Chapter 3 - The Woman of the House

Inside, Brian is perched over a box of kitchenware. “Find anything good in there?” Brian asks as I close the door behind me and make my way over to another stack of boxes waiting to be unpacked.

“Not really, just a bunch of old beach toys,” I say.

“Maybe we should just tear the boathouse down. It’s kind of an eyesore,” Brian says, peering over my shoulder through the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the back of the house.

“I don’t know, I think it’s kind of charming,” I say as I pinch the soft plastic mounds of Bubble Wrap.

Brian reaches for the heavy glass object in my hands and cradles it as he unwraps it.

“Careful,” he says. “This vase was expensive.”

I feel my face get hot with embarrassment. I chew on the inside of my cheek until I feel the iron taste of blood in my mouth, punishment for looking stupid in front of Brian. Technically we’re still in the newlywed stage, but I know that will only last so long.

“Come upstairs,” Brian says, putting the vase down gently on the granite countertop. “I have a surprise for you.” He sees the quick look of terror flash across my face and stops me before I open my mouth to speak. “Don’t worry, it’s not a birthday gift.” I smile, feeling foolish.

Brian knows I hate my birthday. He thinks it’s because I don’t like attention, which is partly true—the only part he needs to know about anyway. On this day thirty-three years ago, Mother endured thirty-six hours of labor before a doctor dug his gloved hands in her uterus and pulled me out. Later, she’d tell me how much she resented the doctor for not giving her the satisfaction of pushing me out herself. Mother’s thirty-third year was the last good year of her life. She never let me forget it.

I follow Brian up the large oak staircase, past the main bathroom and toward the guest bedroom. Before we go inside, he tells me to close my eyes. I hear the door open.

“Okay, open!” he says, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking at. He takes a step toward the center of the room and puts his arms out wide, almost like they’re too excited to stay at his side. I look around, but everything seems the same as when we unpacked it the other day. The dresser is against the wall. The plush white bedspread is laid out over the bed. Brian grabs my hands and holds them in front of him. I try to match his eagerness with a toothy smile.

“I know this is still a guest bedroom,” Brian says as he leads me over to the dresser. “But one day, hopefully soon, it will be more than that.” On top of the dresser is a glass rattle with a white bow tied around it. I hold it in my hands, unsure what to do with it. “It was a gift my dad bought for my mom when she was pregnant with me,” he says. I nod like I understand, even though I don’t. “I know we said we’d wait a few more months until we were settled, but I think I’m ready. I think we’re ready.” Without warning, tears well up in my eyes and Brian pulls me close. I’m overcome with emotion, just not the one Brian thinks. “I just wanted you to know how excited I am,” Brian says as we part.

“I’m excited too,” I say, our foreheads touching and our lips inches apart. The lie is tender, soft.

“I knew you’d love it,” Brian says before kissing my forehead. A sign of approval. The one thing I always crave from him.

After we part, something inside the drawer catches my eye and cuts the air from my lungs. My back stiffens and my hands are limp at my sides. Mother. Her portrait is staring up at me, willing me to pick it up. I can’t remember the last time I saw the picture. I thought I had thrown it away in the dumpster behind my old apartment.

My hand trembles as I pick up the portrait. It’s heavier than it looks and feels uncomfortable in my hands. It’s almost as uncomfortable to look at. Mother loved this picture of herself. Her sharp facial features are somehow softened by the light, and her dull skin looks bright. Her hands are folded in her lap and look almost delicate—a far cry from the ones that used to grab me by the shoulders and shake me until my head bobbed back and forth like a doll’s. Even her brown hair looks more striking than it really was. Mother’s hair had always been flat and stringy, never growing past her shoulders. She hated that my hair was long and thick, often growing over an inch a month, so she kept it in a short pixie cut. I was often mistaken for a boy, and whenever someone referred to me as her son my face would flush red and Mother would snicker, entertained by my discomfort.

When I was about six or seven, I came home from school with a handmade invitation for Olivia Spencer’s birthday party. It was the first time anyone in my class had invited me to one of their birthday parties and I held the invitation tight to my chest as my stomach fluttered with excitement.

“What’s that?” Mother had asked when I came home.

“A birthday invitation,” I said proudly, holding up the invitation for Mother to see.

“Huh?” she grunted.

“A girl in my class. Can I go? Please?”

Mother scoffed. “No.”

“Please, please, please. I promise I’ll be good.” I twisted a lock of hair around my finger. It had grown down to my chin, the longest it had ever been.

Suddenly, Mother perked up. “Okay, you can go,” she said.

“Really? Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Come in the kitchen. I’ll help you do your hair for the party.”

“But it’s not until next weekend…”

She pointed toward the corner with the two-burner stove and I followed obediently. The next thing I knew, Mother had the clippers in her hand. By the time she was done, my hair was shorn down to stubble, rough underneath my fingers.

“It’s too bad you got a bad case of lice right before your precious party.” She smirked as she threw the buzzer on the ground at my feet. Her eyes were wild with amusement. She didn’t even bother to clean up. Instead, she left the discarded strands on the floor, lying in heaps all around me. Of course, without any hair, I’d been too embarrassed to go to the party.

I shudder next to Brian, still able to feel the cool air against my nearly bald head. I stare down at the portrait. Even though Mother is smiling in it, there’s no happiness in her expression. She looks through the lens of the camera, straight at me. I don’t have to close my eyes to hear her voice. I know what she’d say if she were here now.

“I still can’t believe I haven’t met her yet,” Brian says as he comes up behind me. “When did you say she’d be back again?”

“The church asked her to stay on for another six months, and then after that who knows.”

I can feel Brian sigh behind me. “I give her a lot of credit for volunteering all around the world, especially during her retirement, but you must miss her.”

I nod because I don’t think I can manage to tell a good lie. That’s one thing I learned from Mother: Don’t lie unless you’re sure you’ll be believed.

“Where did you get it?” I ask, holding the portrait up.

“In one of the boxes.” He releases me and I stand a little straighter. “Hey, is everything all right? If you don’t like the rattle, I can get you a different one…”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just hard for me to look at this picture, that’s all.”

“I understand,” he says. But he doesn’t, not really. He believes I miss my globe-trotting, altruistic mother, and I let him, because lying is easier than explaining the truth.

“Well, I have one more surprise for you,” he adds. I turn around and lean my weight against the dresser, unsure if I can handle another surprise right now. “My parents invited us over for dinner tonight.”

“Tonight?” I ask, trying to curb the annoyance in my voice.

“Don’t think of it as a birthday dinner, just think of it as dinner with my family.”

“When do we have to be there?” I check the time on my watch. It’s a quarter to five.

“Seven,” Brian says. The top of my head feels oily. I can’t remember the last time I washed my hair. The box with my makeup hasn’t turned up yet, something Brian’s mom and sister will surely take note of as soon as I walk in the door. I want to fit in with them, this perfect family from the suburbs of Chicago that has everything from the white picket fence to the family dog buried in the backyard. But in order to fit in, I have to pretend. So I do. I pretend to be a fan of the Northwestern football team. I pretend to know about the new brunch spot in Lincoln Park. I pretend to care about the politics of spin class. I pretend to like the country club Brian’s parents have belonged to since before I was born. I pretend so they don’t see me for what I really am: an outsider.

I pick at the skin around my cuticle, itching to say something under my breath about Brian not giving me enough notice for dinner. I imagine confronting him—exactly how many mind-numbing dinners do I have to sit through with your parents anyway?—but I know I won’t. In the six months we’ve been married, Brian and I haven’t had so much as an argument. No hurled resentments, no insults shouted in the heat of the moment, no slammed doors or going to bed angry. There haven’t been any disagreements between us because I never say how I really feel. Living with Mother taught me that being safe in your own home means staying quiet. And when I’m not quiet, I’m agreeable, because that’s what a good wife does. The whole reason we’re married, the reason Brian is in love with me, is because I’m willing to be exactly who he wants me to be.

Brian gives my hand a squeeze before going to take a shower, leaving me to privately stew over the imaginary fight he knows nothing about.

My skin feels hot. I realize I’m still holding Mother’s portrait in my hands. Down the hall the shower turns on. Brian starts humming. I wait until I hear the shower door close before I open the bottom dresser drawer, throw the picture inside, and slam it shut.