I hate Russian sage. Such an ugly little plant, faded purple, as if you’d taken something decent and put it through the wash too many times. I hate that planted so much of it around the house without asking me. The smell gives me a headache. The smell reminds me of the summer my mother was in love with Lenny. I told you about Lenny, I know I did, and I told you about the sage too, the beaming bushes around the hotel’s perimeter, crowding the lamb’s ear, the black-eyed susans, the knee-high grasses. I’d sit on the curb and pluck leaves and crush them between my fingers, letting them get sticky with juices, herbal with smells, and I’d hold my fingers to my nose and breathe in deep, sage smell basting the inside of my nostrils. My mother saw me, and she yelled for me to stop. Lenny would think I was picking my nose and Lenny already hated kids, even the polite and well-behaved ones, which my mother was convinced I wasn’t. That’s why she didn’t let me come into the hotel with her.
Why she didn’t let me stay at home, I don’t know. There was no one to watch me. There was no one to watch me in the hotel parking lot either, but she knew I wouldn’t do anything. I lacked the creativity for destruction possessed by other kids; she’d tell me to sit still and wait, and I’d wait, rubbing my hands on concrete, staring blank and baby-faced at every new car vomiting guests into the lobby. It would get dark and the hotel’s neon sign attracted swirls of moths, and the moon competed with the round faces of streetlights for my attention. I didn’t know the difference between airplanes and shooting stars yet, so I made five wishes a night on average.
Lenny managed the hotel restaurant. He got my mother free dinner. She dressed up each time, slacks and blouses that would be professional if they weren’t so low cut. I would watch her smear on layers of lipstick, eyes snake-like in the mirror, hypnotized by her own mouth.
“Can I put on lipstick?” I asked.
“No. You’re too young.”
My mother’s attention came in waves. It was useless to ask for anything when she was preening. All I wanted was for her to take her eyes off the mirror and give me a smile. But I had to wait.
Then it came, all too much, overwhelming, smothering, feathery -- those must be the last feelings of a rabbit before a hawk swoops silent and violent from the heavens. Her eyes too close to mine, her smile stretching wide inches away, her moist sweet-smelling hands cupping my chin. It happened too quickly for me to react. She said something I didn’t understand, brought her hot lips to my forehead, and then flew away again. I wanted her to come back. I was too boring to hold her attention.
Lenny wasn’t boring, not to her. He’d stand in front of the lobby, and she’d melt into him, dissolve into silly-girl giggles, doe-eyes. Her hands cradled his chin. I felt insanely jealous. He didn’t even know who I was.
Once, she and I were in the car, and she was applying mascara in the rearview mirror, mouth gaping like a dead fish, and I asked “When are you gonna tell him you have a kid?”
“Soon. I don’t wanna ruin anything yet.”
“Why do I have to wait outside? Why can’t I at least go in the lobby?”
She turned to me, sudden and smooth, head twisting too far, the way owls do. Her eyes, big and bug-like, inches from my face, her perfume clogging my mouth. “I’m your mother, honey, okay? You have to listen to what I tell you.”
It didn’t make sense. I had my own thoughts, I could move my own body, but I couldn’t let my thoughts do what they wanted with my body. I had to listen to my mother and obey her commands, wait patient like the tied-down golden retrievers with furry chins on their paws and leashes tied to bike racks.
Once, there was a dog waiting next to me, a dachshund, but I didn’t know that word yet. To me, it was a weiner dog, hilarious in name and proportion. It looked so stupid and so sad, eyes shifting and lost, scared, wanting more than anything for its owners to return from the cheap little hotel restaurant.
I sang to it. All the songs I knew came from TV shows. On nights she went out with Lenny, my mother let me watch as much TV as I wanted afterwards. I thought I was pretty good. Sometimes I’d sing for my mother, and on nights she was in a good mood, she’d clap along, eyes squinting with delight. If her date with Lenny didn’t go well, she’d tell me to shut up. I thought, maybe, if I got really good at singing, if I could entertain her for long enough, she wouldn’t have to seek entertainment elsewhere, burrow herself in Lenny’s arms. We could spend a nice evening at home or something.
The dachshund, the weiner dog, didn’t react to my singing. I wasn’t what it wanted -- its owners were still in the restaurant.
It was a heavy night, moist, dark, wet-smelling like moss, clear skies with millions of white stars like pinpricks, the hotel glowing yellow and electric, and I wanted to run somewhere very fast. But I wasn’t an impulsive kid, and what if my mother walked out and saw me acting a fool?
But I still wanted to do something. My legs were falling asleep on the concrete, filling with itchy static and I stomped them. This startled the dachshund. I went to pet it, leaning in fast and sudden, and it shied away from my attention. But the leash was short and tied down tight, so it could only move so far away. I untied the leash, my small fingers struggling against the knot on the bike rack. I wanted him to run away into the night. But he just stared at me. He wasn’t going anywhere. We sat and waited patient together, sweating on the summer concrete.
Anyways, I want you to return this Russian sage. There’s much better plants. And I want you to ask me next time, okay?
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16 comments
This was so enjoyable and relatable. I love the title. I caught a few mistakes "There's much better plants" should be "There're much" and "sat and waited patient together" should be "patiently," but beyond that this was lovely. Well done!
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thanks so much! and i seemed to have rushed this, there quite a few errors. thanks for pointing them out :)
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No problem!
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you've really captured the extremely specific and feeling of sitting in a parking lot while waiting for your mom to come back to the car (for me, it was usually in the parking lot of a home improvement store, listening to excessively dramatic music on my ipod) one quick note: in the first paragraph, I think you're missing a 'you' between 'that' and 'planted', so you might want to fix that! otherwise, great as always
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you’re right, thanks for catching that! and thank you :)
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From the critique circle! Hi Masha, Love the way you wrote this that you made me hate her mom already and I felt bad for the poor child, always waiting for the mom. A few grammatical errors can be worked out of course. Overall quite a good story. Keep writing!
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Beautifully written as always, Masha. I think you're one of my favorite descriptive writers on here, you really just have a knack for bringing out metaphors and emotions in such a pretty way, it makes reading everything you write so enjoyable. I loved how you described the protagonist in this, I honestly felt so bad for her and how naïve she was. Her mother also sounded so horrible, and I found myself wincing at parts where she would have mood swings and take it out on her daughter. Brilliant job :D
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thank you so much!!
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Really love the symbolism between the two of them at the end of the flashback, and the way it snaps to the present again. I kept thinking, "Man, the number of times I've heard people talking about how modern kids have it so good, because kids in the 80s just had their house key and were expected to go home on their own..." You have to feel more for the narrator because she never feels bad for herself.
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haha thanks so much for your comment!
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There is an ominous mood to they way the present self recalls the story. Perfectly chilly. Love it.
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thanks so much!
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Amazing story from an amazing author!👏🏻 wonderful job on this emotional piece.
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thanks so much :)
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Oh, the poor narrator :( Still, I'm glad that the ending implied she eventually got over it. Exquisitely written as usual. Keep at it! :D
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thanks so much!
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