Will to Way, Wilt Away

Chapter 9

The image of a poised, graceful, triumphant woman, who overcame every verbal beatdown and every night of lost hope from her childhood. Dressed head-to-toe in silk, or cashmere, or some other expensive fabric that she could afford because of the enormous paycheck she now earned. Living in a luxurious home lined with pictures of her and her husband and their dog (There were no cats in sight because she stopped ugly crying, got down to business, and found herself a man).

A self-made woman. That's the image I wanted, planned, and dreamed of conveying to my parents the next time they saw me.

But there I was. Puffy and temporarily fried eyes. Dressed in the same filthy pajamas for the last seven days. Living in an empty apartment with the ticking time bomb of an eviction notice in my future.

"Aspen. Why are you on the floor? You look horrible. I told you that moving out here was a bad idea. And mother always knows best," my mom rambled on. I still couldn't see her because every time I tried to open my eyes, they would automatically shut in retaliation for baking them in UV radiation. Her voice, however, sounded as condescending and unsympathetic as ever.

"You can't call yourself my 'mother,'" I said belligerently.

She pompously laughed. "Oh, yea. I grew you in my stomach for nine months. It says my name on your birth certificate. And we've got the same last name, don't we."

That's not what makes you a mom, I thought to myself. It was no use telling her out loud, though, because she wasn't a real mom; she wouldn't listen to her kid.

"How did you know I was here?"

"That boy at the front desk said I could find you at 9C." Godammit Shiloh!

"But how did you know I was in Napa?"

"Oh please. You told Grandma everything. She may be loyal to you, but I'm her daughter." Godammit Nana!

"Well, why are you even here?" I asked as my eyes watered profusely.

"Well, look at you. You should be glad I'm here. Putting meals on the table ain't that easy, huh."

"Meals on the table? Really? I ate microwaveable frozen dinners while you and Dad went out to expensive restaurants every night," I refuted. "And if a parent's only job was giving their kid food, there would be a lot more unhappy kids in this world."

I slowly began to open my right eye. There was a twinging pain, but it was bearable. My left eye followed. At first, everything was bright white, and I could only see outlines of my surroundings. Second by second, my eyes adjusted and the color spectrum of my sight broadened. Leaning directly over my face, I could see the shape of my mom's wannabe Marilyn Monroe curls. Her features gradually became visible: eyebrows plucked too thin, a nose half the size of her real one from back in the day, eyes that carried more botox than love, and pursed red lips that currently needed a new set of fillers. A face as fake as her own motherhood.

"Your eyes are bright red. What the hell were you doing?" she said snootily.

"None of your business," I replied defensively. I cautiously got to my feet and could see her whole body now. A Louis Vuitton bag hung from her shoulder and she wore a mauve tracksuit that screamed early 2000s. Only Paris and Brittany could pull that look off, though; she just looked straight trashy.

"Whatever." She stopped talking to adjust a curl in her hair.

I rolled my eyes. "You never answered my question," I said coldly. "What are you doing here?"

"You have to come home. I'm taking you with me right now. Let's go." She reached out to grab my arm with her French manicure, but I dodged her.

"No! I'm an adult now. You can't just take me."