Mom Jeans and Other Mistakes Page 5

  “Not that!” I push her away when I realize what she’s thinking. “I meant”—I try to force out the words through my laughter—“I was going to order you some toys!”

  We’re doubled over on my bed laughing when my phone rings. And not just any ringtone, the obnoxious one. The one I set for the even more obnoxious person on the other end.

  My laughter ends abruptly.

  “Fuck,” I whisper. Thankfully Lauren is still laughing and doesn’t hear me. “Hold on.” I gesture to Lauren to be quiet before sliding my finger across the screen. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Oh good, you answered for once,” she greets, and it’s almost laughable.

  If there’s one person I always answer for, it’s Juliette Andrews.

  And not because I actually want to talk to her.

  God no.

  Whenever her name appears on my screen, my stomach falls to my feet and tension weaves its way through my veins until I feel almost paralyzed with anxiety.

  “Anyway,” she continues, and my nerves threaten to claw out my insides as I wait to hear what she needs this time. “I’m driving to your house. I know you’re probably still in bed, so get up and dressed. I don’t want to wait.”

  “You’re driving over? Now?” I look at Lauren, and the horror I’m feeling is not at all reflected in my best friend. Instead, she’s all smiles and anticipation and joy.

  If she only knew.

  “Yes.” I can almost hear my mom’s eyes rolling through the phone, like I’m the one out of line and not her for just casually dropping by on a Sunday. “And please, don’t wear workout clothes today. We’re going to brunch, not the gym.”

  Then my phone beeps in my ear, signaling the end of the conversation.

  “Your mom’s coming over?” Lauren asks, even though she already knows the answer.

  “We’re going to brunch.” I don’t look at her as I sign into my bank account and check my balance, trying to think of how many more Instagram posts I can commit to. I know who’ll be paying for unlimited mimosas . . . and it won’t be the person who insisted on brunch.

  “That’ll be fun. Plus, waffles and bacon make everything better, especially hangovers.”

  Lauren was with my family any chance her mom let her out of the house when we were kids. She loves my mom. Which, who can blame her? My mom was a blast. She shot to fame on a soap opera in the eighties, the golden era of soaps. But that didn’t mean she ever neglected being a mom. She was the best mom ever.

  Was.

  Then my dad died.

  And somehow, so did my mom. She became a stranger.

  But nobody knows that. Not even Lauren.

  “Don’t forget the mimosas!” I try to hide my dread under fake peppiness as I peel the covers off me and slip out of bed. “You know they make them with vodka now? Hair of the dog, baby!”

  Even though I don’t look at her as I make my way to the bathroom, I can still feel her concerned gaze burning a hole through my back.

  I turn the lock on the door and flip on the harsh bathroom lights. I can’t even be bothered to hide my flinch when I see my reflection in the mirror.

  Besides the mascara smudges surrounding my eyes because I was too drunk to be worried about my skin-care routine, they’re also bloodshot and swollen. But that’s not from last night. That’s from the built-up tears I’ve been fighting since I saw my mom’s name on my phone.

  The sundress I was too unbothered to take off last night billows to the floor at my ankles along with my lacy underwear, and I step into the shower. I crank the handle all the way to hot and stand beneath the showerhead, bracing for what’s coming.

  The freezing water is a shock to my system, but I love it.

  I need it.

  My teeth chatter as the water transforms into needles threading through my skin, trying to sew on a costume of a daughter who loves her mom.

  Then the water starts to heat and I brace.

  When the scalding water attacks my skin, I welcome it. I stare at my skin, watching as it becomes so red, I wonder if I’ll start bleeding soon. I don’t turn down the heat until my skin becomes almost numb to it. It’s what I was waiting for. The reminder that it doesn’t matter where the pain comes from, eventually, I’ll become numb.

  Even to my mom.

  Scratch that.

  Especially to my mom.

  SEVEN

  • • •

  Jude

  For someone with so many financial troubles, Juliette Andrews sure does portray an image of wealth. From the red bottoms on her feet, to the emblem on her red convertible, to the fresh highlights in her hair that probably could’ve paid for the water bill I covered last month.

  But fake it until you make it, I guess.

  Or, more accurately, fake it until you make it again, or cry to your daughter until she covers all of your expenses for you . . . again.

  “Here.” My mom passes a tube of lip gloss across the table. “Put this on.”

  “Really, Mom?” My eyelid starts to twitch. Not constantly rolling my eyes when I’m near my mom is an ocular workout. But it’s better than the hair I was pulling out when all of this started. “We’re eating. It’s going to come off.”

  “It already did come off, which is why you need more.” She shoves the tube into my hand. “And if you would’ve listened when I told you to put on lipstick, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now, would we?”

  That’s when it clicks.

  The smile frozen on her face. The dress code. Ordering the smallest plate possible and still not taking a bite. Her manager covering our bill. The request for a patio seat even though it’s cloudy and looks like it might rain.

  I groan and snatch the sunglasses out of my purse. “Please tell me you didn’t call the paparazzi again.”

  “My publicist and I are trying to shop around a story line for the Housewives. There needs to be interest in me.” She takes a dainty sip of her mimosa. “With all of the public interest you’ve created for yourself, us being together looks even better for me.”

  Because why else would my mom want to spend time with her daughter?

  “No. We’re not doing this again.” Like my mom, I also ordered a mimosa. And like I told Lauren I would, I ordered the one that had champagne and vodka. But unlike my mom, I don’t take a sip, I gulp that bitch.

  I don’t even care who judges me. If anyone was forced to sit and be photographed with the ghost of their mom, they’d need liquid courage too.

  “It’s not just for me, think of how wonderful it will be for you.” She keeps going, like no is a word she’s never heard before and she hasn’t even the slightest inkling what it could mean. But really, I just know that her publicist gave her a speech to convince me, and my mom is nothing if not a dedicated actress. “The producers loved it when you were on the show. They want to surprise the viewers by bringing back a former castmate.”

  “You know how I feel about that. I don’t want to be on a reality show.”

  “You already live your life in front of a camera, what’s one more? Plus, I really need this, Ju-ju.” She takes off her sunglasses as she says the nickname I used to love so much. The champagne bubbles change to rocks and settle in my gut. The familiarity of this conversation causes dread to wrap its claws around my throat. “All I want is some semblance of normalcy again. I want to be able to treat you to brunch and for you to want to spend time with me again. I know I’ve been different since your dad died, but I need you to stick by my side. I can’t do this if I’m alone. And if I get this show, I know things will get better, our relationship will get back to what it used to be.”

  What it used to be . . . before Dad died. It’s been three years, but most days it feels like yesterday and also a century ago.

  He had a stroke. Apparently his blood pressure had been out of control. They call
it the silent killer. And silent it was.

  Silent he was.

  Silent about being sick. Silent about my mom spiraling out of control. Silent about refinancing my childhood home to keep up with her spending.

  At first, after he died, I knew my mom was going to be different. Her best friend, the love of her life, died. Of course that shit was going to affect her. But then, it kept getting worse. There’d be a little ray of sunshine, a glimmer of hope that she’d return to be the mom I grew up with, but then it would vanish before I even got the chance to enjoy it.

  I don’t think she’ll change anymore.

  But I also don’t say no to her anymore either.

  The first time I gathered up the strength to say no—after about ten sessions with my therapist—she hung up on me and sent me a text message claiming I was no longer her daughter.

  The second time, she called to tell me about the pills she’d taken and to say goodbye.

  There hasn’t been a third, and it doesn’t look like there will be anytime soon.

  “Fine.” Heavy resignation settles over me. I’m her daughter, this responsibility—burden—is mine to carry. “I’ll do it.”

  Her lips curl into the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her in months, and like a traitor, hope begins to bloom inside of me.

  “I knew you wouldn’t give up on me.” She taps her champagne glass against mine. “This is it, I know it is. Everything will be back to normal.”

  I don’t say that things will never be back to normal, that Dad is never coming back. Because that feels like something a child would say. And even though I am her child, I stopped getting to act like one around her in the funeral home when she had a meltdown and I was forced to make all of the arrangements on my own.

  “What do I need to do?”

  “That’s the best part of this plan, you don’t need to do anything. Jonathon found a few new sponsors for you. All you have to do is keep up with the content you’re already posting, but have more with us together.” She’s talking like this is no big deal, but I was agreeing to this hoping to get her off my back, not being forced to spend more time with her. “They want us to be the mother-daughter pair that everyone wants to be. Wholesome and relatable . . . yet with an air of unattainability.”

  This makes literally no sense. Thankfully, as I drain the last bits of my mimosa, the waitress walks by and nods when I point to my empty glass. “Only a splash of orange juice this time.”

  “Splash of OJ, you got it.” She smiles as she grabs my glass from the table and heads back inside.

  That’s what I call sisterhood and true allyship.

  “Relatable and unattainable, got it.” It makes even less sense when I say it, but it’s easiest to just nod my head and agree when it comes to Mom.

  “Exactly.” Her frozen forehead struggles to show her excitement, but the gleam in her eyes says it all. “Angelica’s daughters are already portrayed on the show as party girls, it’s really important we’re the opposite of that. They need the contrast.”

  Angelica Sanders is a full-blown movie star. She is married to one of the top producers in the industry and is one of the original cast members on the show. For some reason, my mom thinks she’s competition . . . which is ridiculous on so many levels that I can’t even count that high. I’ll never understand why women make it hard for other women. I feel like Addy would have the perfect thing to say in this situation. I’ll grab those frosted animal cookies with sprinkles on them on my way home and talk it out with her later.

  “I’m living with a five-year-old.” I shove a bite of my chicken sandwich—no bun—into my mouth. “It’s not like I’m going to be throwing ragers anytime soon.”

  “I’ll tell Jonathon you’re on board and he’ll set up the meetings with your new sponsors.” She puts her sunglasses back on and reaches across the table to hold my hand. “I know you’ve had a hard time since Dad died and I’ve been difficult to deal with. These sponsors will help us both financially; I at least owe you that much. This is me trying. I hope you see that.”

  I guess this is just another character to play. I always wanted to be an actress. Say what you want about soap operas, but I grew up around them. The talent of the writers and the actors and really everyone involved was just beyond. The amount of content they produce and deliver is amazing. Reading scripts with my mom, watching her when I’d have a day off school and got to go to work with her are still some of my favorite childhood memories. It was how I grew to love the craft of acting. So when I went to college, I didn’t choose to be a premed student like my brilliant best friend, I chose theater. And I was good. Great, even. I started to audition for theater productions, and the directors were loving me. I could taste my dreams, they were so close.

  And then my mom joined a reality show.

  Even though the drama is slightly manufactured—I mean, obviously there’s going to be drama when you force a group of people to spend extended amounts of time together—it’s still their real lives. And my mom was my best friend, so of course there were times when I filmed with her. I just didn’t realize that by doing so, I was taking my career that hadn’t even started and flushing it down the toilet.

  The directors I had started fostering relationships with canceled auditions. I was told I wasn’t needed for callbacks I’d already booked. Everything I’d been working for vanished. How could anyone take me seriously when the only place they knew me from was the episode of Hollywood Housewives where Jacinda Thomas pulls off Veronica Watson’s wig and throws it out the window?

  But I guess without that, I wouldn’t have my social media platform. Maybe I would’ve failed miserably at acting and this was the universe’s way of guiding me elsewhere. I guess if there’s one bright spot to what I’m sure will unravel into a mess of unknown proportions, it’s that I could really use some extra income. And considering Hollywood Housewives is what got me into this mess to begin with, it feels pretty full circle.

  “I know you’re trying.” I squeeze her hand, hoping she won’t notice how flat my voice is or catch the uninterested expression I know is written across my face.

  “Good. So.” She pulls her hand away from me and picks up her fork, pushing around the salad on her plate without actually taking a bite. Her Emmy-winning smile is back on her face, the one that’s for the onlookers, not her daughter, as I see the paparazzi flashes through her sunglass lenses. “What do you have planned for the rest of the day?”

  “Lauren was going to get Addy, we’ll probably just make some dinner and watch whatever Disney movie Addy is infatuated with this week.” Just the mention of them eases some of the tension in my shoulders. It’s almost impossible to stay upset around that little girl. Lauren was so worried I would hate living with them, but they’re the only thing I know I can depend on anymore.

  “That’s nice.” She lifts her fork for the first time since her food arrived and takes a bite of the dry lettuce. “Tell Lauren I said hi. You guys should bring Addy over to swim one day.”

  “That would be fun, I’ll tell them.”

  That’s a lie.

  As much as I’m sure Addy would love to take her mermaid moves from the bathtub to my mom’s pool, it’s not an invitation I want to extend. I haven’t told Lauren about any of the things happening with my mom. And, unlike my mom, Lauren is super sensitive to the people around her. One afternoon in my childhood home and she’d be relentless about figuring out what’s going on between us.

  I’m honestly not sure why I haven’t told her. I don’t know if I’m protecting her, me, or my mom. Maybe it’s all three? Lauren has enough on her plate to worry about without me adding my mom drama to it. My mom would be mortified if other people knew about all of her struggles. I know that’s not on me, but for some reason, it feels like it’s my job to keep her secrets.

  Me? Well, I’m not sure I could look anyone in the eye if th
ey knew how I felt about my own mom. You only have one mom, they’d say. They’d tell me about all the sacrifices she made for me. And still, at the end of the day, my skin would still crawl with resentment. And what does that say about me?

  “By the way.” Mom’s voice drops to a whisper, the guards I just dropped shooting right back into place. “You know I hate to ask you this, but is there any way I could borrow a couple hundred dollars? I’ll pay you back. This is the last time. I promise.”

  This isn’t the first time I’ve heard that promise, and I can guarantee it won’t be the last.

  “Sure.” I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and focus on the french fries I haven’t touched on my plate to ignore the stabbing ache in my chest.

  Just once—once!—I want my mom to ask to see me without having any ulterior motives for it. I know I gave up hope a long time ago, so why does it still hurt so fucking bad?

  Our waitress chooses that moment to come back with my freshly poured, very pale mimosa. Goddess. “Can I get you ladies anything else?”

  My mom smiles at her like they’re old friends. “Just the check, please.”

  I guess because she’s gotten everything out of me that she needed, she’s ready to go.

  Figures.

  At least I didn’t have to pay for brunch today, and on that note . . . “You know what? Why not bring one more of these, please.”

  My mom’s fake smile falters for a second, as if she’s not only been counting my drinks (three) but has something to say about it. Thankfully, before she follows through, she must remember how many scenes she filmed brunching and think it will be good for appearances, so she turns to our waitress and says instead, “I’ll take one more as well.”

  Mimosas pass the wholesome image test.

  Good to know. I have a feeling I’ll be needing many more cocktails as this mother-daughter bonding progresses.

  EIGHT

  • • •

  Lauren