Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter: A Memoir Read Online Free PDF Page B

of you. I do everything I can to help you. I’ve devoted my entire life to you. My mom never cared about me like this. All she cared about was my brother, her precious son! My sisters were the only ones who took care of me, ironing my clothes and making sure I got to school. They made sure I did my homework, not her. She didn’t care. If only I’d had someone who cared about me the way I care about the two of you I could have achieved anything. But no! It kills me that neither of you appreciate everything I am always doing for both of you!”
    Her cheeks flushed bright red with anger and she slammed her hand on the steering wheel as she yelled. I wanted to be anywhere but in that car. I appreciated what she did, even if Tiffany didn’t seem to. Mom was right about everything, but I still thought kicking Tiffany out of the car was extreme. I looked for landmarks on the road so I could tell Dad later where we’d left Tiffany and maybe he could go back for her.
    After a mile or two she sighed heavily. “I guess I have to go back for her. I’m very tempted not to.”
    We circled back and pulled up next to Tiffany, who was standing on the sidewalk sobbing right where we’d left her. Tiffany got back in the car. I saw her face for an instant before she climbed back into her seat. Tears covered her cheeks, her eyes were red, and the sides of her mouth were slack with fear and humiliation. She was a shadow of the girl who charged across summer camp to save me from the swim counselors.
    I didn’t know why she mouthed off like she did. I would never have said those things to Mom. Her acts of resistance always made things worse. I felt sorry for her but I was angry with her at the same time for causing all this drama. We both knew exactly what to say to mollify Mom, or to bait her. Tiffany almost always, illogically, chose to bait her.

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    “C ome on, Missy. It’s time to go. Dad’s in the car.”
    I finished brushing my teeth, wiped my face, and looked in the middle drawer of the bathroom vanity for a thin ribbon that would match my shirt. I’d taken more care with my wardrobe in the months that had passed since the fight with Maryjane. I’d switched to wearing only polo shirts or blouses; no more miscellaneous T-shirts now that I was almost seven years old. I brushed my hair long and straight, and tied a ribbon around my head like a headband to hold my hair away from my face.
    If I had time, I also liked to find matching argyle socks. Mom didn’t do the laundry that often, so this new part of my morning ritual could be a challenge.
    I found my backpack and bounded down the stairs. I usually made myself a peanut butter sandwich without jelly for lunch and took it in a bag with a fruit roll, but there was no bread in the kitchen, so we had nothing to hold the peanut butter. And we were out of fruit rolls.
    Mom stood next to the door in a housedress, waiting for me to leave.
    “There’s nothing for lunch,” I reported.
    “Oh, fine. I will go to McDonald’s and bring a Happy Meal to the parking lot at noon. Does that meet with your approval?”
    “Yes, but . . .”
    “I know! Chicken nuggets. No hamburgers. God.” She rolled her eyes.
    “Thanks, Mom!” I kissed her and ran out. From nothing to hand-delivered McDonald’s, that was quite an upgrade.
     
     
    Dad sat in the car with the engine idling. For all the fuss to hurry, he now lounged casually in the front seat smoking a cigarette, letting the car warm up. He wore blue jeans and a crisp blue and white button-down shirt under a navy sweater. His thick salt-and-pepper hair had been blown dry smooth and shiny. He was forty-two years old and still had a full head of hair. When I rode on his shoulders, I liked to grab clumps of his mane in my fists to steer him. Then I’d tease him that I could see a bald spot that he didn’t know he had. He’d laugh at the very idea.
    His sleek, relaxed demeanor hid a serious mind and a sensibility shaped by his