A voice in my head laughed maniacally. I had no clue about my future as a dancer. My only plan was to leave town come January first.
Rather than smooth things over, my comment brought another round of silence to the table, a quiet that lasted through the end of the meal.
While Mom did the dishes, Dad and Tim whisked me to the living room to huddle around the tinsel-decked Christmas tree.
“Your mother has got to open the boutique,” Dad said in a furtive whisper.
“Why?”
Dad inched closer. “She rented the space next to December Dry Cleaners last January without consulting me. She signed a lease for three years.Three years,” Dad repeated himself in a pained voice.
“And she’s still not ready to open?” I couldn’t fathom my hard-driving mother twiddling her thumbs for nearly a year without results.
“She says she’s in thedevelopment stage.” Tim glanced back toward the kitchen. “The garage is full of boxes of inventory. And yet, she sits at her desk every weekend combing through web sites, asking me if I think a dress lookssexyon the model.” My little brother whipped his head around and brought his face close to mine. “I donotwant to tell my mother who or what I think is sexy.”
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Why doesn’t she open?”
“She says she’s not ready.” Dad looked pained. “Meanwhile, she’s bankrupting us.”
I nodded, beginning to comprehend the situation although I had no idea why Mom was balking. And I couldn’t ask her. I didn’t have meaningful conversations with my mother. She talkedatme. And I listened. Dialogue was limited.
“Dishes are all done,” Mom sing-songed, joining us in the living room. “What’s wrong with the Christmas tree? Why are you all gathered round it?”
“Nothing,” we chorused.
Dad and Tim scattered like startled kittens. Dad plopped into his recliner. Tim dropped onto the couch corner nearest him.
Leaving me to defend our actions. “Tim and Dad were pointing out where my favorite ornaments were,” I explained, gravitating to my corner of the couch nearest the front door. “Mom, I’d love to see your inventory. Dad says it’s in the garage. Can you show me?”
“Hhmm.” Mom’s gaze turned distant again. “Do you know what I’d like to see?”
“Customers in your store?” Tim mumbled, earning a poke in the arm from my father.
“I’d like to see what Allison brought home from New York.” Mom hurried to my bedroom with me following. “I bet there are some fabulous clothes in that big suitcase of yours.”
“I wouldn’t take that bet,” I muttered.
But my mother had always romanticized my life in the Big Apple. She thought I rubbed shoulders with famous people and dressed like a runway model on the daily. She charged down the hall ahead of me.
Mom burst into my room, spied my red suitcase, and hefted it onto my twin bed like she’d been working out regularly and my fifty pound bag weighed nothing. “I bet you buy clothes at designer sample sales. I know you don’t want to show off, but I’m your mother. You can let me see your labels.” She batted my hands away and unzipped the bag. And then she flung the top wide open and stopped, staring at the contents.
Okay, I stared, too, numbed by the visual and aromatic shock of sweaty, smelly dance clothes and the fact that my mother’s carefully crafted impression of my life was about to come crumbling down.
“There’s nothing in here, Mom. Just dirty clothes.” I grabbed the plastic hamper out of the closet and filled it with handfuls of thin cotton and colorful Lycra. Once the top layer was clear, I dug deeper for my underthings, crumpling them into a ball because no one likes their mother to see their adult undergarments. Several pairs of gray and black leggings and a pair of blue jeans came next – my go-anywhere, daily wear. Out came a plain black dress I wore for catering gigs. And a few tops and thin sweaters purchased at TJ Maxx, not Stella McCartney or Lirika Matoshi.
“Oh.” Mom tittered. “You must have left all your good things back in New York.”
“Mom…”There are no good things.The truth pressed at the back of my throat, choking me like a misplaced tongue depressor.
Maybe Mom sensed I had secrets she didn’t want to hear. Or maybe her mind was leaping ahead, wondering if I’d turn the conversation back to the boxes of inventory in the garage, especially now when she could see I had a very limited wardrobe with me.
Whatever the reason, she turned and headed for the door, double-time. “Just so you know, you’re old enough to do your own laundry.”
After she left, I sat on my bed and stared around my room, which actually seemed like a better representation of who I was than the image my mother had of me.
First and foremost, my room was a shrine to my dance accomplishments. Trophies – not a speck of dust on them. Photographs – me with hair carefully coiffed and make-up layered on such that my eyes, eyebrows, and lips could be seen in the back row. Ticket stubs – from shows I’d danced in that Mom had seen. A small pair of pink ballet toe shoes, their ribbons fashioned in sweeping bows. Make no mistake, I was proud of what I’d accomplished.
But there wasn’t just dance memorabilia. Christmas was also well represented. A wooden Christmas tree cut-out was attached to the wall. Ornaments were pinned to its branches. A dried sprig of mistletoe I’d been unable to sell one year to fund dance camp hung from my bedside lamp. On my desk, a mug with Santa and Mrs. Claus dancing together stored my pens and pencils.