Page 61 of The Me I Left Behind

“There could be worse things in life than having a controlling husband,” her mother told her.

Maggie knew though, that therewereworse things.

Like a controlling mother.

1992

Staring at the wall of tubes and brushes in the grocery store aisle, Mary Margaret Brennan wondered which one was best for her. The red tube was supposed to make your fine lashes thicker. The white tube promised ultra-long lashes to frame your eyes. But the fat pink tube claimed super-sexy, lush lashes that would practically change your life.

She’d been pondering that for weeks, every time she came to the store.

“Mary Margaret. I’ve got no time to waste here. We need to go.”

She turned toward her mother. “I have babysitting money. Can I get some?” She pointed to the mascara.

Her mother’s face crinkled into an irritated frown. “Hell no. You’re barely thirteen. Mascara is for older women with thinning eyelashes.”

Mary Margaret stared. That was not true, and she knew it. All the girls in her class wore mascara. They’d started last year in seventh grade. And besides, her mother wasn’t that old, and she wore it, too. She’d seen the tubes in her makeup drawer in the bathroom. She’d even tried to sneak some once and nearly got caught.

“But I have money, and all the other girls….”

“I don’t raise all the other girls,” her mom snapped. Then she sighed, leaning on the handle of the grocery cart. “I forgot milk. Go grab a gallon and then we’re leaving. I’ll think about it, but you’ll have to ask your father.”

She was off then, pushing the cart in front of her, the boxy shoulder pads of her equally boxy jacket bouncing along with her hurried steps. Always in a hurry.

She stared at the makeup display again. Why ask her dad? What do men know about mascara, anyway? Made no sense.

1993

“Go back and change. You’re not wearing that.”

“Mom! It’s fine!”

She’d been planning this outfit for days. Her friend, Deni—short for Denise—asked her to go to the high school basketball game with her family. Tonight. She’d laid out jeans and different tops, finally deciding on a T-shirt, an oversized blouse tied at the waist, some bangle jewelry and her hiking boots.

Everything matched, the colors were magnificent, and she felt awesome.

Even Jack, her older brother, complimented her when she’d left the bathroom earlier.

“Good God, Mary Margaret. That top doesn’t go with those jeans. It’s too blousy and silky. And the T-shirt clashes and is too low-cut. Are you trying to show off what little boobs you have? Hell’s bells.”

“No, Mom. I’m not. I—”

“And don’t you know better than to put two patterns together like that? A print and a solid is what you want. Not a print and a print. That’s stupid. Plus, that bandana scarf on your head is ridiculous. Take it off.”

“But the colors are perfect for each other and they all match….”

Her mother glared. “No daughter of mine is going to leave this house looking like a tramp, or like you went shopping at the Goodwill. Now, find something else to wear. Go.”

Tramp?Mary Margaret looked down at herself.It’s not trampy, is it?It’s what the popular girls wear.

She glanced at the kitchen clock. Deni’s parents were supposed to be there soon.

“But Mom. I don’t have time!”

“Change or don’t go. I don’t care.”

A car horn honked in the driveway. “They’re here.”

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