The water ran over my body as I started to wake up in the shower. I hated showering. It was time-consuming, and it seemed to be the place all my demons came out to play. Alone in that tiny square, I fought many mental battlefronts before I even brushed my teeth.
Unfortunately, it was one of the first signs for others to know when things were not okay, especially in my world. Between therapists I worked with, and the upper-class society I was forced to rub elbows with, neither tolerated greasy hair. It only took one rumor to start, and everyone would know the truth. I couldn't have that. Pretending to have all my shit together started with my appearance. From there, everything else snapped into place.
I sudsed up my coconut shampoo and lathered it in my hair as I tried to ignore the thoughts plaguing me this morning. The regret and shame were thick as I massaged my hair. Last night, I was a completely different person. In the light of day, I didn't know how to feel about it.
The only comforting thing about showering was the normalcy and routine of these acts. I didn't have to think about the process, the steps, or whether I was doing something wrong. I stepped into the shower, and my muscle memory did the rest. The mind-numbing movement through the motions opened the gate for everything else. I thought about everything and berated myself for all the mistakes I made the day before.
Finally, the torture ended, and I turned off the water. Stepping through the glass door of my shower, I toweled off with my warm towel and relished the heat from the towel warmer. Combined with the heated floors, my bathroom was paradise and had been one of the perks of this condo. At least I had that going for me if I ever started to enjoy showers again.
The rest of the morning dragged on as I dried my hair and put make-up on. Even my morning requisite of watching the coffee slowly drip into my cup hadn't shaken my mood. So, having to pick out an ‘appropriate' lunch outfit for brunch at my parent's hoity-toity club was hellish.
It was Sunday, which meant my forced guilt lunch with my parents was upon me. I could only avoid a few of them a month, or the devil would take it upon herself to visit. I couldn't have that, so my time was up, and I had to attend this week. Lucky me.
Dressed in a pair of black slacks, a burgundy cashmere sweater, and black leather ankle boots, I was hopeful I'd pass my mother's inspection. I made my way to the elevator, and as I pushed the button down, I realized it had been a few days since I'd seen my neighbor from 18D. What was his name again? Monroe maybe? By the time the elevator dinged, I'd already forgotten again. I really was shit at life.
After realizing it had been sitting in the parking garage for about two months, I decided to drive my car since it probably needed to be started at this point. The drive to the restaurant was clear, no traffic in sight, meaning I made it there with plenty of time to spare. Go me, winning at something today. But I didn't want to be early and have to endure my mother any longer than necessary.
Waiting in my car until my requisite time, I scrolled through Facebook. Never give my mother more time than requested. She would only use it against you. The hour I had to spend in her presence was already enough, thank you very much.
Jacqueline Hanover was a hard woman to love. Cruel, cold, and distant, she only cared about her appearance and status. As an only child, I had been the sole focus of her attention. While that might sound like a good thing, it was, in fact, not. She constantly pushed me to be perfect, and whenever I failed, I would be the witness to her tantrums and the receiver of her wrath.
For the most part, I had lived up to her expectations. I had been a straight-A student, on the honor roll, a cheerleader, and involved in several clubs. I dated my high school sweetheart, who came from a respected family, and both of our career paths were acceptable. Our engagement and marriage were expected and provided my mother with the backdrop she needed to show off for her society friends. While I had hated most things I'd been forced into, I had at least accepted they were worth it—until they weren't.
Our relationship had never been the maternal loving one I had witnessed other girls my age have, and I didn't know why back then. Now, I understood that our relationship had always been more of a transactional relationship rather than a loving one. Sadly, it made a lot of sense.
The moment I stopped being her "shining star" of a daughter was the moment I truly saw my mother for the narcissistic bitch she was. Harsh, maybe, but it wasn't enough that I'd lost my baby and my husband. No, my mother had to ream me out for being a disgrace and embarrassing her.
Somehow, my life had become hers to wield, and when I didn't do as she wanted, she snapped. Our relationship hadn't been the same ever since. If it weren't for my father, I would've just walked away. How Kenneth Hanover ever married her and stayed for all these years, I would never understand. While I had a good relationship with my father, I'd also come to resent him. He never stood up to her, and allowed the treatment she bestowed upon me. He would simply sigh and dismiss it as ‘that's your mother's territory'.
More like, ‘I'm not going to stick my neck out for you'.
So once a month, I had to drag my sorry ass to these brunches and put on a fake face, a happy attitude, and smile like the perfect daughter I was known for in public. It was fucking exhausting. I was getting to the point where I'd almost rather endure her banishing me from high society. Steeling myself, I inhaled a large gulp of air before I expelled it through my lips. The vibration from the movement felt weird and at least made me laugh, which felt even odder.
Entering the lobby, the hostess welcomed me as I spotted my parents already seated at their regular table. My mother's chestnut brown hair was slicked back in an elegant chignon. Her eyebrows were plucked to perfection, and her pantsuit wouldn't dare have a wrinkle. She had on a similar outfit to myself, so while that inwardly made me cringe, at least I wouldn't get grief for not dressing appropriately.
My father's raven hair was similar to my own, though he was starting to grey around the edges, making him look distinguished. His beard was neatly trimmed, and he was dressed in a pair of pressed gray trousers, a light blue button-down shirt, and a matching lounge jacket. They were both looking over the menu and hadn't noticed me yet. I was debating making a run for it when the concierge spotted me and headed in my direction and led me to the table of doom. Doubtful the table was actually called that, but it seemed fitting.
"Mother," I stated as I kissed the woman on the cheek. I hated every minute of this, but especially that one. Turning, I addressed my father next, "Father." At least I enjoyed my father's hugs. Kenneth Hanover always smelled of expensive leather and spice, bringing me comfort in the form of his hugs.
"Loren, dear, you look well. Did you encounter traffic on your drive?" my mother inquired out of obligation.
It appeared she was being courteous and asking about my drive, but actually she was making a slight dig at my arrival time. Sitting down, the clock chimed in the distance, indicating I had indeed arrived precisely at 11 am as stated. She was merely being a passive-aggressive bitch from the start. Oh, what fun this was going to be.
"Thank you, Mother. How have you both been?"
Ignoring her slight at my arrival time, I opened my menu to see what the specials were today. As much as I hated these brunches, the food at the club was superb. They changed their menu weekly, so there was always something new to try each time you came. They would rotate favorites in as well, so if you fell in love with something, there was a chance of it returning.
Both concepts created a frenzy amongst the elite, who always had to have what others did not. The waitlist here was months out, but my parents being the snobs they were, had a standing reservation each Sunday. Yeah, they were that level ofrich.
Catching sight of my favorite dish, I found something to be excited about and ordered Eggs Benedict. Torture hour just might be bearable. Our usual waiter arrived, and I tried not to cringe at each condescending remark my mother made to the man. I always tried to counterbalance her horrendous behavior to hopefully save my food from the spit they had to put in hers.
People needed to learn not to disrespect their waitstaff.
The hour-long conversation of chit-chat was drawing to a close as we finished up our meals. Mine had been excellent, but it was hard to enjoy it with the side of micro-aggression I hadn't asked for. My mother found ways to take several snubs at me while we ate.
"It's amazing how you can pull off that look," aka I was tacky despite being dressed similarly to her.
"I couldn't eat another bite. I don't know how you do it," aka I was fat.