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Authors: Holly Tierney-Bedord
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bird.
Judging by the reactions of my childhood classmates and teachers, she used to be pretty. At parent-teacher conferences, the male teachers, who often had not noticed I was even in their class, would devote a full hour to chatting it up with her. The mousy, frumpy moms would wait in line just outside the door, glaring in at us through big 1980’s tinted lenses. Little popular girls who had nothing to do with me normally would shyly say, “Your mommy is pretty” and, for a day or two until it wore off, I would be worth remembering. I was used to this treatment over Valencia, and I accepted it. I had a harder time when it happened because of my mom.
I looked back at her standing there on the patio, holding that cookie sheet like it was so, so terribly heavy. Her head cocked to one side, an expression of exasperation on her face as my dad shuffled back to her, taking his time on the stepping stone path. This was their thing, their dance, the way they lived. Doling out and accepting a lifetime of disappointments. How much of their relationship and anger was because my mother had been pretty and now was not? Despite losing Van and Valencia, I believe that was her greatest loss of all.
Even now as an adult, I am barely able to follow how it works. Why would one girl care if another girl she hates has a pretty mother or sister? Why was that enough to sometimes afford me a fleeting glimpse of kindness and respect? I did not understand it then and I do not understand it now. If Adrian and I have a baby someday, I will do my best to teach her all I know, but I will not be able to teach her this.
Chapter 17
After dinner the four of us sat huddled around the patio table, pork chop bones anchoring the Styrofoam plates from blowing away, an endless train of mixed drinks prepared by my father coming our way. We were all shivering a little but no one made a move to go inside. After months of winter, these not-quite-frigid nights were cherished. Adrian was trying to make conversation, not understanding that my parents have no interest in anything except landscaping and bowling. During a lapse in the conversation, I took the opportunity to reveal my true motivation.
“I’m going to visit Valencia and Van’s graves while I’m here,” I said. This was met with silence. My mother picked up her drink and finished it, then waved it at my father to show she needed a refill.
“I haven’t been there for a long time,” I continued. “I think I might go tonight.”
“The cemetery is going to be soggy tonight. You might as well wait until tomorrow or the next time you’re here,” said my mother.
“Can I have the keys?” I asked Adrian, holding out my hand, “I’m going to go there now.”
“You’ve been drinking quite a bit, Sweetie. I don’t think you should go anywhere,” he said.
“Give me the keys.”
“Who needs another one?” asked my dad, rising from the table.
“Adrian, give me the keys,” I said.
“I’ll take one more, easy on the ice,” said Adrian.
“She’s had too much to drink,” said my mom to Adrian, shaking her head.
“No, Mom. I have not. Adrian, quit ignoring me. Give me the keys.”
“But you’ve been drinking,” he whined.
“Actually, I haven’t had nearly as much as the rest of you.”
“Roger, where did you get this glass? I swear, we used to have a set like this. Tall ones, short ones,” Adrian called to my father, holding up a glass available at any garage sale.
“That’s the only one we have left anymore, so don’t break it,” joked my father through the screen door.
“Put some extra maraschino cherries in mine, Roger,” called my mother.
Was I invisible? I pulled my sweater tightly around me, shivering. Adrian fit in so well, I realized. Perhaps not intellectually, but he was every bit as disloyal to me as my parents were. I wondered what was next. I pictured the three of them signing a document and a paddywagon arriving to take me to an insane
Judging by the reactions of my childhood classmates and teachers, she used to be pretty. At parent-teacher conferences, the male teachers, who often had not noticed I was even in their class, would devote a full hour to chatting it up with her. The mousy, frumpy moms would wait in line just outside the door, glaring in at us through big 1980’s tinted lenses. Little popular girls who had nothing to do with me normally would shyly say, “Your mommy is pretty” and, for a day or two until it wore off, I would be worth remembering. I was used to this treatment over Valencia, and I accepted it. I had a harder time when it happened because of my mom.
I looked back at her standing there on the patio, holding that cookie sheet like it was so, so terribly heavy. Her head cocked to one side, an expression of exasperation on her face as my dad shuffled back to her, taking his time on the stepping stone path. This was their thing, their dance, the way they lived. Doling out and accepting a lifetime of disappointments. How much of their relationship and anger was because my mother had been pretty and now was not? Despite losing Van and Valencia, I believe that was her greatest loss of all.
Even now as an adult, I am barely able to follow how it works. Why would one girl care if another girl she hates has a pretty mother or sister? Why was that enough to sometimes afford me a fleeting glimpse of kindness and respect? I did not understand it then and I do not understand it now. If Adrian and I have a baby someday, I will do my best to teach her all I know, but I will not be able to teach her this.
Chapter 17
After dinner the four of us sat huddled around the patio table, pork chop bones anchoring the Styrofoam plates from blowing away, an endless train of mixed drinks prepared by my father coming our way. We were all shivering a little but no one made a move to go inside. After months of winter, these not-quite-frigid nights were cherished. Adrian was trying to make conversation, not understanding that my parents have no interest in anything except landscaping and bowling. During a lapse in the conversation, I took the opportunity to reveal my true motivation.
“I’m going to visit Valencia and Van’s graves while I’m here,” I said. This was met with silence. My mother picked up her drink and finished it, then waved it at my father to show she needed a refill.
“I haven’t been there for a long time,” I continued. “I think I might go tonight.”
“The cemetery is going to be soggy tonight. You might as well wait until tomorrow or the next time you’re here,” said my mother.
“Can I have the keys?” I asked Adrian, holding out my hand, “I’m going to go there now.”
“You’ve been drinking quite a bit, Sweetie. I don’t think you should go anywhere,” he said.
“Give me the keys.”
“Who needs another one?” asked my dad, rising from the table.
“Adrian, give me the keys,” I said.
“I’ll take one more, easy on the ice,” said Adrian.
“She’s had too much to drink,” said my mom to Adrian, shaking her head.
“No, Mom. I have not. Adrian, quit ignoring me. Give me the keys.”
“But you’ve been drinking,” he whined.
“Actually, I haven’t had nearly as much as the rest of you.”
“Roger, where did you get this glass? I swear, we used to have a set like this. Tall ones, short ones,” Adrian called to my father, holding up a glass available at any garage sale.
“That’s the only one we have left anymore, so don’t break it,” joked my father through the screen door.
“Put some extra maraschino cherries in mine, Roger,” called my mother.
Was I invisible? I pulled my sweater tightly around me, shivering. Adrian fit in so well, I realized. Perhaps not intellectually, but he was every bit as disloyal to me as my parents were. I wondered what was next. I pictured the three of them signing a document and a paddywagon arriving to take me to an insane
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