My Life in Shambles

This makes my mom’s hackles go right up. “Why should I apologize to her? It’s not my fault she’s like this.”

“Like what?” I ask. “Just say it. Just call me fat if that’s on your tongue because I’m okay with that. It’s just a word. It doesn’t mean anything bad unless you make it bad. The word fat doesn’t define anyone and it certainly doesn’t define me. It’s a word that’s not worth anything.”

She gives me an apologetic smile. “It’s worth something when your men leave you to find someone else better.”

FUCK. THIS.

“You know what?!” I erupt at her, my words screeching out of my throat. I start unbuttoning my coat and then toss it to the ground.

“Are you getting ready to fight me?” she asks in shock as I start pulling off my sweater. “Is she going to fight me, Dave?”

“I am sick and tired of this!” I yell, throwing my sweater to the ground and then taking off my shirt underneath until I’m in my bra.

“Valerie,” my mom scolds me, hand at her mouth as she eyes my bra. “What are you doing?”

I start pulling off my leggings and then slide off my boots and socks until I’m standing there in my bra and underwear in front of my parents. “This,” I say, pointing to my body, right there in all its scared and chubby glory. “I’m doing this. I’m showing you what I’ve never let you see before, not even when we went on vacation because I never went swimming if you were around.”

I start poking at my belly, squeezing the cellulite my thighs. “This is all me. This is my body and that’s all it is. I am worth more than this. This body does not dictate how much love I get or how much respect I’ll get or how smart I am or how kind I am or how far I’ll get in life. It doesn’t dictate who loves me and it doesn’t dictate who finds me attractive.”

My dad has turned away in embarrassment of seeing his daughter in her underwear, while my mom looks like she’s watching a horror show but I keep going. I run my hands over my scars. “These scars tell a story. They tell the story of my body, how I was flattened by a truck and how my body found the strength to survive and keep going. It found the strength to walk again and live again. My body did all of that. So if you’re going to equate worth with someone’s body, lets focus on that.”

I feel wild. I feel wild and so free. My heart is going a mile a minute, the adrenaline pumping through me. “And one more thing!” I look at my mother dead in the eyes. “I had a man that I loved and I lost but that doesn’t mean I’m a failure. Padraig was worth every single second I was with him. He was worth giving my heart to and even if things don’t work out in the end, I’m a better person for loving him.”

And with that, I bend down, gather up my clothes and head upstairs, wiggling my ass as I go.

“She’s lost her mind,” I hear my mother say in shock.

Yeah, well anytime you talk about the truth, there are people who will call you crazy.

Later that night I’m at my desk in my old room. I was scrolling through Facebook and Twitter and Instagram earlier, something I never did when I was in Shambles, but everyone’s fake perfect lives get too much for me so I put my phone away. I don’t have any texts or emails from Padraig either, not that I thought I would. Agnes said she would try and email me daily to keep me updated on his progress but so far there’s nothing from her either.

I’m all cried out over him and over the fight with mother and I don’t know if I have anything else left in me. But even so, I pull out my laptop and open a new word document and stare at the blank white page.

Somehow I think there’s a story in me somewhere. A story about a girl and her life in shambles.

I start writing.

I write and I write until there’s a knock at my door.

“Come in,” I say, expecting to see my father.

I’m shocked to see my mother.

“Can I come in?” she says. She’s holding a plate of cookies in her hand. “I made you some cookies.”

“Are you trying to make things up to me or is this a trap?” I ask. My mother never grovels or admits she’s wrong, so the fact that she’s here makes me wary.

“It’s not a trap. Can I come in?” she asks again, this time there’s something soft and pleading in her voice.

“Sure,” I say with a sigh.

She puts the tray of cookies before me on the desk and my stomach growls at the sight of them. I haven’t eaten anything since the shitty breakfast on the plane this morning.

She then sits down on my bed and clasps her hands in her lap, her shoulders slumped. She looks so small, like a child. I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen her so meek.

“I know you hate me,” she starts off saying. “And I don’t blame you. But I just wanted to talk to you.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You should hate me.” She starts wringing her hands together. “I hate me. I’ve been so horrible to you and I’m so sorry. I deserve all the hate I get.”

I sigh loudly. “I said I don’t hate you. Okay? But yeah, you’ve been horrible. You’re often really shitty to me, to Angie, to Sandra, even to Dad. And, you know, we all still love you, because you can have shitty people in your family and still love them regardless of that.” I pause. “But I think whatever issues you’re having with me and my weight or the girls and their relationships, I think it says more about you. You’re projecting. And, honestly, I think you should probably talk to someone about it.”

She just nods, pressing her lips together. She looks around the room, trying not to cry.

Oh dear God. Please don’t let her cry. I will lose it. My body is just looking for another excuse to let the tears fall.

“Mom,” I say to her. “It’s okay. I don’t hate you. I love you.” I get up and sit beside her, putting her arm around her. “I love you. You just need to stop being shitty.”

“I blame myself,” she cries out. “I blame myself for what happened to you.”

“It wasn’t your fault. If anything it was mine,” I say, trying to console her. “I’m the one who ran into the road.”

“You were just a child, Valerie. I was watching you and then Angie distracted me and the next thing I knew I heard the squeal of the tires and your scream and … I knew. I knew what happened.” She sniffs into my shoulder. “I saw you lying there on the road and I … I almost died right there. I thought I lost you. It changed me. It changed me inside, as much as it changed you. Sweetheart, I was so afraid after that. So afraid.”

She looks up at me and the pain on her face makes me ache inside. For all the shit my mom says, this is the first time I’ve realized how broken she is inside.

“I pushed you away,” she says, voice cracking. “And I am so sorry. I was just … so afraid that I could lose you again, that I was a bad mom for letting this happen. And your weight … your beauty. I felt so bad that you had to learn to walk, that you were bullied, that you were in pain. I just thought if you were perfect in every other way then you could have the life you were always meant to have.”

A tear rolls down my cheek as I give her a gentle smile. “But mom. I do have the life I’m meant to have. I’m living it right now. And no matter the heartache, no matter the fighting, no matter the ups and downs … it’s beautiful.” I kiss the top of her head. “Just like you. I love you mom. We may not fit flush with each other but it’s close enough.”

“Thank you,” she whispers to me and I hug her some more, letting her cry out all the tears she never let herself cry.

Then, after she was gone, I ate all the cookies.

23

Padraig

I’m woken up by someone slapping me across the face.

I jerk awake, my eyes wide open, my heart pumping, and see Nan standing beside my bed, a rolled-up newspaper in her hand.

“That’s what ye get for being a bloody eejit,” she says, a hand on her hip. “But I think you’re too thick to get it. Perhaps I better get the spoon.”

She disappears and I’m left in bed trying to figure out just what the fuck is going on?

Before I can get my brain working, she comes back, brandishing that large wooden spoon in her hand. The sight of it makes me shudder.

I put my hand out to stop her. “What is wrong with ye? Have you gone mad?”

She comes to the side of the bed, this eerie determination in her eyes and I quickly roll over and get up on the other side, my muscles aching from being atrophied.

“I haven’t gone mad,” she says. “I’m just trying to knock some sense into ye. It at least got ye out of bed, didn’t it?”

“The doctor said it’s good for me to rest as much as I need,” I protest. Though I have to say, now that I’m on my feet, I don’t feel half bad.

“That was a week ago,” she says, slowly walking around the bed with the spoon in her hand, calmly slapping her palm with it like some villain in an old movie. “And I know ye need to rest but ye also need to try and get on with your life. He said that too, didn’t he?”

I keep watching the spoon. “He said a lot of things. My mind is a bit fuzzy, you know.”

“So, then what have you done to try and move on with your life? Because as far as I’ve seen, you’ve only moped about. And before you blame your disease for it, perhaps you should take a moment to think about the real reason you’re sleeping all day and night long and not eating a single thing I’ve cooked ye. Because you’re heartbroken.”

I don’t say anything to that.

I can’t. Not really. Not except to say that heartbroken is an understatement.

My heart is completely shattered into smithereens, into a million tiny pieces that are too small to see, let alone pick up and put back together again.

I lost the love of my life and it’s all my fault.