She’s right. I may have been raised southern, but my childhood was anything but normal.
By the time I was five, I’d lived in six different states. My parents never married, insisting the institution was archaic and another way for the government to control women. We lived in a commune of sorts, with a large group of similarly-minded people who, until I was ten, I honestly thought were relatives. Our little slice of home, on the outskirts of Orangeburg, was just a group of trailers spread out in a circle. I don’t remember there ever being a time when children weren’t playing something in the center, or when someone wasn’t manning the grill for a quick meal. I had no idea how stressed my parents were about making ends meet, or that every family there felt the same way. I only knew love.
It was only after my dad died, during my freshman year of high school, that I had a rude awakening about finances. Granted, Irecognized we weren’t rich. I could see differences between our family and that of my peers, even as a young kid. But after his death, and all the expenses that come with a long hospital stay, I became horrifyingly aware of how poor we were. In some ways, I love knowing my parents kept things from me. They clearly wanted me to have a childhood free of fear and stress. But, had I known, I like to think I’d have acted differently. I wouldn’t have bugged them into paying for me to play soccer, or take me to the overpricedNutcrackerperformance in Columbia. I’d have made do with clothes and shoes a little longer, and taken care of things more. Hell, I didn’t even know my dad had cancer until he was put into hospice three weeks before he died. I was a typical self-involved teenager, blissfully unaware that the rock of our family was slowly withering away in front of me.
Even with insurance, chemotherapy is fucking expensive. And all the medications he had to take? Ridiculous. Honestly, if there’s one thing I regret from childhood, it’s how oblivious I was. No one takes ten prescription medications per day unless something major is happening. Twelve-year-old Layla was dumb. Fourteen-year-old Layla was in denial. Fifteen-year-old Layla watched her dad’s burial, and should have known life would never be the same. Thirty-year-old Layla recognizes that now.
Because my dad was the breadwinner — the only one making money for our family — changes were made. Even the trailer was out of our price range, and my mom and I moved into a studio apartment in a sketchy part of Columbia. My mom got a full-time job working as a janitor at the neighborhood high school where I was enrolled. The teachers there were basically just trying to survive each day. Needless to say, once the other students realized my mom was the custodian, I was bullied pretty relentlessly. I tried not to let it bother me, though, and got a job working every night at the fast food restaurant down the street. It was there that I discovered how absolutely appalling the American food system is.
Why are there so many chemicals involved in our food production? Known pesticides that cause cancer still being used on ourproduce? Why is fast food cheaper than organic? It’s all complete bullshit. I hated every moment working at that restaurant, walking home smelling like the fryer, and feeling like there were layers of grease caking my pores every day. Each shift, I grew angrier. This shouldn’t be the way so many were forced to eat. Preservatives, carbohydrates, and fats. Nothing in moderation. And the actual restaurant? Disgusting. Chemicals stored next to bags of fries, and directions on how to hide the presence of rodents. I promised myself I’d never eat at a fast food restaurant again, and I’m pretty damn proud to say I’ve stuck to that promise.
“Did I tell you I had a date last night?” Mom says, jarring me from my trip down memory lane.
“No? Maybe. I can’t remember,” I admit. I love my mom, but sometimes she rambles, and I can’t keep up.
“Well, his name is Carl, and he is the assistant manager for the Publix over on Maple. He took me to a miniature golf course where all the holes have big animal structures,” she gushes. “It was so much fun! I think he let me win. Or maybe he’s really bad at miniature golf? Then he’d packed a picnic, and we ate in the back of his car.”
Good Lord. “What kind of car?”
“Hmm,” she muses. “I’m not sure. Some kind of hatchback.”
“Like a Subaru, or a Pinto? Major difference here, Mom.”
“I don’t think it was a Subaru. That’s more for your neck of the woods than mine, Peachy girl. We don’t need to worry about those kinds of roads in Florida,” she says with a laugh. She moved to Fort Myers after I graduated from high school and was on my own. “Plus, it looked like an older car.”
“So it’s possible he has a really old car, and he packed a meal because he couldn’t afford to take you out to dinner?” I ask pointedly.
“I guess it is possible …” she trails off.
“Mom.”
“Don’t get that tone with me, Layla Marie,” she snaps. “You’re making assumptions. I thought it was cute and genuine. He askedme what my favorite sandwich was, and he made it for me. He also made pasta salad from scratch, remembering that I’d said I didn’t like olives. He was a gentleman the entire time and didn’t even attempt a good night kiss. So stop assuming the worst.”
As usual, my mother puts me in my place. “I worry about you, Mom. You’re incredibly trusting and always see the best in people. I don’t want someone to take advantage of you for how genuine you are.”
“That’s sweet, Layla, but you also need to recognize that I’m a big girl, and I can decide if I want to trust someone or not. At least I’m dating,” she points out.
“We aren’t talking about me.”
“Maybe we should. When is the last time you went on a date?”
“I —” I pause, trying to think. “Honestly, I don’t know. It’s been a while.”
“Let’s worry a little less about my dating life and focus on yours instead,” she says cheerfully. “Come on, Peach Pie. I’d like a grandbaby or two eventually.”
I groan. “I will think about dating if you promise not to call me anything peach-related.”
“I will take that into consideration. Love you bunches!”
“Love you too.” I end the call, then chuckle. I don’t even know why my mother called in the first place. Our conversations are always a little chaotic, but typically, I can discern the reason for her call. No such luck today.
“Who calls you Peach?”
I jolt, tossing my phone into the air, and a hand whips out to catch it. I find the dark brown eyes of Max Callahan regarding me above his outstretched hand. “Jesus. Where did you come from? How long were you listening to my conversation?”
“Long enough. Who calls you Peach?”
“No one has ever called me Peach.”
