Final Room

02 | nancy thompson

CHAPTER TWO | NANCY THOMPSON

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          Mom's presence isn't the issue. The reason behind it is.

          My parents parted on good terms, having simply fallen out of love with each other, and there's still a strong friendship bond between the two of them, so it's not like I have to put up with arguments whenever they're in the same room. I did spend plenty of time blaming myself for the divorce, though, in spite of their greatest effort to convince me otherwise, because surely I could have been a better daughter. I couldn't ever be the prodigal child—that honor belongs to Xavier, even though he hasn't stepped inside this house in years—but I tried so hard to be the glue holding them together.

          I don't think they've ever expected me to be like Xavier, with everyone in this family having completely different interests and plans for the future, but I still find it hard not to compare myself to him, even after all these years. I have my own accomplishments and he has his, yet it feels like mine always fall short next to his, a result of my poorly measured expectations.

           When Mom moved out following the divorce, I found out about her vow to only return if it was an emergency or of extreme importance, as she thought it would be too awkward for me and Dad ("Sharon, don't be ridiculous," he told her once, over Sunday brunch. "And there you are again, Cooper, gaslighting me," she retorted, pouring herself a generous glass of white wine. "These are my feelings!") if she comes and goes as she pleases. I don't know why she's here today, but I can't shake off the feeling that I've done something wrong.

          "What now?" Dad sighs, stuffing his empty coffee cup into the dishwasher without even rinsing it. "Did you call your mother?"

          "Why would I call her?"

          "Because she's your mother. There are . . . many things I don't understand about you." He sheepishly rubs the nape of his neck. "Your mother is more equipped to deal with certain things than I am. Girls tend to need their mothers."

          "I'm okay."

          In reality, I'm the furthest thing from okay, which he's well aware of, but neither of us makes any additional comments regarding the state of my mental health.

          I take advantage of our momentary silence to sneak out of the kitchen and head back upstairs to make myself look minimally presentable and brush my teeth. The less opportunities I give my mom to point out how much I've let myself go, the better. It's not like she's wrong by any means, as I've definitely seen better days, but taking care of my appearance has turned into a boring chore I find myself ignoring until I finally feel like handling it—except I never do.

          A month ago, I would have cringed the second I saw my reflection looking like it currently does: unkempt hair, messily chopped to try and hide the bald spots left by Him after he dragged me by my ponytail, color still TBD. Emma always said she envied my hair color, how it looked strawberry blonde, dirty blonde, light brown all at once, while now I just find it boring and inconsistent.

          My skin is as dry as a desert, paper-thin around my lips, and the circles underneath my eyes—lifeless, empty now, as opposed to the 'vivacious blue' Mom described them as to everyone who listened—are so dark and pronounced I can't hide them under foundation and concealer even if I bother to put on any makeup.

          I don't see the point. I really don't. I don't go anywhere these days and I'm not seeing anyone besides my parents—Mom on occasion, though she has been making an effort to be more present—and the therapist. I haven't updated my social media, refusing to look at the last pictures I ever posted on Instagram, frozen in time, in a time where everything was okay.