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‘If a tall, newly blonde woman with green eyes and a disarming smile shows up claiming that she’s my mother, chain the entrance’.
“Natalee Jane, I can hear you breathing!”
I lingered at the front door for a second, trying to look on the bright side. Hoping I'd hear the gruff edge of Dad’s voice, warily reminding my mother that her volume was carrying. Per usual, she'd smack her tongue, or his shoulder, then raise the level of her screech a notch or two, just to be contrary.
The only sound that followed her announcement was the whine of the old wood beneath my feet.
“I heard that! Are you really gonna make the woman who spent nearly 48 hours trying to bring you into this world stand out here like she’s trying to sell you a vacuum?!”
I reached as deep as humanely possible and found the scraps of patience that I had left. My mother liked to embellish a bit. I knew that the truth was that she'd spent around 24 hours in labor, but that didn't sound nearly as epic and guilt inducing as 48. Before she mentioned freshman year when I accidentally forgot to call her at midnight to tell her happy birthday, or when I was living off ramen and dreams and had the audacity to just get her a card on Mother's Day, I unhooked the latch on my door and stretched the sides of my mouth until they touched the ceiling.
"Mom! What a-" I choked on my greeting when I realized that my mother's head had been replaced by a magazine. The picture on the front was a familiar one, because I'd experienced it first hand.
It was me and Jason on the balcony of Delilah, having dinner. The picture was too grainy to make out faces, but they took the guess work out of it, the headline reading, ‘Meet Natalee Madison, Jason Cox's Side Piece!’ And beneath it, in italics like someone leaned over to whisper something for your ears only, Don't tell Jason's fiancé!
I turned on my heels slowly. I felt simultaneously nauseous, wanting to go back to the whole hiding from the outside world thing I'd been doing, and so angry that I wanted to punch a hole through the wall. Angry at the prick who'd snapped that moment. A moment that I thought was a turning point.
I thought Jason and I were becoming something more than two people who couldn't escape the physical magnetism that pulled us together, despite all the reasons we were a bad idea. Those reasons went quiet when I thought we were sharing something real. Something special. The pieces of ourselves that we hid away. Scars from the disappointments of our youth.
And now, I had another emotion that I was juggling. I was disappointed that I hadn't just let my mother rant and rave from the hall and put ear buds in because it was clear she was just warming up.
"No hug? No greeting?" she huffed, her heels clicking as she scurried behind me. "I find out that my daughter has been busy shagging another woman's man and you have nothing to say for yourself?"
I stopped a few feet shy of the couch, my cheeks burning like I set them on fire. I didn't do anything wrong, but I still felt like I should be apologizing anyway.
I balled my fists, pushing that bullshit away. I didn't owe anyone anything. Not the reporters who'd made me the subject of their stalking, not some woman that I didn't even know existed until a few days ago...and not my mother.
"I'm barely keeping it together, Mom but I really appreciate you coming here to call me a home wrecker to my face."
I knew what would come next. More of the same. More guilt trips. I decided to continue my trek back to lala land. The one place on Earth where I could block out the world, my mother included.
Unfortunately, invasion was imminent and I'd already shot myself in the foot by letting her in the door.
"Natalee, I just don't understand. After what happened with Scott-"
"After what happened with Scott, I can't believe you would come to my home with that trash and accuse me of trying to take another woman's man."
I felt her eyes on me, hot and demanding. Reminding me of a million different standoffs we'd had. There was a part of me that was pulled back to my younger days, my room having to be impeccable or she'd go off the rails. Her skin was probably crawling since my living room was a graveyard of takeout containers, tissue, and the clothes I'd worn since that night. My new routine consisted of coming home, stripping, pulling on an oversized shirt and sweats, and burrowing under the blankets on the couch. Since the orders at Madison Creations had slowed and leaving the house meant that my every move was documented by photographers, I'd decided I would just live in this bubble until my roommate got home.
A bubble that my mother had no problem popping.
I knew there was one way to get under her skin, and even though I wanted to glare right back at her, ignoring her and her ludicrous accusations would be more effective. That and, I couldn't bear to look at the woman who'd spent hours bringing me into this world, who should know me better than that, but would take the word of strangers. Where was the benefit of the doubt and one better... "Where's Dad?"
"I made him stay at the hotel,” she answered curtly. “Clearly you need your mother, now more than ever."
I bursted into laughter at that, glancing over at her despite my attempts at giving her the cold shoulder. My laughs trickled into nervous chuckles when I realized that my mother, who never stepped out of her bedroom without her makeup meticulously applied, her hair lush and camera ready, and her outfit showing off cleavage and the gym body she worked hard at, had been replaced by a woman that looked like, well, me.
Her platinum blonde, dyed locks were pulled into a messy ponytail with bonafide flyaways reminding me that I came by my own honest. Her contouring, pencils, and skill probably made her feel like she was shaving off the years, but her face was clear of makeup and she'd never looked younger. Or more tired. Or more vulnerable. Her t-shirt didn't boast her cleavage and her black yoga pants looked like the ones she wore at home while she was waiting for her real clothes to be laundered. And I must have imagined the heels because her feet were wrapped in a pair of flats. Flats. I didn't even know she earned anything other than heels and sneakers for the gym.
Her olive eyes glossed over my face. When she met my gaze, she went into Mom Mode. "You should crack a window, it smells like death and Chinese food in here." She didn't maneuver around the mess, she started scooping things up, blazing a trail to the window. I could have told her the trick to opening the window, but I watched her fuss with it for a minute or two before she wrenched it open and let fresh air in.
She scooped out mail and spam from a laundry basket and dumped my clothes in, balancing it on her hip as she gave me a once over. "When was the last time you showered?" She didn't wait for me to answer her, leaning in to sniff the crown of my head. "Natalee Jane!"
I swatted her away, the heat returning to my cheeks with a vengeance. "Kinda hard to squeeze showers in with all the man stealing and such."
She recoiled, her lips curdling as she gripped the basket like she was the one holding onto her sanity. Like she was the one whose life had been turned upside down. Like she had people trying to capture every riveting moment of her life from grabbing milk at the grocery store to pumping gas.
Everyone wanted a piece of me, including him. They invaded my life with their cameras and their lurid questions about my conscience, or lack thereof, if you believed the headlines. And Jason—he invaded my life in the worst possible ways. He crept in like smoke, like a whisper, filling me with doubt. If I believed his texts and emails, then this was all theater. A fabrication. He claimed the glimpse I got on Delilah was the real him.
