Enough

I made my decision last night, I remind myself. I had as good a time as I could because I knew the consequences, but now it was time to face the music. I was in the passenger seat of Demetrius’s nice, sleek, air conditioned car that he gifted himself last year. A well deserved upgrade from the clunker Jeep he used to drive for years. My eyes were unfocused as we passed suburban house after suburban house. Cream, coral, brown, off-white, mint green, gray. All the houses and colors blended together, making me wish I could stretch the road for miles so that I wouldn’t have to be dropped off at home. My heart was beating out of my chest with anxiety; I was quite literally sick to my stomach.

Beside me, Demetrius was prattling on about the previous night we had in Hollywood with some of his friends. 

“...I’m so serious, you should have done another line with us, Cons. I love it when you let your hair down, you’re so much fun then.” He spoke excitedly, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. I tried to muster a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. I knew I failed when Demetrius did a double-take to search my face. The car swerved a little as we cruised to a stop at a light. 

“Are you really that worried about going home?” He asked, his face falling. Then he frowned.  “She shouldn’t be that mad. You’re 21 years old. It’s not against the law to go out with friends.” I covered my mouth, massaging  my upper lip to swallow the saliva that was starting to pool. 

“I know,” I finally answered, “But it doesn’t matter. She knows I had fun last night and that’s just going to piss her off even more. She’s going to try and take me down a notch, I know it. Just to keep me in check.” I murmur, miserable. I gnaw at my short, stubby nails and then inspect them with resigned disapproval. I don’t think I’ll ever have nice nail beds like the beautiful, poised, sorority girls I rushed with in college. I worry too much about any and everything to ever stop the comforting but disgusting habit. Those girls don’t worry at all, or the same. Back in the car, Demetrius is still watching me while he drives. He doesn’t look like he understands and I don’t expect him to, but thankfully he drops the subject. 

We ride the next few minutes in silence until my residential street comes into view. I close my eyes and shout into the mental universe, willing my mother to not to be home. I motion for Demetrius to slow down as he rounds right the turn onto my street. I search for my house immediately, finding my driveway. I sag over the center console with relief; the driveway is empty, save for my brother’s glossy, jet black car. My mother hates that he got a new car before her. She’s still driving the van she drove us around in as kids. 

I make Demetrius drop me off two houses away, “Thank you for dropping me off,” I tell him. Before I turn away, he grasps my fingers through the open window. 

“Text me if you need to.” We hold eye contact before I pull away and head towards my house.

When I walk through the door, Miles is lounging on the couch. He looks at me knowingly, but doesn’t say anything. He leaves the room instead. No sense being present for a brewing hurricane, I think bitterly. It also reaffirms what I already knew; I’m on my own in this. 

I’m already running through different scenarios in my head. I broke my mother’s unspoken rule: I have to be home by the end of the day no matter what. I’ve never spent the night away from home while living with my mother. Ever. Nevermind that I’m going to be a college graduate this coming summer. Or the fact that I experienced and fiercely enjoyed those late college nights, out partying and hanging with friends on my own terms, or most importantly that I’m twenty-one. But I keep having to come to terms with the fact that the rules are different whenever I come home. I’m never allowed to stay out late, my mother shuts down any conversations about me learning to drive, and I have to text her and tell her where I am at all times. 

 The lack of freedom whenever I return home between the summer semesters is crushing in comparison to my brother. Life at home for Miles is the complete opposite to mine. Miles, who gallavants all over Los Angeles with his little friends from highschool, drinking beer and trying drugs, attending popular concerts with interesting people all over the city. Miles doesn’t tell our mother where he goes, or if he does, he certainly downplays it. Miles won’t admit it, but he gets a pass because our mother actually adores him. We all know it, but I’m the only one who’s honest about it. 

Our house…is classically cluttered. Mom and Dad both work in education and bring loads of it home with them. Documents, folders, lesson plans, district papers, laptops, all of it clogs our house. Then there’s bad wiring through the house from the shoddy electrician my mother hired ages ago; and the garage is stacked floor to ceiling of old junk. My first bike is still in there. Navigating walking through the garage is impossible; there’s too much stuff blocking the door. If we needed to escape during a fire, we’d all be trapped like rats. My room also leads to my bathroom, which leads to the garage. So I never truly have any privacy if anyone wants to get something out.  

Once I shut the door behind me in my room, I feel safe. Open spaces like the living room unsettle me. That’s usually reserved for arguing. Fortunately for me, I’ve beaten my mother home from work, so I have some time to plan my responses. An hour or so later, though,  I finally hear my mother’s car pull into the driveway. She’s home early. A half day.

Like a hulking bear, she drags herself and her work bag through the door, like a man tied down to a cinder block. My mother is a large woman, having gained weight throughout her marriage. She always comments to me that she used to have a skinny little body like mine, and it’s true. I’ve seen the pictures of her when she was younger, in her twenties like me. She was a vision.

Her keys jingle with every step, a sound I singularly despise. In my experience, it’s best to get the argument over with quickly and not let her stew or get into stride. Her rages can last from a few minutes, to hours; the worst being days. So I exit my room to greet her immediately and ask for her bags, the way she taught me.

“Hey, Ma.” I greet her, and I try to keep the nervousness out of my voice. If I act guilty, it’ll only make her feel more righteous in being upset. 

She takes off her shades and smiles a perfect, sharp smile, “Hey, Baby. You’re home. I missed you last night.” She’s casual about the accusation, as if I got in late and she was already asleep. She wants to see if I’ll lie. It's a trap for the in-experienced; I know better. I decide to sidestep her invitation to argue for now and choose honesty. 

“Yeah,” I say, “We, Demetruis and I, went out to Hollywood and got a little too tipsy to drive. So I crashed at his place. We had a ton of fun though.” I shrug for added effect, to signal I don’t want to argue as much as I can.

She pretends she doesn’t hear my explanation and that she is still emptying her things onto the kitchen counter. As I watch her, she glances up at me. “Go ahead, baby. I’ll talk to you when I get settled.” 

Inwardly, I groan. That means she’s been stewing since last night. She wants to pretend like she’s taken time to consider my transgression, but really she wants me to sweat about it. 

It’s a risky move, but I press her. “Well, I mean I’m here right now. You can tell me.” 

I watch her closely. She flicks her head irritably, like a bear swatting flies. “I have a lot going on right now, Constance,” she claims. She pulls her anxiety mask out like a second skin, “Please just let me get settled before you ask me all kinds of things.” 

I bite my tongue. The random anxiety always ticks me off more than anything else and she knows that. It makes me reactive. How can she act like I’m the one stressing her, when in reality she’s waiting with a hammer to play whack a mole? I return to my room. My attempt at de-escalation has failed.

It’s much later, towards the late afternoon, when I get a text from my mother. 

‘Come into the kitchen, please. I’d like to talk to you.’

The anxiety returns full force, but I swallow my fear and head into the kitchen with an unassuming, blank face. My mother has already pulled out a chair for me to sit in, facing her. It’s the same tactic she uses on kids sent to her office for misbehavior. Close and personal.

“What’s up, Mom?” I ask, sitting down. 

She takes a beat to respond to me, pretending that she’s searching for the words. “We had an agreement the last time we argued, right? That we would respect each other and the rules of this house, right?” I nod, but she’s waiting for a verbal response, as if I’m an idiot. As much as it humiliates me to do so, I open my mouth. 

“Yes.” 

“And you promised to text me whenever you were moving locations or how late you would be right?” 

It’s here that I frown. I texted my father exactly where I would be and told him that I wasn’t coming home. I knew he would tell her.

“I texted Dad—” 

“Yes or no, Constance” The anger is controlled but present. But now I’m angry too.

“I texted, Dad!” I repeat again, defensive. She ignores me, scoffing. The look on her face is ugly. She’s become red faced in the few minutes that we’ve been talking, and her lips are almost non-existent; they're drawn so thin. 

“Your father never told me anything!” she says lowly, “I had no idea where you were!” She finally shouts, her anger breaking over me like a wave. 

However, I’m level headed enough to recognize the giant lie my mother is telling me. My parents do not have the best marriage, on that I can agree. But when it comes to their kids making mistakes or doing something wrong, that is the only time they ever present a gleeful united front. If this were the show Recess, my mother would be Miss Finster and my father would be her lackey, Randall. I know how they operate and know for a fact that she’s lying. And I say as much.

“You’re lying, Mom.” I say, surprise coloring my voice. “Dad tells you everything, even the stuff he doesn’t have to. He never would have kept that from you.” But my mother isn’t listening, she’s talking over me, tuning out my rationale. 

“YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO TEXT ME, CONSTANCE. NOT YOUR FATHER.”

“What does it even matter?!” I scream back, frustrated. “You still knew where I was, didn’t you? Who cares if you didn’t get the text yourself??” 

“BUT YOU DIDN’T DO AS I ASKED YOU TO, CONSTANCE! YOU ARE DEAD WRONG! YOU WILL RESPECT THE RULES OF MY HOUSE OR YOU CAN GET OUT!” 

I don’t know when it happened but we’re both standing now. As she’s yelling, I can’t even see where my mother has gone. She’s somewhere else, high in her head. Meanwhile, I’m more in control than I ever have been. I’m not emotional or weepy like I used to be, or even sorry. Is it because this argument is so close to the last one, so I’m still warmed up? No. It’s something else.

Awareness hits me like lightning. Staying grounded is easier because I’m not in the wrong. I haven’t done anything wrong. At all. And my shaking, anxious body knows this. Relief floods through me. I followed all of her rules, and still managed to live as an adult and challenge her authority. I was guilty in her eyes the moment I decided to live for myself, on my own terms. That freedom of thought made me guilty.

I return to the present and look at my mother. I smile.

“Why am I arguing with you?” I ask her rhetorically, “I don’t have to argue with you. I didn’t do anything wrong.” I know she can see the relief on my face. Her own, however, wrenches in fury. It scares me, so I turn my back to her. I've decided to go back to my room. I start walking and all I hear is her shrieking behind me. Her footsteps are getting louder, so I speed up my pace, closing my door behind me. 

“OPEN THIS DOOR!!” With a loud crash, my door flies open behind me. My mom is heaving on the threshold, livid at my refusal to engage with her.

“If you can’t respect the rules of this house then you can get out!” She shouts again. There is nothing but boiling anger between us; me for her need to control and her for me being unmalleable. I’ve had enough of being the victim.

“Okay,” I say flippantly, “Make me.” I expect her to sputter, but instead she takes on a focused look.

“I’ll call the police then. They can come pick you up, and you can see what it’s like for kids who don’t have homes to go to.” She threatens. I sigh. Promising to kick me out or put me in a shelter is what used to bring me to a heel when I was a teen. But that was then. I’ve lived on my own before and at this point, I’m not afraid to figure it out.

“So do it, Mom!” I shout back. “You’ve never wanted me to feel at home with you here. You don’t want me here so do it!” She snaps the door shut as a response. I flop back on my bed, shaking. I did it. I defended myself. I feel scared but proud. Excited. Everything is different now.

 A few minutes later, there’s a knock on my bedroom door. It’s Miles. I suppose that was enough time to give him the rundown. He looks tired, but I can’t imagine the easy life could be that taxing.

“Mom says if you don’t apologize she’s calling the police over. She has them on the phone right now.”

“I don’t CARE, Miles,” I snap. “I absolutely do not. I didn’t do anything wrong! She just wants to be able to punish me! I refuse to apologize for something I did not do! Tell her to make me!”

“Okay, okay. But she’s serious.”

“I’m serious too! She’s not going to get her way!”

The door closes with a ‘snick’.

There’s a third knock on my door that sounds different from the rest. I slide some pants on and answer. An actual officer is standing in the hallway. He looks too big for our house with all of his gear on. I’m trembling, but I jut my chin out and address him respectfully.

“Hello, officer.” I greet him. 

“Hey there, Constance,” The officer greets platonically. “Your Mom called and said you guys were having some trouble, and thinks it’s best you separate for a while. Do you have anywhere you can go?” 

“Anywhere is better than here.” I respond.