ALICE - Pictures of You

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BY MID-AFTERNOON, I'M antsy with boredom. I used to have an endless stream of panic-inducing CEO emails to keep me occupied on a weekend, but now it's just me and my over-active, fight-or-flight trained brain. Hippie Harry would advise me to use this quiet time to engage in reflection and self-care. He insists that it's good for the soul to simply 'sit in the nothingness' and enjoy the mental space.

What my therapist doesn't understand is that my mental space is way too... space-y for enjoyment. Sitting in it starts to feel like sitting in an airport lounge waiting to find out when your cancelled flight might get rebooked.

Still, I decide to take a stab at it for his benefit. I lie down on our bedroom floor and observe my breath. Quickly getting bored of that, I switch focus and instead observe the ceiling. The spiderweb in the corner. The ominous darkening that might indicate a roof leak. Then — calamity! — a crack in the plaster. On one hand, a sign of nothing more sinister than the need for a new coat of paint but on the other, (and the worse case always being the more likely in my brain's uninformed opinion) an early warning sign of subsidence and a clear indication that our house is going to collapse around us. My mind greedily imagines the imminent catastrophe: a loud, earth-shattering rumble as our second floor slides off the first, bricks and plaster raining down, children and husband barely making it out alive, while I lie trapped and helpless under what remains of our roof.

With a surge of adrenaline, I scramble up off the floor and clap the dust and dog hair off my clothing.

As soon as I'm vertical, I recognize my panic for what it is: fake news. Just my bored brain's way of giving me something to worry about. The house isn't going to collapse, at least not imminently.

I just need something to do.

I can hear last night's hockey game recap booming at top volume out of the den where Vic has the big screen permanently set to TSN and decide not to bother him with my cataclysmic fantasies right now. Sports fanatics consider a recap of a game they've already watched as holy as the game itself, so I know better than to try to make any conversation with him until that's over.

Tim has unsequestered himself from the bathroom, only to re-sequester himself in his bedroom where I can only presume he's building and blowing shit up with his Minecraft friends.

That leaves Maeve. Maybe this would be a good time to try to ferret the truth out of her. Mother-Daughter time. Womano-a-womano. And I believe I know just how to do it.

I find her lying upside down on her childhood bed, glumly flicking her phone screen.

"Doom scrolling?" I ask from the open doorway, not daring to enter without permission despite the fact that I'd been using this room as my home office less than a week ago. My recent occupation is evidenced by the stacks of invoices and receipt bundles that are spilling from the desk onto the carpet. I am not a naturally ordered person.

She tilts her head so I can see her face and says stonily, "No."

Well, that clears that up. Excellent inroads being made here already, I think. Just 40 more metres of teenaged permafrost to blast through with the fire of my motherly charm. Nearly there.

"Okaaaay," I said, breaching the doorframe and making like I'm just here to pick up some of my paperwork. "Just needed this--" my hand scrambles around the desk, grabbing the first thing it can make sense of, "--pack of post its."

"Mkay," she says dismissively, thumb still scrolling, face still sour.

"So, hey, I was thinking...." I peer over her arm and see that she's on some girl's Instagram. Picture after picture of the same girl. Partying, kissing a guy with one eye on the camera, flashing the peace sign (why do they all do that?), making duck lips at the camera (and that?). I note that she wears a Queen's University jacket. A school friend, then? "She's pretty," I say, hoping to create some tiny connection with my brick wall of a daughter.

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