to do now, when she feels like her daughter is dangling by a fraying thread—or, all right, by an apron string—high above a pit filled with rabid cats. Her maternal instinct is to yank Carley back to safety and hang on tight.
Jen looks at her, again noticing the weight gain and problem skin—and again hating her own critical eye.
She herself wasn’t a perfect teenager. She didn’t have acne and she wasn’t overweight or nearsighted, and she was considered pretty and popular, but there were other things . . .
She remembers her long dark hair being far too straight and flat at a time when curly, frizzy big hair was in style.
And she remembers thinking that her nose was gigantic, even begging her parents to let her have surgery on it.
“Are you crazy?” her mother shouted—shouted, because the Bonafacios weren’t exactly a soft-spoken bunch. “People would kill for that nose! That’s a good, strong Roman nose!”
“It’s my nose!” her father put in.
“That’s the problem!” Jen wailed. “It’s a gigantic man nose on my face!”
But her parents assured her that she’d grow into it, and they were right. Either that, or she eventually stopped caring so much, learning to be comfortable in her own skin . . . which was much easier to do once she was away from her high school boyfriend, who always made her feel as though she didn’t measure up.
Now that she’s in her early forties, she’s noticing tiny wrinkles around the big brown eyes she always thought were her best asset. There’s a faint network of wrinkles, too, at the corners of her wide mouth.
As for her figure—nothing is as taut as it used to be. The pounds have crept on over the years, settling around her hips and thighs. She’s not obese by any stretch, but she’s hardly the super-fit middle-aged woman she’d always assumed she’d become. Losing five, ten, fifteen pounds is no longer the no-brainer it was back when she was getting rid of postpregnancy flab. Somehow, it takes a hell of a lot more diet and exercise to get rid of far less weight. And somehow, she’s not very motivated these days. As long as she’s healthy, do her looks truly matter?
Not most days. And on days when she finds that her appearance actually does matter to her, she’s careful never to vocalize self-criticism when she looks in a mirror—not if her impressionable girls are in earshot.
Does Carley even care about her own looks, though? She doesn’t ever talk about it, and Jen doesn’t dare bring it up.
I’m her mom. I’m supposed to think she’s beautiful, no matter what.
And I do , she reminds herself hastily. I just don’t want others hurting her because they don’t agree.
But again—she doesn’t know if what happened has anything to do with the fact that Carley doesn’t conform to the other girls’ standards of physical beauty; she’s only using her own past experience as a frame of reference.
When she was at Sacred Sisters, the only girls she remembers being teased and taunted were—to put it kindly—rather unconventional in appearance. And certainly what happened to them was nowhere near as disturbing as what happened to Carley.
Although there was one—
No. Jen doesn’t like to think about that.
Sensing that her daughter is about to bolt for the stairs and disappear behind closed doors for the remainder of the afternoon, she returns her focus to the conversation, determined to keep it going, even if it is mainly one-sided.
“Oh, before I forget to tell you—guess what?”
“What?” Carley asks in a monotone.
“Guess who’s coming to visit next weekend?”
“Who?”
“Your godmother.”
“Aunt Frankie? Really?” Carley’s brown eyes, behind her glasses, connect with Jen’s at last.
Encouraged by the spark of interaction, Jen nods vigorously. “She called me today”—actually, it was the other way around—“and she said she’s been thinking it’s been too long since she’s visited.”
In truth, Jen
Jen looks at her, again noticing the weight gain and problem skin—and again hating her own critical eye.
She herself wasn’t a perfect teenager. She didn’t have acne and she wasn’t overweight or nearsighted, and she was considered pretty and popular, but there were other things . . .
She remembers her long dark hair being far too straight and flat at a time when curly, frizzy big hair was in style.
And she remembers thinking that her nose was gigantic, even begging her parents to let her have surgery on it.
“Are you crazy?” her mother shouted—shouted, because the Bonafacios weren’t exactly a soft-spoken bunch. “People would kill for that nose! That’s a good, strong Roman nose!”
“It’s my nose!” her father put in.
“That’s the problem!” Jen wailed. “It’s a gigantic man nose on my face!”
But her parents assured her that she’d grow into it, and they were right. Either that, or she eventually stopped caring so much, learning to be comfortable in her own skin . . . which was much easier to do once she was away from her high school boyfriend, who always made her feel as though she didn’t measure up.
Now that she’s in her early forties, she’s noticing tiny wrinkles around the big brown eyes she always thought were her best asset. There’s a faint network of wrinkles, too, at the corners of her wide mouth.
As for her figure—nothing is as taut as it used to be. The pounds have crept on over the years, settling around her hips and thighs. She’s not obese by any stretch, but she’s hardly the super-fit middle-aged woman she’d always assumed she’d become. Losing five, ten, fifteen pounds is no longer the no-brainer it was back when she was getting rid of postpregnancy flab. Somehow, it takes a hell of a lot more diet and exercise to get rid of far less weight. And somehow, she’s not very motivated these days. As long as she’s healthy, do her looks truly matter?
Not most days. And on days when she finds that her appearance actually does matter to her, she’s careful never to vocalize self-criticism when she looks in a mirror—not if her impressionable girls are in earshot.
Does Carley even care about her own looks, though? She doesn’t ever talk about it, and Jen doesn’t dare bring it up.
I’m her mom. I’m supposed to think she’s beautiful, no matter what.
And I do , she reminds herself hastily. I just don’t want others hurting her because they don’t agree.
But again—she doesn’t know if what happened has anything to do with the fact that Carley doesn’t conform to the other girls’ standards of physical beauty; she’s only using her own past experience as a frame of reference.
When she was at Sacred Sisters, the only girls she remembers being teased and taunted were—to put it kindly—rather unconventional in appearance. And certainly what happened to them was nowhere near as disturbing as what happened to Carley.
Although there was one—
No. Jen doesn’t like to think about that.
Sensing that her daughter is about to bolt for the stairs and disappear behind closed doors for the remainder of the afternoon, she returns her focus to the conversation, determined to keep it going, even if it is mainly one-sided.
“Oh, before I forget to tell you—guess what?”
“What?” Carley asks in a monotone.
“Guess who’s coming to visit next weekend?”
“Who?”
“Your godmother.”
“Aunt Frankie? Really?” Carley’s brown eyes, behind her glasses, connect with Jen’s at last.
Encouraged by the spark of interaction, Jen nods vigorously. “She called me today”—actually, it was the other way around—“and she said she’s been thinking it’s been too long since she’s visited.”
In truth, Jen
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