Odd Mom Out

My dislike doubles, grows. I want to punch her in the face. Not nice, but I’ve never claimed to be nice. I’m honest, and that’s something altogether different.

Jamming my hands deeper in my slouchy cargo pants, I’m acutely aware of how different I dress from the other women here. Even though it’s a country club pool, I’m wearing an old faded black T-shirt, old cargo pants that ride low on my hips and are frayed at the hem, and gray paint-splattered rubber flip-flops.

My hair, a dark brown that people like to call black, is loose and reaches almost to my waist and doesn’t have a style. It’s just long, but it’s how I’ve worn my hair since college, and I like it. I don’t try to be soft or pretty. I just want to be me.

Eva emerges from the locker room as Taylor Young walks our way. Eva, still in her swimsuit and with her clothes balled in her arms, stands at full attention as Taylor approaches. She’s looking anxiously at Taylor, smiling too big, waiting to be noticed.

When Taylor is about to pass without making eye contact or acknowledging her, Eva shouts out, “Hi, Mrs. Young. How are you?”

My hand clenches. I wish Eva hadn’t done that, but now Taylor pauses, turns in her short tennis skirt, and looks at Eva, and then me, and back to Eva. Her lips curve smugly. “Hello, Marta. Eva. How are you?”

I nod my head. “Hello, Taylor.”

“I’m good, Mrs. Young, thank you,” Eva answers breathlessly, smiling hard. “Are you having a nice summer?”

“Very nice. I hope you are, too.” And with a smile at Eva and a brief incline of her head in my direction, she moves on toward the locker room.

Eva’s wide, tight smile fades as Taylor disappears into the locker room. Her shoulders seem to curve in. “She’s the nicest mom. Everybody says so.”

I say nothing. What can I say?

We head to my truck, and I toss the wet towels in the back of the pickup. “You okay?” I ask her as we climb in.

She nods once but doesn’t say anything.

As I drive, I play my favorite Wyclef Jean CD. Eva just sits next to me, staring silently out the window. Her eyes are watery, but no tears fall. I tell myself it’s the chlorine from the pool, but I know the truth.

For a moment, I think I could hate Taylor and Jemma and all of them at the pool, but hate is such a useless emotion, and I don’t want to hate anyone.

Besides, Jemma’s just a little girl, and Jemma’s entitled to like who she wants to, even if Eva’s not one of them.

“Want to go see a movie? Go out for dinner?” I ask, glancing Eva’s way again, thinking of fun diversions.

She shakes her head, her long black hair hanging in inky tangles down her pale back. “No.”

“Is there anything that sounds good? It’s only Friday night, we could go home, pack up, head to Grandma and Grandpa’s cabin at Lake Chelan—”

“I just really wanted to have someone stay the night at our house. Play at our house.” She’s pressing her towel back to her mouth, chewing relentlessly on the corner. “I just think it’d be fun.”

For the first time in a while, I see the world as a nine-year-old, not a thirty-six-year-old, and she’s right. A sleep-over would be fun.

That night, Eva sleeps with me in my bed. We’re calling it a “slumber party,” and I’m trying hard to make it different from the other nights Eva’s crept into bed with me because she’s lonely or had bad dreams.

For the first few years of Eva’s life, she slept with me or in a crib next to my bed. From the very beginning, it was just the two of us, and I couldn’t bear to put her in a separate room. It was hard enough leaving her every day to go to work. I hated having her so far away at night. But then my insomnia returned, and I couldn’t sleep—would lie awake all night, fidgeting in the dark, trying not to wake Eva—and eventually I decided she was better off in her own room.

But she’s back tonight, along with a stack of her ever-present bridal magazines, and we’re watching a Hilary Duff movie on cable and eating popcorn and hot-fudge sundaes; and even as Eva snuggles close, using my lap as a pillow, I know I’m a poor substitute for a best friend.

Remembering my own best friends, I stroke her long hair; the black tangled strands that hang down her back are still chlorine rough. I should have made her wash her hair and condition it when we returned. But that’s so not my style. Instead I ordered out for barbecue chicken pizza. Trying to distract her. Trying to distract myself.

Growing up, I had best friends, great friends, friends my parents hated.

The corner of my mouth curls as I picture Sam and Chloe, friends who wanted to be as different as I did. Sam dressed punk and Chloe Goth, but both rode skateboards as I did before we got our driver’s licenses and went for funky muscle cars and barely running sports cars. We weren’t soft, pretty girls. We were too angry. Which is probably why I got shipped off to boarding school my senior year.

Sending me to boarding school had been Dad’s idea. Dad was old school. A retired major from the Deep South. All his life, he wanted sons. In the end, all he got was me.

Slowly, I untangle the tangles in Eva’s hair, hearing the movie dialogue but not listening. I understand what Eva wants, more than she knows.

I never did get my dad’s approval, and I adored him for much of my life. But nothing I did was good enough, nothing was right. He wanted sweetness, goodness, charm, docility. And I wanted fire.

Glancing down at Eva, I see the crescent of black lashes, the slight curve of future cheekbones, the full upper lip, and the firm, rounded chin.

This, I think, is the child my father wanted. My fingertips trace Eva’s cool brow. This is the daughter he would have cherished, adored. A delicate girl. A brilliant yet eager-to-please child, one who could be molded into a southern belle, his idea of the ultimate beauty queen.

The movie ends, and Eva scoots down beneath the sheet. It’s a hot night, and we’ve no air-conditioning, and even with a fan pointed at the bed, the air is still, hot, thick, heavy.

“Mom?” Eva’s cheek nestles in the pillow, her feet reach out and wrap around my legs.

With the window open and moonlight spilling, I can see her face. Her profile is pale, goddesslike in the dark. She was born with an old soul, and even though she’s nine, she’s mastered the pensive look perfectly, a troubled line etched between her brows. “What, baby?”

“Do you think Jemma’s mom is pretty?”

I feel like a cat with a hairball. I want to retch. Instead I touch that furrow between Eva’s eyebrows, willing it to go away. “Mmmm.”

“I love her clothes, and her hair. I think she’s so stylish and pretty.”

I can’t even come up with an appropriate answer, but fortunately, Eva doesn’t seem to need one.

“You’d look beautiful in dresses and outfits like that, Mom. Don’t you think? You could be so beautiful if you tried.” Eva smiles up at me, and her smile brief

ly dazzles me with its innocence and hopefulness. Eva can be so serious, and then when she smiles it’s like the full moon at midnight. So big and wide, glowing with light.

I lean toward her, kiss her. “I love you.”

She’s quiet for a long time, and I think maybe she’s fallen asleep. But then a moment later she whispers, “So white would be okay? Because I saw the most beautiful dress for you, Mom. It looks like a ball gown—”

“Don’t make me send you back to your room, Eva.”

“Mom.”

“You know weddings aren’t my thing. The whole idea of dressing up like a Madame Alexander doll and marching down an aisle while everyone watches curdles my stomach.”

“That’s rude,” she protests, cold feet rubbing against my calves.

“But it’s true, and Eva, you don’t have to get married to be happy.”

“Maybe not, but there’s no reason to make fun of people who want to get married.”

“I’m not making fun of them. I’m just saying, don’t try to be part of the pack. Be the wolf. It’s so much more fun.”

Eva giggles. “You’re weird.”

“I know, and I like it. Now go to sleep.”

“Good night, Mom.”

“Good night, my Eva.”

Eva scoots closer and tucks her hand into mine. “You know what I want, Mom?” Her voice is pitched low, and it sounds strangely mature in the dark room.

My fingers curl around hers. Her hand is warm and small in mine. “Please don’t mention weddings or marriage.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Then tell me. What do you want?”

“I want Jemma to like me.”

The pressure is back, a weight on my chest. I clear my throat. “I’m sure she does—”

“No, she doesn’t.” She sighs softly, sounding far too old for her years, but maybe that’s what being an only child does to you. “I can tell she doesn’t like me. But maybe she’ll change her mind. You know. When she gets to know me.”

I squeeze Eva’s hand tighter. “Let’s hope so.”