Page 63 of Holding Out for a Gyro
Hopefully reverse cowgirl.
I decided to try my mom on the video chat so I could lay eyes on her and properly wish her a happy Thanksgiving. I wanted to spy on her a little, make sure she looked good, see if she’d popped off to Florida, and get some clue about why she’d left me to fend for myself.
I wasn’t sure if I should expect her to answer, and it kind of surprised me when she did.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” I said, as chipper as possible.
“Hey, there. Happy Thanksgiving to you, too!” She wore makeup and real clothes, so I knew she’d made an effort. That was a relief.
“Are you getting a turkey dinner?”
“Already ate. We’re watching the bowl games now.”
Football? That wasn’t something we ever did. After Dad left, Mom and I had come up with our own tradition of going out to a movie on Thanksgiving. It didn’t matter what was playing. “You’re at home, then?”
She glanced to the side, like she was surprised to discover she was, in fact, at home. “Well, yeah.”
It stung, knowing I could have driven over after all.
“Is everything okay?” A sudden worry gripped me. Why had she decided to be alone on Thanksgiving? Was she drinking? Was she… Wait. “Did you saywe?”
“I was hoping to talk to you about something,” she said. “But I know you’re gonna overreact.”
I braced for whatever she had to say. “You’ve got my attention.”
“I’ve been seeing someone, and it’s been going real good.” I presumed her suitor was there, watching the bowl games with her.
“Oh, I kind of figured you might have, even though you told me you hadn’t.” When had that changed? I didn’t begrudge her a love life, but she had a shitty track record. “Where’d you meet?”
A man laughed. “Did she ask where we met?”
Ice ran through my veins at that voice. Surely not. “Mom?” My mouth felt like I’d eaten cotton. “Mom?” I said again, panicking.
She looked beyond the phone, shaking her head, like she might be telling a waiter to come back once she’d studied the menu, but then the camera lost focus, and his face filled the screen. “Hey, kiddo.”
I dropped the phone on the floor, ignoring my mom’s voice saying, “Chelsea? Are you still there? I knew she’d freak out.”
And then I was rushing to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before vomiting up an entire Thanksgiving dinner. Fear gripped me, colder than it had since I’d first started therapy, and I was back in that house, ten years old and cowering in the bathroom.
I curled up in a ball on the floor. It was a familiar enough place. Not this bathroom, but tile was tile, and I’d lain face down on ceramic often enough, making myself small, hiding from the yelling.
Whenever I spoke of my dad, I avoided using the word “abusive” because that earned me scorn from anyone who didn’t recognize emotional abuse. Technically, he was just mean, but appallingly, abusively mean. Vicious. He once said he’d rather be respected than loved, and if he couldn’t have that, he’d rather have fear. He sometimes yelled, but he rarely hit us. It was the everyday stress of living with him, like walking on eggshells, that made life hell. Tiny changes in his mood could be far more frightening than the outbursts. I’d be reading on the sofa, perfectly relaxed, in my own world, oblivious to my parents. Then I’d hear a whispered curse in another room, and I’d tense, hyperaware of every sound.
Clattering in the kitchen, a cabinet slamming, and a passive-aggressivefuckmeant my mom or I had done something wrong. Quiet curse words all had secret significance. I’d donesomethingwrong. I’d done a shoddy job of wiping the counter. Or maybe my mom hadn’t taken out the trash fast enough.
Since he could go long stretches without seeming to care about those things, we’d get complacent. I’d start to feel a false sense of safety, and then his anger came out of nowhere. Rules changed unpredictably, and breaking them was never the trigger on its own. I knew that. That was just the thing that set off whatever rage he’d bottled up for however long.
I usually wouldn’t know what I’d done wrong, because asking would only invite the yelling. Worse, sometimes, I’d go out of my way to do something right, maybe clean the dishes piling up on the counter. And he’d fly into a rage because I’d thrown out a glass of tea he’d been drinking.
Rules were arbitrary, contradictory, impossible to get right.
I’d sit on the sofa, with my book forgotten, pretending to read, but paying attention instead to my dad’s every action. When he’d pass through the room, I’d watch him for flexed muscles or a tight jaw. I couldn’t let him see me flinch because that alone would provoke confrontation. We weren’t supposed to makehimfeel bad about his rage-aholic behavior. When he was down the hall, I listened for the sounds of objects breaking, wondering if they were replaceable, if they were precious things. I waited for the muttered insults meant to shame me or my mom.
Goddamn filthy cunts.
I’d worked hard for years to eradicate the trauma response that lived in my bones, but hearing his voice, knowing he was right now at my house with my mom, brought it all back up.
How could she betray me like that? Betray her own self? Was she stupid or just weak?
