge of my bed, waiting for Ruby to finish in the bathroom. When she finally emerged, she wore one of her satin nightgowns and matching robes with her hair in a silk bonnet and her face slathered in moisturizer.
My makeup was still done and my curls swept up into a messy bun. I’d discarded my dress the moment we returned for a linen jumpsuit.
I had a question, and I’d held on to it until now because I didn’t want to upset our balance before she gave her speech. “Ruby, why did you invite Eli?”
“I happen to like the doctor’s company,” she said. “And if I’m not getting a happily ever after, I might as well orchestrate one for you.”
Of course. Marry a doctor, Vera. That will fix everything. “Well, if you’d even checked with me first, you would know that I needed this time away from him. I needed space.”
With an air of dismissiveness, she folded back the covers on the bed and began to set up her nightstand with her pillbox and other bedtime essentials. “You’ve had space for nineteen years, Vera.”
“I don’t think that’s really something for you to judge.” My jaw tensed as I tried to keep my voice easy and neutral.
She propped up her pillows and got into bed with the thriller novel she’d picked up at the airport.
“Your mother loved you so much, you know that? But Annie’s love was soft, and it made you soft.
She was always so gentle with you. Too much so.
Never pushing you. Never encouraging you to get uncomfortable. ”
Okay, maybe I couldn’t do neutral tonight. “I don’t think you’re really someone who should be giving opinions on a mother’s love.”
She took a deep breath and opened her book, ready for this discussion to be over. “You asked why I invited Dr. Buckley and I told you. Is there anything else?”
I should have let her end the conversation there, but rage had already sunk its hooks into me and I wasn’t going to let this go.
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe Mom loved me how she did in a response to how she wished you had loved her?” Harsh, but I meant every word.
I would never understand Ruby’s inability to love people how they needed to be loved versus how she thought they should be loved.
She paused, shut her book, and set it in her lap before looking at me, her eyes wide with indignation.
“Maybe once you’ve had a daughter of your own, you can come talk to me about how to love a child.
Until then, I think you should go wash that makeup off your face and go to bed before you say something else you’ll regret.
Don’t forget to moisturize. You’ve carried your age in your forehead since you were a little girl. ”
I felt chastised and I was blistering with anger.
“The kid thing? Really?” I wasn’t even going to touch the comment about my apparently ancient forehead.
Children had been one of Ruby’s talking points on her Vera Agenda for a few years, but she dropped it when Mom got sicker.
Maybe because she knew that working full-time, being a caretaker, and mothering a child would be next to impossible and some sort of responsibility might tragically fall to her.
“You don’t even like kids. You wouldn’t even let me call you Grandma. How fucked is that, by the way?”
“Well, it’s not as though you had some fulfilling career, Vera. At least if you had a child, your endless martyrdom would be put to good use.”
My chest was heaving now, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. I’d never wanted kids. It was one thing I actually did know about myself. But the idea that I didn’t have dreams? That I didn’t have hopes? That I wasn’t disappointed for myself? That broke me.
“Why do you care so much?” My voice was tinged with defeat.
“You hardly even like me. Is it because you need someone to remember you when you’re gone?
Another generation of Steins to carry the Ruby torch?
I may not be special or memorable, but at least I didn’t sacrifice so much only to be so incredibly forgettable.
” There it was. I’d said an awful thing and now I couldn’t help myself.
“Did you just love tonight? All those little horror nerds kissing your ass? For doing what? What groundbreaking thing did you do with your life, Ruby? You screamed into a camera and showed your tits from time to time? Someone call a goddamn historian.”
I was a bad person. I was a bad feminist. I was a bad granddaughter. And I didn’t care.
With gritted teeth and eyes wild with fury, she flung her hand toward the door. “Get. Out. Get the fuck out.”
I grabbed my purse and room key and slid my shoes on.
She crossed her arms over her chest and looked out the window as I marched to the door and slammed it behind me. (Well, as hard as you can slam a soft-close door.)
“Fuck,” I cried out quietly.