Life is a Winding Road

On a backcountry road, the hills make my stomach go up and down, and realize that's how my life’s been for the past seventeen years. My life has always been a colorful catastrophe. I can hear my parent’s voices in my head, always trying to tell me what to do with my life. My mom’s voice--Turn your life around. Make something of yourself! You know what you are? You’re my biggest regret. I sit at a stop light, and in that flash second of the light turning from red to green, I realize I have the biggest decision to make. I can turn around right now and go home without anyone noticing I am gone, or I can go straight, down the path I choose for myself.

I am trying to decide, when I hear someone honk and say, “Come on lady! Move your car!”

I yell back, “Give me a minute! I haven't decided!”

“I don't care, just drive,” he says. Do I drive or let him go around me? Is this a sign that I should just go? I step on the gas.

It’s been three hours. I wonder if my parents will notice that I am gone, or even care. The voice in my head replays the argument my mother and I had before I left.

“Are you ever going to become an adult?”

“Are you ever going to become an adult role model I can look up to?”

What would it be like if there were auditions for adulthood? You could either have a call back or not make the cut, which would mean you would have to wait for another production of “life.” I probably won’t make the cut, because my mom didn’t rehearse the lines with me. If I tried to explain my relationship with my mom, it would sound like a cliché lifetime movie. My mother and I have a love/hate relationship: she tries to love me more and I try to hate her less.

Sure, my mom and I have had three or four mother-daughter moments.There was one time we went on a really fast roller coaster to the point where I thought we were going to be sick. In the end, we did get sick, but it was worth it. Another time on a family vacation, we went swimming in the ocean, and came out with seaweed all of over us. But all of that was before she found out that I was going to be the biggest disappointment in her life.

My dad and I don’t really talk. I think I make him uncomfortable. I don’t think he knows what to say to me or how to deal with me when I get myself into what they like to call an "anxiety headache situation." Whereas I like to call it "enjoying my youth," they interpret my every move as proof I don't give a damn about what I do with my life. But they don’t know the real me. I am very organized and responsible when it comes to school--all my binders are on point. When it comes to my boyfriend, Jess, I make sure I make time for him, but not so much that I get behind and stray from my academic studies. I make sure all my college apps are in on time, and I still manage to make time to relax without stressing too much about my grades. But they don’t think I am responsible in my studies, because I am not bringing home the grades they want to see, and I don’t compare to their expectations. So she makes subtle comments that make me feel like shit.

My mom has always told me she would be proud of me in anything I do ... as long as I come home on the honors list and get into an Ivy League school. They always wanted me to be the perfect child who they could brag about to all their friends. Some people might think my parents just want more for me than they had in their own lives, but they had everything. They graduated from Cornell and became well-known lawyers. The day I come home with an acceptance letter from Dartmouth, they will be proud to call me their daughter, but until then, it’s like they’ve disowned me.

When I was growing up, I would see my friend's parents tell them they loved them or hug them goodbye on their first day of school. I’ve never heard my mother or father say "I love you," not to each other or to me. On my first day of school, they wouldn’t even walk me inside. They told me they had to get to work and I would have to go in alone and, "have a good day, see you at 2:30." I was like, "Okay great, I'm only in kindergarten, but I guess I will try to figure out when 2:30 is."

I get so jealous of my friends and their families, talking about stuff they did in school and actually being interested in each other's lives. When my friends come over for dinner, my parents interrogate them about their futures and then make disappointed comments..

Once my friend Julie was over, and my dad says, “Julie, have you started thinking about where you want to go to college, or what you want to do when you graduate?”

Julie says, “I haven’t given it much thought...maybe doing some courses online and then traveling the world a little bit.”

My mom chimes in, “That’s what you want to do with your life?”

Julie’s face turns bright red and she says, “Well, yeah. My parents think it’s okay.”

Under my breath I say, “Wish I knew what that felt like.”

My parents roll their eyes and say, “Stop being so dramatic.”

I stop and grab some gas before I keep driving. I turn around to grab my wallet and see my small carry-on bag on the back seat, with not many clothes in it and not many toiletries. I had to pack lightly, because I needed to leave quickly this morning. Even though I ran away and don’t know what I am going to do, all I know is that there is no way in hell I am ever returning to that place I used to call my home. The day I packed my things, grabbed the car keys, and drove was the best day in my entire life.


Written by: Jen Meltzer
Photograph by: Fabrice Poussin

The 2015 Treaty of Niagara

The child may be small, but she is mighty. Mighty from the day she was born, entering the world not with a wail, but with a roar. You want to admire the force of her -- to call it strength of character - but the truth is that her ferocity has always overwhelmed you.

Saturdays have become dangerous ground in your home. Too many hours unscripted, not enough activities in the world, and playdates are so fleeting. Your husband hides in the garage while you preside over the day’s activities. You are in attendance at a royal court; one made of glitter glue and pipe cleaners.

You feel her watching you from across the craft table and you know it is best – safest – to avoid eye contact. You concentrate on the badge you are stitching onto her Girl Guide uniform. This one – the Modeling badge -- will be affixed above the Social Media Literacy badge and below the Make-up Application badge. You flinch as the pin suddenly stabs through the dark blue material piercing your finger. The purple marker across the table is still clutched in the soft pink fist but it is no longer moving. The stillness sends shivers down your spine.

“Mommy?” Sweet as syrup. Don’t look up.

“Yes Muffin?” You are squinting at the needle and thread -- all your attention on that task.

“I was thinking we really need to step it up with my YouTube channel.”

“Ya think?” Needle goes in, needle goes out. You avoid the big blue eyes framed in doll-like lashes. You know those lashes are fluttering violently in your direction.

“My subscribers need something…more.”

Another stitch, and only a few more before you are finished with this badge. “Like what?” You know it’s a trap, but there’s no way to avoid it. The question had to be asked or you risk the accusation of being a non-attentive parent. There is no worse thing than appearing to be a self-absorbed mother. You would be shunned from the home and school committee meetings, invites to Jungle Jam Indoor Gymboree would be withdrawn. The shame would be unlivable.

“I thought Great Wolf Lodge could be a super way to get some new content for my fans.” Butterfly flutters, chicklet smile.

“Great Wolf Lodge?” You say it with your voice tight, your eyes squinted as though you have never heard of such a thing. What is this place of which you speak -- this abode of wolves and greatness? The ruse isn’t working, she knows you are false.

“I thought a week at the lodge would be the perfect thing to bump up my views.”

“A week?” There is panic in your voice that should have been hidden. You glance up and see that she heard it too. She shines a beaming smile straight at you, curls cascading over her La Senza girl T-Shirt. She knows she has you. You stare hard at the fabric in your lap. The One Hundred Subscribers badge is coming loose and so you dive on it with your needle and thread. “Maybe just for one night,” you suggest non-committedly but she has you on the run and she knows it.

“I couldn’t do any less than four nights.” Sticky, sticky, honey bees buzzing round her voice like nectar.

“Maybe two nights.” God, can you stand it? Two whole nights with deep-fried foods and mixed drinks in plastic cups. Hysterical moms, always either overweight or weirdly thin and dads with tattoos hidden under blankets of back hair that they have given up waxing.

“Three, and we need a themed suite.”

“Three nights. No suite. One MagicQuest game.”

“Done.” She smiles. Pearly whites peek through petal lips, and she launches at you. “You are the best Mommy in the whole wide world.” Arms around your neck, rosy pillow cheek squashed against your face. She smells as sweet as she sounds; strawberries, peaches, licorice kisses.

“I will let Daddy know and we can set something up,” I say.

“Don’t wait too long,” she says. “We want to get on it before we get too close to Christmas. I can’t have my Great Wolf Lodge vlog interfere with my seasonal toy review

She pulls away and swishes the waterfall of curls over her shoulder. “I will be in the kitchen if you need me. The lighting is better there and I have to record a quick thing on side pony tails before dinner. They’re the ‘it’ hairstyle for grade three girls this fall.”

She caps her marker and snatching her smartphone from the table, she disappears. You return your focus to the badges on your lap. The Cleanliness badge is beginning to fray at the edges; you had that one at her age too. It sat on your Girl Guide sash above your Telephone Courtesy badge and Leg Warmer Appreciation badge. You lost all of the badges of course, and the Girl Guide uniform, too. They disappeared with the rollerblades you used to love, sometime after you traded in your New Kids on the Block posters for Nirvana pictures torn from magazines.”

She is in the hallway now, her hair pulled to the side of her dangerously symmetrical head, golden strands, strawberry tinged, wrapped in a purple kink-free elastic band. Her arms hug the oversized teddy bear to her chest. The fluttery lashes return for the finale as you hear her voice, molasses, gumdrop, candy floss.

“Don’t forget to like this video. Thanks for subscribing and leave your comments down below.”


Written by: Sarah Scott
Photograph by: Garrett Carroll

A Mother Could Love

When they laid the howling baby on her chest, Marlena squinted hard, and said, “No, no, clean her up. You can clean her up now.”

“Ma’am, we cleaned her already. You can hold her,” said the nurse.

“Her face. There’s still blood on her face.”

“It’s her skin. It’s a birthmark. It’s not blood,” the nurse said, squeezing Marlena’s arm. “She’s perfectly healthy.”

The nurse urged Marlena to count the baby’s fingers and toes.

“See? She’s perfect. She’s a beauty.”

On her chest, the baby had stopped wailing. Marlena closed her eyes and cried as the doctor stitched her up.

                                                                                                         ***

Flora’s birthmark resembled a map of China. It began in her hairline and swooped down to cover her right eyebrow, eye socket, and cheekbone. The birthmark was a warm red, the color of the pomegranate seeds her mother ate with yogurt at breakfast.

“Stop staring at yourself,” Marlena scolded her daughter.

Flora pulled her eyes away from her reflection in the metal tea kettle.

“People will think you’re vain. Nobody likes a vain girl.”

“Okay, Mama,” Flora said, and poured hot water over her instant oatmeal.

                                                                                                         ***

They say the devil spat on her / No she was in a fire / It’s not a burn it’s a deformity / She’s so ugly / I heard she had a tail when she was born but they cut it off / No one knows who her father is / I bet his whole face is red like that / Don’t touch it / it’ll spread onto your hands if you do / Like poison ivy / Doesn’t it hurt / It hurts to look at / Ha Ha Ha / A face only a mother

could love

                                                                                                         ***

Marlena came home from her shift to find Flora sitting on the living room floor with a box of photos.

“It’s not nice to snoop through people’s things.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I only went to your closet to borrow a scarf...”

Marlena lifted an album from the box. Its cover was puffy, printed with a floral design.

Marlena in a cheerleading uniform.

Marlena at the prom with permed hair and the captain of the basketball team on her arm.

Marlena, standing next to a cousin on Halloween, her face painted white like a ghost.

Marlena stood and rested her hand on Flora’s dark hair.

“I’ll buy you a new scarf, if you want. Put the photos away when you’re done,” she said.

                                                                                                         ***

Flora ran her hands over the shelves of items--t-shirts with characters from crude cartoons, necklaces with spikes, spinning displays of nose rings.

The girl behind the counter, who had purple hair and a cropped KISS t-shirt, leaned across the display case and lifted Flora’s bangs with a long, black fingernail.

“Hey, no offense, but I can hook you up with something to cover that, if you want.”

Flora combed her bangs back down with her fingers. She felt herself blush. When this happened, she always imagined her whole face turning the color of her birthmark. She should go. What was she even thinking coming in here?

The reaction she trained herself to have, ignore the jerks, just leave, rose to the surface. Flora pressed it back down. The girl with the KISS t-shirt didn’t seem like a jerk--at least not the usual kind. Her eyelids were caked in grey glitter. She peered at Flora like a stylish raccoon.

“What did you have in mind?” Flora asked.

“There’s this stuff I use to cover my tattoos when I have to see my grandma. Works pretty good.”

The girl pulled a crumpled receipt from a trash bin behind the counter and scribbled Dermablend on the back.

“Sucks, but not everyone can handle the real me. You get that, right?”

Flora took the receipt and slid it into the back pocket of her jeans.

In Sephora, a luminous salesgirl with a fluffy afro squeezed the forty-dollar concealer on a sponge, then dabbed it on Flora’s face.

“I won’t do the whole area--that’d be more than a sample--but you can see how it kind of covers the redness?”

Flora looked in the mirror. A small section of her birthmark now looked grey--almost purple-undertoned. As if she’d been punched in the cheek.

“To achieve full coverage, you’d probably have to use more layers,” the salesgirl said, her berry colored lips pursed in uncertainty.

Standing in line, Flora plucked a bottle of black nail polish from the impulse rack and left the expensive concealer in its place.

                                                                                                         ***

“Now remember, these are just the proofs. If you want to order prints or digital files, your parents have to place an order by the fifteenth.”

Mrs. Carson passed around the slim envelopes, and Flora’s classmates began to critique their senior portraits.

Ha--I look good in a tux.
My hair’s sticking up!
Ugh, my Grandma’s gonna want like, eighteen copies.

Flora slid the photos an inch out of the top of the envelope. Then another. This couldn’t be right.

Instead of the screaming red of her birthmark, a smooth, pale cheek. A white eyelid. An eyebrow that matched its partner.

She was looking at a stranger. No--not a stranger, her mother. Her mother’s face stared out at her from behind her own strategically swooping bangs.

Flora turned the photos over in her hands.

Flora Alvarez. Harding High School. Premium Retouch - Prepaid. 

Prepaid.

Flora tore the proof sheet into thin strips and rolled each one into a ball. One she flicked across the classroom. Another she dropped in a toilet in the second floor bathroom. A third she tucked into an empty milk carton on its way to the cafeteria trash. One she chewed into pulp.

                                                                                                         ***

Flora took the Northeast Regional into the city. She told Marlena she was going to a museum to do research for a school assignment. If her mother had known it was for a college interview, she’d have insisted on driving her.

The letter from Columbia lay folded on her lap. Across the aisle of the train car, a young boy tugged at his mother’s sleeve.

“Mama--Mama--that girl--” he whispered, pointing at Flora.

Flora angled her body towards the window. The refrain would never stop, but she wouldn’t let it ruin her day. Not this day, when she was so close to solidifying her escape.

“Mama--” the boy hissed again, “Look! She’s just like you.”

The mother looked up from her laptop to engage her son. She wore a sparkling wedding ring set and an expensive looking suit. Her birthmark, which covered not just one eye and cheek, but both, was the same deep red as Flora’s.

“Yes,” the mother murmured to her son. “She is very beautiful.”

“She’s a beauty,” the boy agreed in sing-song, flipping the pages of a coloring book.

The conductor announced that they would arrive in the city in seven minutes.

Flora turned towards her reflection in the train window and began braiding her hair, lifting one strand at a time, securing her bangs away from her face.

Then she shifted her gaze, looking through the window instead of at it, to the graffitied buildings blurring by. After all, nobody likes a vain girl. 

Written by: Dot Dannenberg

Photograph by: Sophie Stuart