Page 19 of Mother Pucker
Well, I’m here now, with most of my bearings . . . yet I’m still holding this flip-top box inside my palm.
I chuckle mirthlessly at my own ridiculousness. On one hand, I’m scrubbing dust and dirt off old ceiling rafters so we don’t fill our lungs with toxins, and on the other hand, I’mpurposelyfilling my lungs with carcinogens.
I can’t even imagine what Delia and Liv would think, what with all the sermons I dole out about putting only nutritious things into our bodies. They’d see me in a completely different light, and that’s a light I’m not ready to have shined on me just yet.
Hi, I’m Shayla Kumar, PT, DPT, five-foot-one, and I’m the world’s biggest hypocrite and fraud.
Sliding my thumb on the side of the lighter, I place the cigarette in between my lips and lean toward the flame. The familiar soft hiss of the paper burning inside the fire gives me that same false sense of comfort it always does, knowing that, at least for a short moment, it’ll just be me and my secret.
I inhale softly at first, focusing on watching the red cherry brighten at the end, before dropping the lighter back into my pocket.
Clasping the cigarette between my index and middle finger, I let out a balloon of smoke around me before taking a longer drag.
And then I wait for the shame.
The shame of living this dual life.
The shame of not being the mom I want to be–that I yearn to be.
The shame of disappointing my son and allowing my fears to overrule logic.
The shame of wanting someone I shouldn’t. Someone who’s not only my patient, but also my exact opposite.
And it comes.
Because it always does.
The self-loathing and self-deprecation, the feeling of inadequacy and defeat. The guilt of doing the very thing I’d look down on others for doing.
It ensnares me from head to toe, tightening its hold around my ribs and my stomach. But Istilltake another drag from the fucking cancer stick in between my fingers. I can’t stop, even when I want to. I hate it, even while I love it. And I find myself succumbing to this duality every now and again when the water rises too far above my head and the only thing that helps me breathe is the very thing that depletes the oxygen in my lungs.
Yeah, how’s that for heavy?
As always, I start by defending my actions to no one but myself.
You’re so good about what you put into your body ninety-nine percent of the time. This one time won’t kill you.
It’s a temporary vice–one you can chuck at any time. Everyone has a vice, don’t they? So what if this is yours? Temporarily.
Give yourself a break! You’ve only smoked a few cigarettes this month. You’ll smoke a little less next month.
But then, it’s my guilt–my conscience–that always wins.
Just as it’s doing at this very moment, while I turn into a teary, sobbing mess.
I sob into my sleeve, feeling utterly defeated and sorry for myself for being a fraud in front of my friends and my son.
I project this poise and perfection on the outside, but on the inside, I’m the kind of mess most people would be better off staying away from.
My cigarette wobbles between my fingers as I bring it back to my lips, taking a puff and releasing the smoke on another garbled cry. My tears bite my cheeks as the cold breeze dries them on my skin.
I’m just in the middle of sniffling and running my nose over my sleeve again when I hear a crunching sound on the grass to my side.
Goddammit! Can’t a girl get railed by her gold-plated vibrator, or get a decent smoke in for once in her life around here?!
I quickly rise to my feet, throwing the cigarette on the concrete step. Tightening my robe, I turn toward the sound, when I come face to face with a man holding a baseball bat in position to strike.
A scream forms somewhere inside my lungs, but before it has a chance to escape, the man lunges at me, placing his gargantuan hand over my mouth.
