When She Comes on Vacation

Why did she have to come? I try not to pout as I see her reflection in the mirrored wall of our favorite café. She’s uncomfortable in the comfort of the café, her shoulders tense and her nose is upturned trying not to smell the delicious bread or see the well-worn tiles, and I hate her for it. I love this café. We’ve been here every summer for the last twelve years; it feels like home. How dare she make me feel out of place here.

Betty greets me by name, “Anne, welcome back! The usual?”

I want to order the usual, but she’s here, staring at me so I can’t. “Betty, it’s so great to see you.” I yearn for pastries in the glass case, wishing I was here to order the chocolate croissants, with their flaky, buttery crust and the thick chunks of melty chocolate, but she won’t eat them. “Just coffee this morning, unfortunately.”

Betty sees her, and nods. “Sounds good. Do you want the dark or medium roast?”

“Dark roast, please.”

The nutty coffee brewing almost makes me forget about the buttery, chocolate goodness that warms every inch of the bakery, but not my empty stomach. It’s vacation, and I’m dieting because she’s here. I turn to look at her but stop myself. I don’t want to see her. I hate that she invited herself on this vacation and I was too weak to tell her no. 

“Here’s your coffee, Anne.” Betty smiles as she rings me up. I notice the wrinkles have deepened since last summer, and I am tempted to tell her about the eye cream I use. I stop myself. I hate that I even have the urge to say anything. I blame her for being here. She’s always judging.

“Thank you, Betty. You’re the best!” I say with a smile.

I turn to leave, and she follows me. Why did she come?

“I need to get a dress for tonight,” I mutter as I make my way to the boutique on the corner. She follows and though she doesn’t say anything, I can feel her eyes on me.

The boutique is busy, so despite my better judgement, I ask her opinion after each dress. “What do you think?” I twirl in the blue dress with the flowy skirt. The color makes my eyes pop, and I think she might like this one.

She shrugs, “It’s okay. Maybe you should try the peach to brighten up your skin?”

She’s right, of course, my skin looks sallow against the blue. I slip into the peach; the color is brilliant, and the slinky fabric feels sexy against my skin. But as I turn for her opinion, I see the arched eyebrow and curled lip of disgust, and I every flaw the dress accentuates suddenly pops out from the mirror.

“It makes you look fat. I can see your cellulite. Just get the black one. It’s going to be the most forgiving on your frame,” she states.

Of course, she’s right. I don’t even try the black one because I know it will be fine. Black is always fine, like a funeral for the beauty I once thought I had.

Henry is waiting at the door of the condo when I return. He wraps me tightly in his arms. “I was worried when I woke up and you weren’t here.”

He always worries about me when she’s around. He watches my every move as if I am the problem, not her. I unwrap myself from his arms. “Why don’t you shower, and I will make us some breakfast," I suggest.

He laughs, “Do I smell that bad?”

“Was I that transparent?” I smile. I was trying to be kind with my recommendation, but the smell of his sweat stings my nose even though we are several feet apart.

“I love you, Anne,” He smiles and kisses my forehead.

“I love you, too,” I smile back.

As soon as the shower turns on, she starts in on her criticism. “You shouldn’t talk to him like that.”

“Like what?” I ask, incapable of ignoring her.

“You’re lucky to have him. You shouldn’t judge him for his body odor—he can’t help it.”

“I wasn’t criticizing. I’m just sensitive to his smell. You heard him, he said he loved me, and he laughed.” I try to assure her that I did nothing wrong.

“He has to say he loves you or you turn into a wallowing mess. You’re so pathetic, Anne.”

I feel pathetic. I should have told her she couldn’t come on this vacation with us. She doesn’t do anything but make me feel bad about myself, but here she is ruining our vacation.

“Anne, are you listening? You are ugly and stupid, and you are lucky Henry sticks around. Maybe you should stop telling him he needs a shower.” She’s screaming at me, but I can’t respond.

I slump to the ground, curl into a ball, hug my knees to my chest, and sob. She doesn’t leave. She hovers over me. She continues to berate me with her cruel words, “Ugly! Fat! Pathetic! Worthless!” The words echo against my skull.

I don’t hear the shower stop. I don’t hear Henry’s frantic footsteps. He gently shakes me by the shoulders, “Anne, I’m here. It’s okay. It’s just me. Are you okay?”

I blink, trying to focus my vision through the tears. “I hate her,” I say.

Henry’s face falls, “Anne, it’s just you and me.”

“I know,” I whisper. “But I hate her.”

“I love her,” Henry whispers, “because she is you, and I love everything about you.” He rocks me and whispers to the rhythm of his swaying, “I love your nose. I love your big brain that figures out all the puzzles. I love your soft, unruly hair that puffs up in the humidity. I love how you laugh at your own jokes. I love the curve of your neck.”

I let him whisper his love to me. I try to allow his words to overpower her words that continue to echo in my head.

“I’m sorry. I never should have let her come with us,” I apologize through snot-filled breaths.

“Anne, look at me,” Henry orders and cups my head in his hands. “It’s just me and you.”

I wish it were that simple. I wish Henry’s words could make her go away for good. I wish I never had to hear her telling me I am too old, too ugly, too fat, but no matter where I go, she follows. She is me, but she is also my mom. She is the boy in 5^th grade who told me I looked like I took steroids because I was so big. She is the boy in 8^th grade, embarrassed from dancing with me, but too nice to say no. She’s my sister recommending I wear longer swim shorts. But most of all, she’s me, picking out every flaw and every mistake, and I hate her.

When my tears have dried, Henry helps me to my feet. “Let’s go get a croissant.”

“That sounds perfect,” I agree, and I make her stay in the condo so I can enjoy my favorite treat, in my favorite café, with my favorite people.