6.
Daisy
Every couple of months, my mother and I would get together for coffee. We used to try to go out to a restaurant and get a meal, but we were seldom able to spend that much time together without getting into some sort of argument. Getting coffee could take as long—or as short—as you wanted, and that seemed to work out far better for the two of us.
It was a little sad, though. We both lived here in the same city—shouldn’t we be able to get together more than every few months? There were girls I’d gone to college with who were best friends with their moms. They hung out all the time, they confided in their mothers, they went shopping together or out to the movies. I wanted something similar but wasn’t sure how to go about getting it. Also, I wasn’t sure if my mother would be on board with that.
She was a formidable woman, my mother. She had a way of walking into a room that people would notice, though she wasn’t doing it for attention. She was tall, which might have had something to do with it, but it was mostly because she was incredibly self-assured. And people like that exude that sort of confidence, and it’s something that those who lack it will notice. Ian was the same way.
When I showed up to the café, my mother waved me over to the corner table she was sitting at. I ordered a mocha and then made my way over and sat down.
“Hi, Mom,” I said. “Sorry I’m late. I got held up at work.”
“Busy day at the salon?”
I was about to answer when the barista called my name. “I’ll be right back,” I said. I went over to the counter and got my drink. I could feel my mother’s eyes on me the whole time. I knew she thought I was wasting my time at the salon. Maybe she’d be glad to hear that I had a new job. I took a tiny sip of my drink and then walked back over to the table and sat down again.
“I actually started working at a new place,” I said. My mother raised her eyebrows.
“Oh?” she said. “I didn’t realize that you’d left the
hair salon.”
“Yeah, I did. I was ready for a change.” I hadn’t mentioned any of that to her;
I wanted to wait until I had a new job before I told her I’d left.
“I thought you were pretty happy there.”
“I was.”
“So where is this new job?”
“It’s at Hard Tail Security.”
“Hard Tail Security? What is that, exactly?”
“It’s a security firm. I’m handling the administrative work there mostly. This guy I know from the gym, Jonathan, he’s the manager there and he got me the interview.”
Mom nodded. “Does it have potential for growth?”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure. “Probably,” I said. “I haven’t really
talked to them about that though, since I
just started. I wanted to get used to everything before I began asking about
moving up.”
“What about going back to school?”
“I don’t think now’s the right time for that.”
Mom pursed her lips. A few tables over from us, a girl who was probably just a
few years younger than me sat with her laptop, textbooks open on the table in
front of her. She had that focused expression of someone who was deeply
involved in whatever she was studying. Mom cast a sidelong glance her way and
then looked at me pointedly. “You’re not getting any younger, Daisy. The longer
you stay away from school, the harder it’s going to be to get back into it when
you finally decide that you want to go back.”
“But what if I don’t want to go back?”
“What are you talking about? You’re going to work in offices for the rest of your life?”
“It’s a job, Mom. And there’s nothing wrong with working in offices. It’s the sort of low-stress work environment that will let me focus on my writing when I’m not there. I don’t want a job that comes home with me every night; I don’t want to work at some high-stress company.”
“How is your writing going, anyway?”
I bit my lip, not wanting to lie to her, but not wanting to admit that I hadn’t
worked on anything in at least a month. Maybe more. This whole thing with Noah
was just completely taking my focus away from pretty much everything else. What
made things worse was the fact that she was working on a book of her own,
though a nonfiction one, something about the effects of women’s empowerment on
economic growth. In other words, something that I’d never write about, but there
was now a rather unpleasant competitive underpinning whenever she asked me
about writing.
“I’ve had a lot going on lately,” I said, purposefully not asking her about her own book, which I was sure was going swimmingly. “I’m . . . I’m thinking about moving to a new place.”
She had been about to take a sip of her coffee, but after I spoke, she put her cup down before it had the chance to reach her lips. “You’re what?” she said.
“Thinking of moving.”
“Daisy—you live in a rent controlled apartment. Do you have any idea what people are paying these days for a one-bedroom? It’s insane. It’s simply unaffordable. There’s no way your salary as a secretary is going to be able to cover it.”
“Admin,” I said.
My mother looked at me irritably. “What?”
“I’m not a secretary.”
“Whatever you want to call it. You’re working in an
office, and not as the CEO. I would strongly suggest that you not give your apartment up, unless you’re planning to move to Saugus or
something. Why do you want to move? I thought you loved your apartment. What
brought all of this on? Are you having some sort of quarter-life crisis? I
heard a segment on the radio the other day about that. One of my colleagues is
actually writing a book about it as we speak. Carl Weiland. Remember him?”
“Not really.” Though I did have a vague recollection of a scruffy, bearded,
glasses-wearing guy who I didn’t think was much older than myself.
“Well. He is, and perhaps it would behoove you to speak to him. He’s including
case studies, so if you’re going through one of these things right now, then it
very well could be in your best interest to speak to him about this.”
I sighed. My mother always had some colleague or associate who was writing this or working on that, and perhaps it would be a good idea for me to get involved. I never did, if I could; I tried to stay as far away from that sort of thing as I could. My whole life my mother had been analyzing me, critiquing me, not just from the standpoint of a mother, but also as a psychologist. Some people might have found such a thing helpful, but it just made me feel like I was some sort of insect that was trapped under a microscope all the time.
“I’m not going through a quarter-life crisis,” I said. “I don’t even know what that is.”
“It essentially amounts to not knowing what direction you want your life to take, and sometimes making radical changes in order to help you discover what your purpose is. According to Carl, anyway. I think the problem these days is that people your age think they’re owed something when they’re not. And that discomfort is something to run away from. Which is why I’m curious about your sudden decision to move, to start a new job, to make all these changes.”
She didn’t know about Noah. I hadn’t been planning on telling her, either, but I suddenly found myself relaying the whole story to her. Maybe she’d be able to help. My mother wasn’t the sort of person who would ever have a stalker—she simply wouldn’t allow it. Perhaps she’d have some helpful advice for me.
But when I finished my story, she was just shaking her head. “Daisy,” she said. “You’ve really got to have a better head on your shoulders when it comes to deciding who you let into your life.”
“All I did was get a smoothie with him!”
The girl a few tables over glanced our way. I hadn’t meant to shout like that.
“And then you gave him your number, after the fact? If you knew that you didn’t want to continue any sort of relationship with him, why would you give him your number like that? Why not just be upfront and honest and tell him that you weren’t interested?”
“I . . . I don’t know. He caught me off guard. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“Well, perhaps that would have been better than
leading him on like this and allowing this fantasy that he’s obviously created
to perpetuate. Have you called the police?”
“No.”
“That might be the next step.”
“I didn’t think they’d be able to do anything. Because
he hasn’t really done anything yet. Aside from thinking that I’m the one. Like,
his soulmate or something.”
My mother didn’t respond right away; instead,
she finally took that sip of her coffee and then took her time putting her cup
back down. I had talked my way into some sort of trap, I knew it—I just didn’t
know what yet. She had a way of doing
this. She was a pro, really, when it came to this sort of thing, and though
we’d never talked about it, I knew this was one of the main reasons why she and
my father had gotten divorced.
“Exactly,” she finally said. “He hasn’t done anything yet. You just said so yourself. So there’s
no reason for you to move. If he hasn’t done anything that you can report to
the police, then it makes absolutely no sense for you to uproot your whole life
like this. How long has it been going on for?”
“Five weeks? Maybe a little more than that.”
She shook her head. “Come on, Daisy. It sounds to me like you’re making a big deal out of nothing. And wanting to uproot your entire life because of it is just foolish. Now, if it were because you were thinking about going back to school or something along those lines, I would be far more receptive. But this whole thing just sounds like a bunch of nonsense.”
I took another sip of my drink, the sweetness hurting my teeth. Before she’d become a professor, my mother had had her own private practice. Many times, I had wondered if she’d ever even think of saying to those clients of hers the same things she’d said to me. Like, someone had just laid bare their soul to her, and she’d just shake her head and say it was nothing more than a bunch of nonsense. I knew for a fact she’d never dream of saying anything like that to them—it still perplexed me why she seemed to think it was okay when it was me.
“I don’t know why I even bother to tell you these things,” I said. “You’re probably the least supportive person in the world.”
“Daisy.” She had that tone that suggested I was being no better than a petulant toddler. “This is not a matter of supporting you or not; this is a matter of indulging these fantasies of yours—”
I choked back a laugh. “Fantasies? I don’t know who you think I am, Mom, but I’m not fantasizing about having a stalker! I’m not making this up!”
The girl a few tables over had put down her pen and was making no attempt now to hide the fact that she was eavesdropping, as was every other table within earshot. But I didn’t care. My mother had a way of bringing out this side in me.
“I shouldn’t have even brought this up. Just forget about the whole thing,” I said. I stood up. “I actually have to get going.”
“You’re being dramatic,” my mother said in a slightly sing-song voice. She shrugged. “But that shouldn’t really be much of a surprise, should it? I was hoping that we’d be able to sit down and have a nice chat today, and you’d tell me that you’d decided to actually do something with your life, instead of wasting it away in some office, dreaming up some scenario where you have a stalker.”
“Did belittling work on your other clients?” I asked. “Because it’s really not working here.”
I left before she could say anything else. I tried not to feel too upset; so far as interactions with my mother went, that certainly wasn’t the worst, but I resented the idea that she thought this whole thing with Noah was some sort of fantasy. Clearly, he was mentally unbalanced, and of all people, shouldn’t she have been able to see that? But when it came to me, she seemed unwilling, for whatever reason.