Page 36 of Invisible Scars
Mother’s expression tightens for a moment, but she quickly recovers and nods. “Yes, let’s order.” She glances at the menu, her fingers tapping on the tablecloth. “This place is Kosher, right?”
“Would I take you to a non-Kosher place?”
“I don’t know, Effie, would you?” she asks dryly. “What do you recommend?”
“The tuna nigiri with cream cheese and chives,” I answer, mimicking her tone. “I still keep kosher, you know.”
“How would I know?” She folds the menu and places it on the table, signaling the waitress that we’re ready to order.
“You knew exactly where I was, Mother.”
“Yes, and you made it clear you want nothing to do with me.”
“You threatened to disown me if I didn’t whore myself out to one of your precious son’s bookies!” I whisper-shout.
“Language, Fifi,” my mother scolds, literally clutching her pearls.
I’m about to answer with a few choice words when the waitress arrives to take our order. By the time she’s gone, I’ve calmed myself, realizing it’s pointless to pick a fight with a narcissist. As we sit there in silence, I can’t help but feel a sense of detachment. It’s as if I’m observing this interaction from a distance, the gap between my mother and me growing wider with every passing moment.
When the food arrives, my mother picks at the chives decorating her fish, looking gloomy as she lifts the nigiri to her mouth and takes a bite.
“This is excellent,” she says with an obvious note of surprise.
“Ohio has fantastic restaurants. I love living here.”
“I know you won’t believe me, but I really am happy you’ve found your place.” My mother puts her chopsticks down and reaches over to take my hand. “Even if I don’t understand it, even if I don’t agree with it, as long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters.”
She’s right. I don’t believe her. Years of criticism, gaslighting, and being on the wrong side of my parent’s favoritism don’t disappear with a few pretty words.
“I’ve built a life for myself that I’m proud of,” I say, pulling my hand away. “And I did thatdespiteeverything you did to me.”
Her face contorts with a mixture of emotions, and I can tell she’s having an inner struggle. But I’ve come too far, fought too hard to break free of the shackles my family tried to tie me down with to let her manipulate and guilt me with empty words.
“I accept my role in your hatred towards me,” she says with tears in her eyes, and I scoff.
“I don’t hate you. I just can’t allow myself to become that girl that would do anything for your love and approval again.”
“You have both, Fifi,” my mother says, dabbing the corners of her eyes with a napkin. “I do wish you’d work in a less ruffian environment, though. You should surround yourself with more sophisticated and well-mannered men than those Peaks and their motley crew.” The ferocity of the protectiveness that floods me is something I’ve never felt before, and I fight to gain control of it before I lunge at her. “The only one there worth a dime is that Micah boy. Excellent fashion sense, too.”
“Every one of thosePeaksis worth a million times more than the sorry excuse of a human your son is,” I seethe through clenched teeth. “You want my forgiveness? Insultingmy familyis not the way to get it.”
“They are not your blood and kin, Effie.” My mother glowers at me. “I raised you better than to choose them over us.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken.” I toss my napkin on the table and pick up my purse. “I’m not choosing them. I’m choosingme. Standing by the Peaks is an extension of that.” I stand, to my chair almost toppling back. “Goodbye, Mother.”
“No, Fifi, please.” She wrings her napkin between her fingers. “I’m sorry. I won’t say anything bad about the Peaks again, I promise.”
“But you’ll be thinking it.” I turn to look at her. “This is my life. You either accept it or you don’t. No halfway there.”
“I…” My mother’s eyes slide shut. “Did you know you have two younger half-brothers?”
“Yes, and a half-sister, too.” I cross my arms and glare at her. “I fail to see the relevance.”
“For your father, women are only as valuable as the successors they produce,” she whispers, looking away. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” I fight not to look back as I walk away.
On the way out of the restaurant, I pass by a large mirror and catch my reflection. The person staring back at me isn’t the woman I claimed I’ve become. Instead, I’m confronted by the girl who’d do anything for approval, including wearing clothes she hates and contact lenses that make her eyes itch.
