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“Forget it,” I tell her.
A tear spills down her cheek. She will not forget it. She will dwell on this for days.
“I’ve been trying so hard, Piper. I really have. With them moving next door, I feel like I have to be on my best behavior, and I’ve been so afraid of screwing up. I don’t want them to judge me. I want them to like me.”
This breaks my heart. I squeeze her hand tighter until she pulls it away.
“Mom, please. You’re doing fine. I promise they aren’t judging you and that they like you and you’re handling this change so well. I just thought that maybe if it’s time for me to go back, you’d come with me. Not so much for yourself but for me. I . . . it would be nice to have the support.”
But she doesn’t believe me and won’t hear me, that much I know. Once she has something in her head, all the convincing in the world won’t change her mind.
She gets up, crying now, and heads inside.
I sit there, my heart sinking. I fucked up this time, I really did. This is how it’s always gone when I mention therapy. She’s so resistant to it that it’s like a reflex. The same goes for medication. She should go to the doctor a lot more than she does, and I have to be the one on top of her refills. She’ll happily run out of pills and won’t tell me for weeks. Sometimes I wonder if she’s so afraid of society judging her for her mental illness that the stigma contributes to her denial. Or I think that maybe my dad had something to do with it. I was young, but I remember many arguments between my parents, my dad often saying that my mother could change if she wanted to, and that there was no such thing as borderline personality disorder. Hell, he’s the type to believe that depression is just a case of the blues as well. I wonder how much he contributed to the way my mother is now, you know, aside from the fact that he left her high and dry for the very reasons he told her didn’t exist.
Liza, who has been lying on the deck, gets up and walks over to me, looking up at me with questioning eyes. She’s so sensitive to both our moods, which is one of the reasons why she’s such a great girl to have around. Even though she’s not an official emotional support animal, she acts like one anyway. Maybe her upbringing, being found as a stray, most likely escaped from an abusive home, makes her know just what it is that people in pain, emotional or physical, need.
“Hey, girl,” I say to her, feeling choked up myself. I stroke the top of her head. “Go check on your grandma. She needs you.”
Liza stares at me for a moment, but she knows what grandma means. She trots off into the house, presumably to go be by her side.
As for me, I know the damage I’ve done and that going after my mother and trying to explain and apologize isn’t going to get me very far. It will only make things worse. The only thing I can do now is give her space and hope that she’ll come around soon.
Tomorrow is Monday. It’s a great day to call my therapist and make an appointment for myself.
* * *
My therapist is getting more than she bargained for.
I slept in a little this morning, feeling tired and melancholy, and eventually ended up making an appointment for next week (my therapist is in Victoria). My mother stayed in her room with the door closed, and I only opened it when I heard Liza scratching at the door to be let out.
On our second walk of the day, I decide to check the mail. Our mailbox is farther up the road, but luckily the cul-de-sac is empty save for that SUV. I don’t want to stare too hard, but either James never sleeps or he’s not in the SUV at all and it’s just for show. Either way, it’s been keeping the media away.
I grab the mail, which is just an envelope and the local newspaper, the ShoreLine, and then take it back to the house.
Where I unfold the newspaper on the kitchen table.
And stare at the front page.
It’s a picture of Eddie and Monica, with Harrison in the background, taken in England at some time.
The headline?
“Royal Bodyguard Involved in Altercation at Local Pub.”
Followed by the first line: If the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax are expected to be our new residents, how long can the peace last?
The article itself is a very long, waxing piece of mumbo jumbo. I’ve already read it two times, and I’m currently sitting on the couch and trying to read it again, because it doesn’t make a lot of sense.
