Plastic and Porcelain

I shivered as I crossed the threshold of my childhood home. Warm faces and glowing Christmas lights only amplified the eerie chill shuddering through my bones. I breathed in, but even my lungs rejected the plastic smiles and empty words floating through the air. Somehow, the plastic seemed to catch on the lining of my throat, and suppressed coughs manifested my not-so-hidden distaste for the place. I can’t be here.

         “What are we all doing out here in the foyer? Come in, quickly, before you let the cold in,” says my mother, always more concerned with social niceties than with the actual people she’s speaking to. Mother is different from all the others. If their smiles are plastic–cheap and fake without much effort behind them–hers is porcelain–carefully curated to hide the brokenness underneath, beautiful to the point of delicacy, cracked in the places where the façade matters the most.  

         The jingling bells and piano music called me in, ringing hope that this time, this will be better. This time they’ll be different. My leg inched forward, full of hesitation, until they finally gave up on waiting. Aunt Kelly yanked my arm until I was immersed in the madness. Relatives I haven’t seen in years were laughing all around me, begging me to join in.

         The energy was tempting. I might even say it felt like home again. But this house, this family—it could never be home again. Uncle Edward cracked a joke so terrible that my face could barely resist matching their smiles. Until I remembered why I shouldn’t. Why I couldn’t. Why it would be wrong to smile. Why it would be wrong to be happy with these people. The people who—

         “Come on, El, have some cake.” The voice’s familiar sound perked me up. My eyes scanned the room for her. Tanya. The cousin who stood by me through it all. The one who fought alongside me when the world was falling apart. The girl who shared my darkness and let me in on hers. The only person who ever truly believed me.

After a 210-degree spin, I locked in on her. When our pupils met, something clicked. Not quite safety, but definitely something close. I glided toward her, taking my first unwavering step of the day. She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. Her small hands rested on my shoulder blades, bursting with love and security despite their scarcity in size. I needed her.

We walked over to the cake table, arm in arm, in solemn silence. Every now and then, I looked to her, searching for validation, approval, assurance that everything was going to be okay. I’d lived alone for so long that I thought I could never be this dependent on someone else again. And yet here I was, clinging to every breath Tanya expelled. My eyes gazed upward towards hers, motionless, like a puppy waiting for—

“May I take your orders?” Of course, mother hired a caterer. We wouldn’t want these helpless people with their delicate manicures to have to pick up a spoon and, God forbid, scoop their own soup.

“No, you can not,” I replied, digging in the ‘can’ in an attempt to relish every bit of ‘improper behavior’ I could squeeze in this short trip. Tanya looked at me, giggling at our pathetic attempt at rebellion. It was close to absurd—two grown women chuckling off about using ‘can’ instead of ‘may’ with a waiter—and yet it was us.

“We’ll have the potatoes and some roast beef,” Tanya answered, still unable to fully contain her amusement. As I forgot for the moment about the house of horrors I was standing in, my head swayed around, still consumed with laughter. But as it swung and bobbed, I lost focus. For a split-second, I allowed my mind to wander. Wander to the lights. To the tree. To the presents underneath. To the presents I opened exactly 10 years ago today. That morning. The morning I can never forget. The morning I could never properly remember. The morning I broke.

The corners of my grin fell, and every curve and line on my face slumped. My eyes flew around the room with anxiety, scouting dangers I might have missed. My mind took me back to that morning, Christmas morning. The morning everyone was downstairs opening presents. Almost everyone. Disoriented and afraid, I fled to the gold-lined guest bathroom.

My hands gripped the marble countertops as I sunk down to a frozen floor. The perfume of mother’s signature magnolia shampoo saturated the air. It was intoxicating, almost strong enough to distract from the real poison in this house—the blind eyes, the covered ears, the closed minds; the people, the plastic in their veins and the porcelain coating each one’s skin; the need to cover up, the secrets, the lies; the refusal to accept anything without a pretty ribbon on top. The script.

Sobs filled my lungs as my eyes drowned under tears that wouldn’t stop. Breathe. But I couldn’t. You can’t breathe when you’re running. And I couldn’t stop running. After all, how does one outrun a bullet train racing through her own brain? But I had to breathe. So I stopped. I stopped running. I stopped fighting. I let the train hit me.

“Could you tell me what happened with Connor?” the lady in the pantsuit asked. I remembered my line, “Nothing happened.” But she kept asking questions, “You look scared. Are you afraid? Don’t worry. You can tell me anything.” But I knew I couldn’t. Mother told me to stick the script no matter what. “No. I made the story up because I was angry. I was having a bad day, and Connor brought me a snack to try to cheer me up, but I snapped at him. For no reason.” That last part came less naturally, forcing me to swallow my pride to protect the ones I love. Or at least the ones I should love. She still refused to believe my story, my script, “Are you sure that’s all that happened?” I heard a flicker of despair in her voice. She was giving up. “Yes,” I replied, sealing my fate, “I’m sure.” She held onto my wrist as we walked out of the room, gripping it like she was afraid of what would happen if she let go.

As soon as she returned me to mother and went on her way, I underwent a second line of questioning, this time at the hands of my anxious parents. “Did you say what we told you to? Did you stick to the script? What did you tell her?” I rested well because I knew I had the right answer, “Yes, I said exactly what you told me to.” I thought I was off the hook, but mother always had one more dig in store for me, “Good. You’ve caused us enough fuss with this ‘investigation.’ I’ll bet you know now why we should never make a scene.”

A knock on the door cut my downward spiral short. The knock struck firm, crisp, unfeeling. It was my mother. “Hello?” she hollered with her sing-song Donna Reed voice, “Is anybody in there?” The voice, the persona I once despised made her hostess lessons and tactful warnings ring through my ears once again.

“It’s me, mother,” I said in the sweetest, calmest voice I could muster up, though the sound came out unstable, cracked, and rough.

“Oh, Eleanor. I have something to say to you when you come out, so please be hasty,” she replied.

I wasn’t in the mood for another lecture. That’s exactly why I left this place. That’s why I haven’t come back since…since his graduation. Apparently, I was being rude by not wanting to shake the hand that destroyed me from the inside out. Still, “Miss Thornewood” found it more important not to be rude than to keep her daughter’s mind intact.

I desperately wanted to give up, to do what I’ve always done—wash my face, walk out there, take whatever lecture mother has planned for me, then walk away like everything is fine. But everything isn’t fine. I’m back in the same place I’ve always ended up—sitting on the bathroom floor, breath shaking, face covered in tears, ready to surrender to my mother one more time. But I’m not that girl anymore. I can’t be that girl anymore.

For a second, my hand hovered over the doorknob with the same hesitation that I’ve always carried, afraid of what could be waiting on the other side. But that fear wasn’t enough to stop me anymore. I was more scared of what would become of me if I stayed on this side. On the “safe” side.

“No, mother,” I burst out of the bathroom, consciously not hiding the tears that filled my eyes to the brim, “I have something to say to you.”

“Eleanor,” she interrupted, outraged once again at my ‘impolite behavior,’ “You know it is impolite to—”

“No,” I cut her off, “What’s ‘impolite’ is caring more about your stupid reputation than the wellbeing of your own daughter.”

Her eyes fixed themselves on me, staring intently into my soul. The determination in her gaze made my resolve falter, just for a second. In the same second, though, my pupils found their way to Tanya, whose proud eyes and reassuring nod silently cheered me on.

Just as mother was about to interject again, to steal my rare moment of dignity like she’s done a hundred times, I continued. “What’s ‘rude’ is thinking that ‘not making a scene’ is more important than protecting your daughter. What’s ‘improper’ is shutting your daughter up because you think the terrible things that happened to her could shine a bad light on the precious family name. Well, guess what? The family name sucks. It sucks because it’s attached to a boy who should be in jail for what he did. It sucks because it’s attached to a grown woman who can’t see when her only daughter is losing her mind. It sucks because it’s attached to people who would rather wear their plastic smiles and paint their porcelain lives than face reality and see that maybe, life isn’t so perfect. Maybe, you’re not so perfect.”

I breathed deeply, my lungs worked up, almost burning, from the speech I’ve wanted to give since I was fourteen years old. The moment of vulnerability that stilled the air afterward was cut by the smallest gesture. Tanya stepped forward from the crowd, turned to stand beside me, and took my hand. Together, we crossed the threshold, walking in solemn silence, knowing we would never, ever have to step foot in that house again.