Read Online Songs Without Words by Ann Packer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ann Packer
Ads: Link
elbows and shouted, “Why can’t you fucking
leave me alone
?”
And so Liz did: left her alone, and then left the house, dashing through the rain for her car.
She started the engine but then stayed still, heart pounding.
Why can’t you fucking leave me alone?
The words pounded, too. The image of Lauren, Lauren’s voice: it all pounded.
All Liz had ever really wanted was to be a mother. This had been her secret: through college, through her twenties. The secret wasn’t that she wanted kids; it was that she didn’t particularly want a career. It was the early eighties, every woman wanted a career; at least every woman who’d gone to Stanford, as she had. But not Liz. She held various jobs, but kids were going to be her career, Lauren and Joe were her career—her work, her life. Which meant she shouldn’t feel so entirely
reamed
now by what had just happened. She ought to be able to take this kind of stuff in stride.
Rain poured over the car, and she backed out of the driveway and headed down the street. It was almost as dark as evening, and the cars she passed moved slowly, headlights on, wipers racing back and forth. She hit a huge puddle, and a sheet of water whooshed up behind her.
The parking lot at Yoga Life was almost empty. Inside, the shop was quiet, its rolled mats and stretchy clothing and books on practice neatly arranged for the day. In the studio, Liz put her things in a cubby. Only eight other people, which was nice, though not so nice for Diane.
Who was in the middle of the room, talking to someone Liz didn’t recognize. Diane’s short gray hair was newly cropped, and she wore a simple black unitard that hugged her long legs and revealed the muscles of her strong, square shoulders. She was like a goddess, Liz always thought. Or an Amazon. The names of certain yoga poses made so much sense, given Diane: warrior, hero. In her gentle way, Diane was both of these.
Liz took a spot near the front. Until yoga, she’d thought of exercise as a way to make her body look better; now she understood about feeling better. And yet, she was very quiet about it. Diane talked sometimes about how yoga calmed the mind, and Liz thought it had calmed hers to the point where she no longer needed to say so much.
But she was not calm today. She tried to stay with Diane, but she kept thinking about Lauren, seeing and hearing Lauren. “Your teenager will use whatever is available to upset you. She’ll use what you give her.” This was from a book called
How to Be Your Teenager’s Best Friend and Other Follies of Parenting Adolescents.
Liz had liked the title—she knew women who did that, tried to be one of the girls with their daughters, just another companion for shopping and gossip, and she knew it didn’t work—but the book itself was a disappointment, nothing but the usual draconian nonsense. Give orders, and expect full compliance. End of story. Chapter 2 was called “It’s All About Limits.” Which limits would the author say Liz was failing to set?
You can’t talk to me that way
? As far as Liz was concerned, she might as well say
You can’t be unhappy.
Lauren was unhappy.
After yoga, Liz rolled up her mat and returned to the car. She thought of going straight home, but she’d told her parents to expect her, so she continued to Palo Alto, to the senior complex where they’d been living for the past six years. She still sometimes ached for the old house on Cowper Street, but they didn’t seem to miss it; they were too busy living their surprising new lives of foreign travel and bridge tournaments and choral singing—the kind of retirement you might read about in a brochure. Where, Liz sometimes wondered, had these gregarious people been hiding inside the reserved shapes of her reserved parents?
The rain had slowed to a sprinkle, and when she entered the central courtyard she passed a uniformed worker sweeping puddled water toward a storm drain.
“We finished the album,” her father announced
leave me alone
?”
And so Liz did: left her alone, and then left the house, dashing through the rain for her car.
She started the engine but then stayed still, heart pounding.
Why can’t you fucking leave me alone?
The words pounded, too. The image of Lauren, Lauren’s voice: it all pounded.
All Liz had ever really wanted was to be a mother. This had been her secret: through college, through her twenties. The secret wasn’t that she wanted kids; it was that she didn’t particularly want a career. It was the early eighties, every woman wanted a career; at least every woman who’d gone to Stanford, as she had. But not Liz. She held various jobs, but kids were going to be her career, Lauren and Joe were her career—her work, her life. Which meant she shouldn’t feel so entirely
reamed
now by what had just happened. She ought to be able to take this kind of stuff in stride.
Rain poured over the car, and she backed out of the driveway and headed down the street. It was almost as dark as evening, and the cars she passed moved slowly, headlights on, wipers racing back and forth. She hit a huge puddle, and a sheet of water whooshed up behind her.
The parking lot at Yoga Life was almost empty. Inside, the shop was quiet, its rolled mats and stretchy clothing and books on practice neatly arranged for the day. In the studio, Liz put her things in a cubby. Only eight other people, which was nice, though not so nice for Diane.
Who was in the middle of the room, talking to someone Liz didn’t recognize. Diane’s short gray hair was newly cropped, and she wore a simple black unitard that hugged her long legs and revealed the muscles of her strong, square shoulders. She was like a goddess, Liz always thought. Or an Amazon. The names of certain yoga poses made so much sense, given Diane: warrior, hero. In her gentle way, Diane was both of these.
Liz took a spot near the front. Until yoga, she’d thought of exercise as a way to make her body look better; now she understood about feeling better. And yet, she was very quiet about it. Diane talked sometimes about how yoga calmed the mind, and Liz thought it had calmed hers to the point where she no longer needed to say so much.
But she was not calm today. She tried to stay with Diane, but she kept thinking about Lauren, seeing and hearing Lauren. “Your teenager will use whatever is available to upset you. She’ll use what you give her.” This was from a book called
How to Be Your Teenager’s Best Friend and Other Follies of Parenting Adolescents.
Liz had liked the title—she knew women who did that, tried to be one of the girls with their daughters, just another companion for shopping and gossip, and she knew it didn’t work—but the book itself was a disappointment, nothing but the usual draconian nonsense. Give orders, and expect full compliance. End of story. Chapter 2 was called “It’s All About Limits.” Which limits would the author say Liz was failing to set?
You can’t talk to me that way
? As far as Liz was concerned, she might as well say
You can’t be unhappy.
Lauren was unhappy.
After yoga, Liz rolled up her mat and returned to the car. She thought of going straight home, but she’d told her parents to expect her, so she continued to Palo Alto, to the senior complex where they’d been living for the past six years. She still sometimes ached for the old house on Cowper Street, but they didn’t seem to miss it; they were too busy living their surprising new lives of foreign travel and bridge tournaments and choral singing—the kind of retirement you might read about in a brochure. Where, Liz sometimes wondered, had these gregarious people been hiding inside the reserved shapes of her reserved parents?
The rain had slowed to a sprinkle, and when she entered the central courtyard she passed a uniformed worker sweeping puddled water toward a storm drain.
“We finished the album,” her father announced
Similar Books
