Circles
She instantaneously slams on the brakes. The car comes within an inch of hitting the Toyota. She hits the horn and lets the sound rip through the air. The man in the Toyota merely raises a hand. Vulgar words pop out of her mouth like splinters as her heart regains its normal beat. Fortuitously the rain is not in full force, and the ground is not wet. With her hands slippery on the steering wheel, she looks up at the sky, a perse curtain draped behind the city landscape. She’s aware she’s already late.
She switches lanes and resists the urge to get Swiss Chalet for dinner as she passes the restaurant. She knows that it would not benefit her. Her face is weathered and worn. Deep valleys are carved into her forehead and wispy lines, thin as hair, fan out from her eyes. She’s nearing the big four-oh and it surprises her a bit. Before she lets her age consume her mind, she pulls into the driveway.
She is greeted by an upheaval of the front closet when she enters the townhouse. A jacket is crumpled into a pile by the bulimic closet, and a pair of shoes lies beside that, flattened and dirty.
Her mouth opens automatically, “Diana!” She presses her bottom against the front door to keep her balance as she undoes her heels. “Diana!” The only response is the voice of some young fashionable pop singer booming through the ceiling.
Once she reaches the top of the stairs, her back tenses. “Diana, didn’t you hear me?”
There she is. Her daughter is sitting by her computer, in a pool of her mess. She is wearing tight black clothes. Her hair is dyed blue. Her fingernails are in a fluorescent spectrum of colour. She turns her blank face towards the door.
“What did I say about leaving your mess behind?” Diana gives an almost inaudible sigh and looks at her nails. “Am I supposed to clean it up for you? Does it look like I’m your personal maid?” There’s no response. “I’m talking to you.” Diana’s head turns.
“I don’t understand where you learned to be so disrespectful. You don’t care about other people’s lives. People have to work. They can’t always cater to your needs.” She wipes the droplets of saliva from her lips.
“Alright, Mom, I get it,” Diana breathes heavily.
She looks around the room. There are clothes and papers strewn everywhere. The duvet on the bed is rolled up and stretched in an unsightly way. Drawers are open; the wardrobe is something she can’t even look at. She sighs. “Look at your room. It’s disgusting. Clean it up. You’re a girl, you’re not suppose to act like a slob.” She decides to cease the conversation then. She is tired; it is close to nine o’clock and she is not up to another fight.
“I’ll clean it up later.” Diana turns back to the computer monitor.
“Didn’t you hear what I just said? Clean up this mess now!”
“And I said I’ll clean it up later. What’s wrong with you?” Diana swivels her chair around and stands up. “It’s only a small mess. Why do you have to make it such a big deal?”
She feels the blood rushing to her head, the gradual buzzing in her ears. “Why can’t you have some respect for things? You’re absolutely spoiled. I can’t believe I raised such a daughter.” She’s not conscious of her words. She’s not conscious of her rising voice or that the vessels in her neck were popping out.
Diana looks at her with disbelief. Then, “Well I can, if she was raised by such a shitty mother like you.”
She doesn’t think at all. Her hand feels disconnected to her body. It rises in the air.
“What the hell is so funny?”
Her eyes don’t flinch as she says coolly, “Fuck you.”
This time she does feel the pain. Her head is thrown against the wallpaper. Her cheek is crimson, like a Japanese sun. Her breath comes out in short segments, but she decides against rubbing her cheek. She doesn’t say a word as she heads for her room, and she leaves her father in his fuming rage.
Her face is reflected in the window. The rain beating against the glass sound like corn popping and for an instant memories of her adolescence spent in movie theatres flood her mind. She rubs her eyes and puts her face above the curling steam from the teacup on the kitchen table. Each time she closes her eyes she’s brought back to her daughter’s face. It tugs at something in her body. She can’t quite put a name to it.
It’s been thirty minutes and she can recall anger spreading from her shoulders to the rest of her body. She wanted to collapse into herself, she wanted to scream and let her voice pull her daughter against the wall. But instead, she let her hand do that.
“Diana?” She’s tentative at the base of the old staircase, but then goes up, “Diana?” She raps softly at the closed door.
“I need to speak to you, Diana,” She doesn’t mean to, but her voice comes out in chunks, as though she’s spitting out rocks. She opens the door. And her heart skips a beat.
She dumps the contents of her drawer into the open backpack on her bed. She rushes around the room, picking up objects and throwing them back. Wallet. Her pay cheque from the donut shop. Blue sweater. Toothbrush. She holds the piece of plastic in her hand and drops it on the floor. She’ll buy one. Or Tom will supply her one.
The door squeaks and she turns her head around. She sees her little brother hesitantly standing there, cradling his Transformer in his hands. His brow is knit together so close they nearly touch. He’s frowning. “What are you doing?” His voice is timid.
“I’m leaving, that’s what I’m doing.” She continues to shove things in her bag, not even caring if they’ll be damaged or wrinkled later. She turns her back to his strained face. “I don’t have to take this shit. I don’t have to be here. I’m old enough to take care of myself.”
“Where will you go?” But it’s a stupid question. Where else would she go? He’s young, but intelligent and the walls are not sound proof. “But he’s so old.”
She knows that. Why point out the obvious? She’s losing her patience. “Yeah, what’s it to you? Did that witch tell you to crawl into other people’s business?”
“Don’t say that about Ma!”
She throws the phone near her and it smashes the mirror, casting eight different reflections of her harsh face.
“She’s not my mother! My mother died years ago. My mother would never do treat me like that. My mother wouldn’t brainwash her husband into calling me a whore. My mother would not turn everyone against me. She’s your mother, goddamnit and she’s screwed up!” Her face is right up against his. He wails and thick pearls of tears burst from his eyes. He shrinks away and lets her run down the stairs.
Once again her hands are on the steering wheel. The rain pounds her car angrily, as though it is trying to soften out the angles.
She searched the whole house. She can’t believe she didn’t hear the front door close. Most of Diana’s clothes are still there, but some, off the floor, were gone and so was her backpack.
Where could she go? She called Thomas, and he said he hadn’t seen her or heard anything. They got into a huge fight then. She didn’t defend herself. Let him fight her and win. Let her father win, let the world win. She doesn’t care, not now, not at a time like this.
She can’t help picturing muggers and rapists lurking around on a dark wet night like this. Diana’s young and pretty; she’s vulnerable. She’s still hopeful, naïve even, despite her unstinting efforts not to be. It’s a good neighbourhood, but people surprise you.
And then she cannot help herself. It’s the rain; it’s Diana and everything she couldn’t do for her. It’s Thomas and the inevitable divorce. It’s little Billy, her brother she left, who isn’t so little now. She weeps, finally.
Her fingers loiter on the cool metal of the bus stop. It’s almost seven. She can tell, because the sky’s taken on a muddy blue. She didn’t call Tom. There wasn’t enough time, and… it’s better if she just shows up. He can’t say no that way.
She has her backpack next to her on the ground. It’s big, like the ones they use for camping trips. She didn’t pack much, though. She knew what she wanted to pack. Her room was immaculate and she knew where everything was. But still, she didn’t pack everything.
She turns to her left and stares. Her fingers tighten on the metal bar, and she stops blinking. She keeps looking, hoping. But there’s nobody. The bus is coming from the right. It rolls in front of her, and wheezes out polluted air as it squeals to a stop. The mechanical doors open. She takes one last look and climbs on.
There are only a few splatters on her windshield now. The rain decided to rest. Her face is puffy. Her eyes are pink and wet. She didn’t have any tissues in the car, so she is breathing through her mouth. She wipes her face and continues to search the roads and sidewalks diligently.
“Diana.”
Her daughter ignores her, and perpetuates her brisk, sloshy walk. “Diana.” Her voice is hoarse from crying and it takes all the effort she can muster to sound pleasant. Her daughter finally turns. She has a livid look in her eyes.
“Leave me alone!” She shrieks, “Why can’t you just f-”
“I’m sorry.”
Diana stops. She looks away for a moment. She knows what she’s thinking. Her mother is apologizing? She can remember that look. It’s the same one she used to wear. Then Diana gets into the car. “Me too,” she mumbles softly.
It can’t be understood sometimes. Why things are the way they are. Life doesn’t always work out flawlessly. It’s not always a soap opera; there aren’t always mothers and daughters breaking down and crying in the pathetic, slobbery way people see on TV. There aren’t always the words. But people try. They try to love someone the way she wants to be loved. They try to learn from the deceased. They try to break the generation pattern; they try to stop going in circles. And sometimes it does happen. But humans falter.
She clears her throat. “So, how about Swiss Chalet for dinner?” She restarts the car.
Diana chuckles, sadly. “Sure Mom. Sounds great.”