Sister Mother

WHEN HER MOTHER went to bed, Lily would spend the rest of the night trying to stay awake for as long as possible. She knew sleep was the best thing she could do, but ending her day right as the peace and quiet finally began felt foolish. It was during the latest hours of the night (or earliest hours of the morning) that she would grab a book and attempt to read it in its entirety. She never succeeded, though she came close with Frankenstein and Jane Eyre. She lost herself in her novels, and possessing them was one of the few acts of kindness her mother displayed for her during those early years in Acapulco. If she attended a school that cared about her future, her instructors would have told Lily's mother that she was excelling in class, that she was reading far beyond what most thirteen-year-olds were capable of, and that she should consider putting Lily in a private institution that would properly exercise her reading comprehension and analysis skills. Being poor and having uncaring teachers, Lily was never given the attention she deserved, and so her future was already written. 

    Her mother and littlest sister, Josefine, had already gone off to work and daycare before Lily and her sister, Miranda, walked to school. The walk was about fifteen minutes—a short amount of time for most people, for privileged kids who only had to worry about looking both ways before crossing the street. For Lily and Miranda, those fifteen minutes were terrifying. 

    "Never let go of my hand," Lily would tell her sister. "Stay close to me, and don't look any man in the eyes." 

    The girls would fast walk to school, attend class, socialize during recess and lunchtime, return to class, and walk home. The journey back was often more dangerous than the one to school. The sun would start to make its way back down behind the curtains of the mountains, and the drunks would be out on the streets. They were all the same to Lily: handsy, absurd, appalling. She would make sure Miranda got home safe and, under her mother's instruction, walk to her father's house afterward, which was an hour away, to ask for money. Lily wasn't planned, and she wasn't consensual. It wasn't until she was a teenager that she realized that her mother treated her so punitively because of this awful fact, and it wasn't until she was an adult that she loathed her mother for treating her like a stranger who perpetually owed her an unpayable amount of money. Lily had her father's eyes, ears, lips, all the things that make a face a face. Her mother would stare at her and grimace as if reliving the moment she was conceived. After Lily was born, her father became a stranger. He held her once, felt nothing, and gave her up. Lily didn't have a genuine connection with him because he was a man she hardly knew. During those bi-weekly visits to his large estate (he was a lawyer), she would knock on the door and be ushered in by the help. She'd be told that he was swamped and would be with her shortly. It was all very formal, distanced, and methodical in its coldness. Sometimes, he would let her sit in the corner of his home office while he signed documents, took phone calls, and typed away at his bulky computer. She was always embarrassed to ask for money on her mother's behalf. Still, considering the circumstances, she never had a choice. 

    "How much?" he asked curtly. 

    "I don't know," she said shakily. "Same as last time?" 

    "All I do is provide for you and your mother," he said spitefully. "If she just grew up and got a real job, I wouldn't have to see your face every other week. Hey, don't look at me like that. It's not my fault you're here. Blame her." 

    The conversations were essentially the same, just different variations of the exact words that hurt as much as they did the last time he said them. Lily wondered how it was possible to feel such dread and not die from exhaustion. She became familiar with his office. Its warm reds, dark browns, ugly yellows, uncomfortable leather couches, isolating framed photographs of his family, the family he chose to stay with, the family he would occasionally let up inside his office while Lily sat there, watching the life she could have had unfold before her like a play. His other daughters hardly ever acknowledged her. She assumed he told them not to speak to her, to treat her like a stranger, to treat her like one of their servants, to never find the humanity in her longing expression and slouched posture. It was during those nights Lily felt ashamed to be who she was. It wasn't her fault. She didn't choose to be born, she didn't choose to be a reject, she didn't choose to be a mother to her sisters, she didn't choose to be abused by her own mother because she shared the face of her assaulter, she didn't choose to live a life many would consider fraught with misery and helplessness and pain and despair. Lily was a victim of these circumstances, and there was nothing else she could do but submit to its violent current. 

    One night, one of the girls asked, "Who are you? Why are you here all the time?" 

    She was no older than eight and often wore floral dresses that her mother no doubt picked out for her. Purple seemed to be her favorite color; she always wore a pair of black jelly shoes, and she had a petite face that Lily knew would grow into a beautiful one that didn't resemble her father. Lily asked her to repeat the question, so she did with an even more impudent inflection. Her father was not in the room at the moment, and Lily was unsure what she could say. As Lily opened her mouth to respond, her father walked back in. He always entered rooms like a bull breaking down a door, the energy matching his broad shoulders and intimidating height. He looked at the two of them and extended his hand to his preferred daughter. She put her tiny hand in his, and he lifted her up so her chin rested on his shoulder. 

    "What did I say about talking to her?" he whispered loud enough for Lily to hear. 

    "You told me not to," she said innocently. "I'm sorry." 

    "It's okay," he said kindly, kissing her on the cheek and setting her down. "Go play with your sisters." 

    She left the room, and it was just the two of them once again. He dug into his pocket and took out a wad of cash, setting it on the tiny coffee table closest to the door. Without saying another word, he returned to his desk, sat, and returned to work. This was their ritual. It never changed, and Lily found just a semblance of comfort in knowing that her humiliation would always be the same and feel the same, because although its unchanging nature hurt her more than anything, at least it was consistent. Lily would arrive back home around 10pm. Her mother would already be asleep, and her siblings would lie in bed, waiting for her to come back before daring to close their eyes. It seemed as though even Josefine was aware of the trouble they constantly found themselves in. It depressed Lily that such a little girl could be capable of thinking in that way, that such a little girl didn't have a choice but to think that way. 

    When Lily became an adult, she reflected on how her mother treated her and how it affected her life in quiet, unsuspecting ways. She struggled to maintain long-term relationships because of her temper and jealous tendencies. She once dated a man named Charles, who was in his late forties. He had a son in the fifth grade and loved him more than anything. Some nights Lily would text Charles wanting to make plans for the coming days, but he would tell her he was busy on this day or that day. Soccer practice, parent-teacher conferences, and visits to the school library were things any active parent would do. Still, Lily would become frustrated with his tight schedule. She'd warp her mind into believing that he didn't want to spend time with her, that she was a nuisance to him, that he didn't love her. Only when these relationships ended would she examine the detritus of her actions and feel broken;  she had deep-rooted problems that couldn't be fixed by a lover, a boyfriend, or a husband. Once she sought therapy, she realized no one was capable of fixing her and that it was selfish to put such a profound responsibility on one person. She was confronted with her past, with her mother, who she finally considered motherly in her elder years, with the unresolved trauma that lurked and scuttled around in her brain like an insect. She got married, had a child, became closer with her sisters, had a steady job, and still hated her mother. 

    Lily died before she could forgive her mother, and the family moved on as best they could. Holiday gatherings felt hollow for a few years. Josefine tried taking up different hobbies to keep herself distracted. None of them lasted more than a month. Josefine's son became a far more confused, unfocused boy than he already was, and sometimes he would cry during the most inappropriate times. Miranda got a tattoo of Lily's face on her left shoulder and immediately regretted doing so. Lily's mother theorized that the person who hit her with his car did so on purpose, that he was stalking her for weeks, and that it was all planned. No one listened to her because there was no value in listening. She suffered a tragedy worse than death. Her daughter died before she did. Wisdom didn't come to her as she aged; hatred did. As for Lily's little boy, Victor, he became an impenetrable wall. No one ever saw him cry. No one ever saw him display even the simplest forms of sadness. The family thought less of him because of it, even though they'd never admit it.