Page 15 of Formula Dreams
I find my mother in the sitting room, draped across a velvet chaise like she’s posing for an oil painting.Silk robe, mug of tea in one hand, and the other draped dramatically over the edge of the cushions.Her hair’s brushed but not styled.She hasn’t bothered with lipstick and that tells me she’s likely been drinking since she woke up.
“Darling,” she croons, offering me a wan smile.“This is a nice surprise.Are you in town to work?”
I cross the room, eyeing the silver tray on the side table.The usual—herbal tea, a half-empty pill bottle, and an empty highball glass that I know will smell of vodka if I lean in close to it.
“I came straight from Japan,” I say.“I had a race yesterday.”
She smiles faintly.“That was yesterday?”
No surprise there.I doubt she knows what month it is.
I study her carefully, noting a faint bruise to her temple.She stares back at me, a mildly confused expression on her face.
I take a seat on a Queen Anne chair and almost as if by magic, a maid appears no doubt to ask me if I’d like some tea.I wave her off before she can fully step foot in the room and she scurries away.
“You checked yourself out of treatment,” I say, propping my ankle on my knee and subconsciously gripping the armrests for the wild ride I’m about to take.
She makes a scoffing sound and waves a dramatic hand in the air.“Those fools… they don’t know what they’re doing.They’re all proclaiming that hot yoga and granola will cure me.Ridiculous.”
I hold back the long-suffering sigh I want to let out, choosing instead to keep my tone steady but firm.“It is one of the top-rated substance abuse clinics in England,” I point out.“I’m guessing they’ve seen success with hot yoga and granola.”
“It’s a waste of your money,” she insists.“And if you came running back here from Japan because of that, it’s a waste of your time.”
“You checked yourself out of rehab, wrecked a borrowed car, and sent Dad into full crisis mode.What did you think I’d do?”
She waves her hand again, lazily this time.“Crisis mode.Please.It was a fender bender in a car that drives like a toaster.And your father’s only upset because he has no control over me.”She takes a delicate sip of her tea.“Besides, he’s too busy with that woman he’s shagging to even care.”
She’s not wrong about that.
I don’t let up on her though.“He’s upset because you were high and drunk on a public road.”
“Not drunk.Buzzed.”Her smile widens, almost proud.“Besides, your father’s always looking for an excuse to be upset.Especially if it distracts from his midlife mistress and her tragic wardrobe.”
I press two fingers to the space between my eyes.“Vivienne.”
Not Mother.Not Mum.She’s only Vivienne to me.
“Don’t use that tone,” she chides.“You sound like your prep school headmaster.”She props herself up slightly and tucks an errant blond curl behind her ear.“You looked handsome on the telly.Even if you didn’t win.”
That surprises me.“You watched the race?”
“Mmm,” she hums, and I’m not sure if that’s a yes or no.It doesn’t matter one way or the other as Vivienne Barnes hasn’t been a true mother to me since… well, forever, I guess.“Will you stay for dinner?”
I don’t answer, instead rising from my chair to move to crack open the window.The air outside is damp and honest.In here, everything feels coated in perfume and denial.
“You should think about dating someone,” she says abruptly, as if we’re discussing weather or wallpaper.I glance over my shoulder at her, one eyebrow raised, but she’s not finished.“You’re twenty-six.Almost an old man in racing years.Don’t want to end up like your father.All money and no one to spend it on except his tart du jour.”
I don’t answer.I’m used to her ping-pong conversational pivots.I watch her closely, noting the slight tremor in her left hand, the hazy glaze still clinging to her eyes.She’s present in body, but not really in mind.
“That’s not an option for me,” I say dismissively.“Not with the life I’ve got.”
She tsks.“Nonsense.You’re a good-looking boy.Women love race car drivers.They practically throw themselves at you, don’t they?”
A bitter laugh pushes up my throat, but I swallow it down.This interest in my dating life isn’t real.It’s merely her mechanism to deflect from her addictions.She’s never asked why I don’t bring anyone home.And now that she has, the answer burns like a blade turned inward.
I think of Katherine.Eighteen.The only girl I ever liked enough to try.Bright-eyed, curious, genuinely sweet.I brought her home for Christmas break, stupidly proud to have someone who made me feel halfway normal.
Vivienne met us at the door with gin on her breath and a fur coat slipping off one shoulder.She was horrible from the start, refusing to call her by her real name.She was Emily, then Emma, and would apologize every time I would correct her, but I could tell she wasn’t sorry.Not with that malicious, gin-fueled glint in her eye.She ended up knocking over a bottle of Bordeaux onto Katherine’s lap and then shrieked at her for wasting the wine.Katherine burst into tears, I took her home and we never spoke again.That’s only one example of the ways my mother likes to maim from the inside out.
