the Bluebonnet Inn . . .” I don’t need to clarify with whom—he knows perfectly well I’ve gone to the one person my mother doesn’t dare interfere with.
There’s a long pause, his silence crushing me under its weight. “I see,” my father says in a tone that verges on angry, and I wonder if he’s thinking about how my mother will react to my whereabouts. My father avoids arguments with my mother the same way he avoids discount stores and restaurants with pictures of food on the menu, and this is bound to spark one. “When do you intend on returning?”
I bite my lip. “I’m not sure . . . I’m taking an extended vacation.”
“And what about your professional obligations?” he asks.
At least for this question I have a concrete answer. “I’ve delegated all projects to other reputable firms while I’m away.” I don’t tell him that several of the PR campaigns are in their most crucial stages or that a large number of the company presidents are his golfing buddies and clients. Nor do I tell him that I have no real plan for the future—I’m not thinking that far ahead. I’ve spent too much time acting like a windup doll—crank my key and watch me perform.
“I assumed you knew better than to do something like this, Margaret,” he says. “I’m not sure what’s gotten into you, but you need to call your mother.” Then, in a move he’s never done, he hangs up on me.
Wonderful. I’ve managed to infuriate my father for only the second time in my life. Will I ever do anything right?
I throw my cell on the porch. It hits the edge of the steps and lands faceup on the ground, a hairline fracture running across the screen. Figures. I should teach a course on how to be a constant source of disappointment, I’m so skilled at it. As I stand to retrieve the phone, my eyes lock on a rusted, twisted nail poking out of a board. A part of the red leather sole of my destroyed Louboutin is caught around the nail head, mocking me. The frustration finally boils over.
Searching the painting supplies, I find a hammer buried under some drop cloths. Sliding the round top between the claw, I rip out the devil nail responsible for my swollen ankle and scraped-up knee. The old wooden board groans in response. Bits of rust fall onto my once-pristine white jeans as I wrench the nail from the hammer’s grasp. I attack another nail that’s even more corroded and crooked. Then another. And another.
The heat and humidity shimmer in the sun. My blouse sticks to my skin, my hair is in tangles and matted against my cheek, and sweat trickles down my forehead, mixing with my mascara and stinging my eyes. My palms are so slick I can barely grip the hammer, but I continue to yank out nails. I position the claw around another rusted head and crap . . . I’ve completely ruined my manicure—something I’ll have to rectify before Sunday brunch at the Ritz with my parents. I jolt at the realization that for the first time in recent memory I won’t be in attendance for our weekly ritual. That there won’t be a reason to have my nails sculpted and covered in the same boring, predictable shade my mother deems appropriate. That there’s no need for me to be appropriate at all.
Reveling in my newfound liberty to do whatever the hell I please, I stack the rocking chairs on top of the painting supplies and work on pulling up the floorboards. Some planks come off easily, while others require my whole body weight to tug them free. My shoulders ache with a satisfying burn. The air tastes gritty from the dirt and dust floating around and carries a metallic, flowery odor. My arms tremble to the point where I can’t lift them to wipe the grime off my cheeks. You’re disgraceful, Margaret , my mother’s voice admonishes in my ear. You resemble something that belongs in the garbage and smells just as foul. It’s no surprise Nick left you. I pry away another board. With each one I add to the pile, thoughts of Nick and my
There’s a long pause, his silence crushing me under its weight. “I see,” my father says in a tone that verges on angry, and I wonder if he’s thinking about how my mother will react to my whereabouts. My father avoids arguments with my mother the same way he avoids discount stores and restaurants with pictures of food on the menu, and this is bound to spark one. “When do you intend on returning?”
I bite my lip. “I’m not sure . . . I’m taking an extended vacation.”
“And what about your professional obligations?” he asks.
At least for this question I have a concrete answer. “I’ve delegated all projects to other reputable firms while I’m away.” I don’t tell him that several of the PR campaigns are in their most crucial stages or that a large number of the company presidents are his golfing buddies and clients. Nor do I tell him that I have no real plan for the future—I’m not thinking that far ahead. I’ve spent too much time acting like a windup doll—crank my key and watch me perform.
“I assumed you knew better than to do something like this, Margaret,” he says. “I’m not sure what’s gotten into you, but you need to call your mother.” Then, in a move he’s never done, he hangs up on me.
Wonderful. I’ve managed to infuriate my father for only the second time in my life. Will I ever do anything right?
I throw my cell on the porch. It hits the edge of the steps and lands faceup on the ground, a hairline fracture running across the screen. Figures. I should teach a course on how to be a constant source of disappointment, I’m so skilled at it. As I stand to retrieve the phone, my eyes lock on a rusted, twisted nail poking out of a board. A part of the red leather sole of my destroyed Louboutin is caught around the nail head, mocking me. The frustration finally boils over.
Searching the painting supplies, I find a hammer buried under some drop cloths. Sliding the round top between the claw, I rip out the devil nail responsible for my swollen ankle and scraped-up knee. The old wooden board groans in response. Bits of rust fall onto my once-pristine white jeans as I wrench the nail from the hammer’s grasp. I attack another nail that’s even more corroded and crooked. Then another. And another.
The heat and humidity shimmer in the sun. My blouse sticks to my skin, my hair is in tangles and matted against my cheek, and sweat trickles down my forehead, mixing with my mascara and stinging my eyes. My palms are so slick I can barely grip the hammer, but I continue to yank out nails. I position the claw around another rusted head and crap . . . I’ve completely ruined my manicure—something I’ll have to rectify before Sunday brunch at the Ritz with my parents. I jolt at the realization that for the first time in recent memory I won’t be in attendance for our weekly ritual. That there won’t be a reason to have my nails sculpted and covered in the same boring, predictable shade my mother deems appropriate. That there’s no need for me to be appropriate at all.
Reveling in my newfound liberty to do whatever the hell I please, I stack the rocking chairs on top of the painting supplies and work on pulling up the floorboards. Some planks come off easily, while others require my whole body weight to tug them free. My shoulders ache with a satisfying burn. The air tastes gritty from the dirt and dust floating around and carries a metallic, flowery odor. My arms tremble to the point where I can’t lift them to wipe the grime off my cheeks. You’re disgraceful, Margaret , my mother’s voice admonishes in my ear. You resemble something that belongs in the garbage and smells just as foul. It’s no surprise Nick left you. I pry away another board. With each one I add to the pile, thoughts of Nick and my
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