The Diary of Existing

FIFTY ONE

FIFTY ONE

I closed the box and turned to face her. My mother and I stood there, a huge gap between us, in pure silence. She wasn't berating me about how she was wasting her time standing there in silence when she needed to be downstairs entertaining her pretentious guests, who cared more about herself than anyone else.

And that little letter on the baby book felt like proof enough.

"I wasn't expecting you. And I thought you'd be at school. Dr. Palmer told me that I was going to be joining you this Friday, Saturday and Sunday for your sessions." My mother spoke, as she sat down on my bed.

I just stood there, not wanting to sit next to her, not wanting to trail my sight away from her. Like she was some sort of predator ready to eat this terrified little rabbit who stood before her. I played with my fingers, as I tried to think of what I should say.

"Is there anything you want to say to me?" It was like she could read my mind.

Yes, there was.

There was a million things I wanted to tell you.

I want to tell you that you are a terrible mother, that what you wrote in that baby book is true, that you are a terrible mother. You still are. And you have never made up for that first year that you lost with me. It's as if you still have postpartum depression. You are sick, disgusting, a disgrace to all women who call themselves mothers.

I hate you.

"I don't know." Was what came out of my mouth, despite what I truly wanted to tell her. She nodded her head, as if agreeing. She looked down at my bedside table, pulling towards her a picture frame. I don't even remember what photo was in there.

"This was your seventh birthday." She said, and I looked at her eyes, trying to find some resemblance of emotion. To my surprise, it looked as if she was yearning for a memory lost when she laid eyes on that photo.

"You were crying so hard because your father just had to pay for this man to bring in this monkey that did tricks. But you were terrified of that monkey. I kept telling your father that you were scared, that you didn't need a monkey for your birthday. But he insisted, and we argued the night before and he still brought the monkey on the day of your birthday." She said it as if I was supposed to remember it. But I really couldn't remember it.

What I remembered from my seventh birthday was different than what she remembered.

"You cried when you saw the monkey, you rant to me and hid behind my dress and cried so hard while your father kept trying to put you and the monkey close together. I got so angry, I slapped him and told him to take that monkey and shove it up his ass." She began to laugh at the last part of the statement. Like it was some joke.

That part I remember.

That was what I had remembered for my seventh birthday.

The party hadn't even started, and my parents were already fighting. People who were to serve at the party felt uncomfortable walking around my parents. They felt like they were walking on eggshells. Their voyeuristic eyes would linger from their work towards my parents who were yelling at one another.

My mother slapped my father for bringing in that stupid monkey, and trying to get me to come near it. I was yelling hard as I was crying and she got frustrated at my crying that she took it out on my father, slapped him, and it ensued a yelling match between the two of them. I remember my mother's words to my father, about how he was useless and knew nothing about me. My father bit back by telling my mother she was a sorry excuse for a mother to begin with, and that she spent the first year of my life just focusing on her dying career as a writer.