Not My Mother by Miranda Smith (lightweight ebook reader .txt) 📕

“I can’t.” Mom stands so quickly the chair clatters against the tile floor. She backs toward the door against the far wall.

“Mom, calm down,” I say, and now I’m standing too. “I’ll support you either way. Nothing will ever change what you mean to me. But I need to know the truth.”

“I can’t do this,” Mom wails.

“Maybe we should try this another time,” Carmen says, her voice a little more soothing.

But I can’t be soothed. I’m enraged. You would think Mom might show a little concern for me. For Ava. For what we must have been going through. Not only is she refusing to answer my questions, she is trying to ignore me altogether, wishing me away.

“You can’t do this,” I tell her, my voice cracking, but my anger providing strength. “You’ve avoided questions my entire life. You hid things from me, like about my father, without ever thinking how it might impact me. You can’t do that anymore. You have to start being honest.”

Now Mom is sitting on the floor next to the door. She is hunched over, like a child grappling with a nightmare. Her eyes remain closed, her hands cover her ears. “No, I can’t. I won’t.”

A guard rushes in, brushing past me to get to Mom. He swoops her up in one swift movement, escorting her through the door.

“Mom, wait. Please!”

But she is gone. The door is shut, the vertical window only giving me a small glimpse into the dark hallway. This was it. My opportunity to find out the truth. Now it’s over.

“I told you not to bring up specifics of the case,” Carmen says, marching toward me. “I told you she was fragile.”

“She won’t even talk to me, Carmen.”

I’ve never seen my mother break down like this. Being a single mother, it’s not like she didn’t have trials and tribulations. She rose above each and every one. She exemplified control. Now she’s crumbling before me, and I’m no closer to learning the truth.

The woman I just saw. The behavior she just showed.

I don’t recognize that woman.

10 EileenThen

Thanks to the convenience store incident, I had to attend two counseling sessions a month. This was supposed to last until I turned twenty-five or got in trouble again, whichever came first. Of course, I’d already promised myself the latter would never happen. And really, the sessions weren’t as bad as you’d think. It wasn’t like on TV, where some pretentious therapist with gray hair and wire glasses asks about your childhood.

Did your dad beat you? Yes.

Did your mother stop him? No.

Is that why you’re a screw-up? Maybe.

No, it was none of that. We rarely talked about the past. Our sessions were focused on the present. Where was I living? Working? Who were my friends?

My encounters with the counselor were brief—Ms. Lang, if I remember correctly. She spent more time placating the people in the waiting room than she did working in her office. That’s where the real show was, let me tell you. Not every person sentenced to counseling was as adjusted to the idea as I was. Some people downright refused. The younger the person, the louder they were, I noticed. Always spitting their upset at the secretary and Ms. Lang.

I don’t need this shit, they’d shout. As if it was Ms. Lang’s choice they were here. It’s like they ignored the fact their mistakes brought them to this place, and their refusal to participate would keep them here longer.

No, I wasn’t like that. I sat in my chair, legs crossed, biting my fingernails, waiting for the tired secretary to call my name. I rarely talked to the people in the waiting room. It was a private building, with only a small staff of counselors. I feel I need to stress that word. Counselors. There weren’t PhDs in this place. Sessions weren’t meant to provide treatment; they just wanted to know if you had plans to off yourself or someone else, so they could pass along the paperwork.

There I was, as usual. Sitting alone and minding my own business.

“Yucky day today,” said a woman. Another counselor.

We’d never spoken before, but I had noticed her during previous visits. She was hard to miss. This woman was tall and thin, her brown hair pulled away from her face and fastened with a clip. She had pearl studs and a matching necklace. Simple and classy. She wore the prettiest outfit in the place—probably the prettiest outfit on the block. Always vibrant colors, the material perfectly ironed. On that day, she wore green.

Yes, I had watched her several times, but she had never spoken to me before.

“Yeah, it is,” I said, staring at the same gray skies.

“Sarah, right?”

“Yeah.”

I straightened my posture, as though possibly being selected for a grand prize. It surprised me this woman knew my name. Dozens of young girls came to the center; I often felt invisible. I expected this woman to see through me like everyone else, like even Ms. Lang tended to do.

“We’ve talked before, haven’t we?”

“I don’t think so.”

I hated to correct her, but I had to be truthful. More than once, I had wished to speak with this woman over Ms. Lang. I wouldn’t be unruly and rude, like the other girls in the lobby. They didn’t know how lucky they were. Who wouldn’t want to spend a few extra minutes of their day with someone who appeared so… perfect?

“That’s right. You’re waiting for Ms. Lang?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, I had this fantasy she would whisk me away to her own office instead. No sense in you waiting out here, she’d say. But she didn’t say any of that.

“I’m Mrs. Parker.” She held out a hand. French tips on her nails. When this woman smiled at you, you wanted to return the kindness. “I work with some of the younger visitors. How do you like Ms. Lang?”

“She’s great.”

It was an overstatement, but I felt compelled to be positive in this woman’s presence. In Mrs.