My World at Large

The Lexus pulled up to the curb outside of the natatorium just as I had begun to shiver. Winter in Texas would be considered mild by most, but evening swim practices near the end of the year were still particularly brutal. Despite the fervent enthusiasm I toweled off with as soon as I got out of the pool, I always managed to leave the building somewhat damp with water dripping off the ends of my long hair. On cooler evenings such as this one, I could feel the drops as they slid down my neck and back, leaving an icy trail in their wake.

I was friendly with, but not really friends with, the other kids on the team. At fifteen I was on the older end of the spectrum, but since I was newer than (and not nearly as fast as) my peers, I was typically put in the lane with the younger kids. Everyone else had been swimming together for years, so it was hard to feel like I really fit in. Joining mid-year certainly didn’t help things. So, rather than feel like an awkward backdrop for their inside jokes and banter, I usually chose to wait for my ride outside, regardless of temperature.

Tonight the pick up was a few minutes late. I clenched my teeth to stop both the chattering and the nerves I felt as I peeked inside the tinted window. The street lights outside of the natatorium were dim, and the nearest one blinked lazily; shadows danced in retaliation, making it hard to see inside of the vehicle. Luckily I knew my parents well enough to tell the silhouette in the driver’s seat belonged to my mother.

Phew. I let out a breath, realizing only then that I had been holding it. A ride home with my mom this evening would be silent - uncomfortable and grating, sure, but better than the screaming match I would have had with my father had he chosen to pick me up instead. She rolled to a stop a few feet past me, and I heard the trunk click open for me to dump my swim bag.

It was hard not to roll my eyes as I strategically placed my gear in the back, struggling to fit it all in the cramped trunk. The hard top convertible had been an extravagant (and extremely inconvenient) fiftieth birthday present for my mom. Wonderful for a joyride the two weeks out of the year that it wasn’t too hot or too cold, but otherwise horribly impractical for a family of five. I felt like there was an analogy somewhere in there, about how the car was a perfect representation of our family life; but I was too tired to figure out exactly what it was.

Finally all situated, I slammed the trunk closed and reached the passenger side door. I took a breath to prepare myself for what was sure to be a very long twenty minute ride home. As I pulled on the handle, I could almost hear the usual “How was practice, sweetie?” that I would have normally been greeted with, but tonight it never came. Instead, my mom barely reacted to my presence at all as I climbed into the car, keeping her hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel so hard I could see her knuckles turning white.

I. Am. STILL. Furious.

Her body language gave her words away, even though she hadn’t spoken at all. I slunk into my seat as gently and quietly as I could, as if to reply: I know you don’t want to see me right now, I’m sorry you’re forced to be in my presence. I’m going to make myself as invisible as possible.

It was no surprise she was still mad, but I felt a pang of disappointment anyway. Mom usually came around first in situations like this, and I had been hoping - foolishly - that the silent treatment would have worn off by the time she came back to get me. No such luck; it was apparent from her too-stiff posture and pointed fixation on the road ahead of her that she had no interest in talking to me, that she was here due to her obligation as my mother and nothing more. It made me feel so small. This was so abnormal for us I almost couldn’t stand it.

My throat tightened, and with the feeling came an immediate shift in my emotions; teenage hormonal mood swings at their finest. In the wake of the disappointment that was now dissipating, I felt instead an acidic churning in my stomach at the injustice of it all. I wasn’t a bad kid; I really wasn’t. I didn’t drink or do drugs like half of my friends did; I had never played hooky or gotten in any real kind of trouble.

I pulled the door shut with far more effort than was necessary, thinking this isn’t FAIR! as it closed with such force the car shook slightly. It was a cliche, if ever there was one, for a teen to complain about their unfair life, but it was true. I was a kid who made good choices and didn’t cause a lot of problems. What I did struggle with was living up to my parent’s - well, my dad’s - expectations that I should be a straight-A student. A test in the third grade proved that I was “gifted and talented”; it was a label that made me feel so special in the moment, but haunted me in the years to follow. In my father’s eyes, it was an accolade that I was expected to live up to even after middle and high school proved to be so much harder for me.

B’s would get me in trouble. Hell, I once got a 92 on a math test and the first thing out of Dad’s mouth was “Well, why didn’t you get a 100?”. It was a rude awakening when school stopped being a breeze for me and the good grades didn’t come quite as naturally. I worked hard at first, but found A’s to be more and more elusive no matter how much studying or extra credit I did. I was still a decent student, but Dad was impossible to please; progress reports and graded tests usually led to an evening of yelling by Dad, and crying by me. Eventually, I learned the opposite of the lesson he was trying to teach me. I learned it didn’t matter how hard I tried, it was going to end up being the same result; it was never going to be good enough. So before too long, I decided to just stop trying and let my naturally good test taking skills make up for missing homework assignments and falling asleep in class. No more trying hard, not really. What was the point?

As much as Dad cared about grades, my mom really couldn’t care less. She hadn’t been a good student herself, so she was just happy to see me passing and on track to graduate. When Dad was a storm of fury and disappointment, she was always my saving grace. Mom would stand up for me, or at the very least be there for me after one of his episodes; she never stooped to his level. She never made me feel like a failure, or like I was never going to be good enough.

Tonight was different, though. I had been caught betraying her trust, and it was clear from the continuing silence - now hanging heavy between us, with a discernible weight to it - that she had taken it extremely personally. I had been so careful with forging my latest progress report to show a better grade than I had really earned, making sure it looked legitimate, that I genuinely forgot that emails existed and my mom would have gotten a copy of my real grades directly anyway. She wouldn’t have cared that I had a 78 in pre-calculus; she was horrible at math and I was pretty confident she’d have been pleased to have such a grade herself.

But I’m upset that you lied to me.

She didn’t have to say it out loud; I knew it was true. Mom was trying to keep her face stoic and unreadable as she pulled out of the parking lot onto the main road, but I could see it all written there, I could read her eyes as a streelight illuminated her face.

I’m hurt. I’m offended. I thought you were better than this. And now I can’t trust you.

My short burst of defiant energy blew out of me as fast as it had come. Another wave of guilt and shame came over me and I nestled down further into my seat, leaning my head against the side of the door and closing my eyes. I found the combination of leather and chlorine to be a comforting, if not strange, smell combination, and I tried to focus on that rather than the thoughts swirling in my head.

I let out a soft sigh. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t have to, but I couldn’t take another night of yelling. I just wanted to buy myself some more time.

With my eyes shut I couldn’t see my mom’s face anymore, but I wondered what she might say if I had the courage to say my thoughts out loud. If I had the strength to explain myself, and tell her I was being suffocated by the too-high expectations, that I was miserable and sad and lost and I didn’t know how to handle it all any more. That I didn’t want to hurt her, but I wasn’t sure how else to protect myself.

I heard her sigh too, and I peeked an eye open in her direction. Her face had softened, now looking pensive. It was almost like she had been able to hear my thoughts and was trying to think of a way to respond. I saw her eyes dart back and forth as if deep in thought while we were stuck at a red light.

I know it’s tough, but you could have come to me. You didn’t have to lie. There’s no excuse for that.

She didn’t say it, but I imagined the words as I watched the look on her face changing, doing my best to translate the expressions to words. I wrapped my arms around myself as I shut my eyes again. I know. I know.

There was no sound besides the engine and the occasional bump in the road for a few minutes. The radio was off; Mom wasn’t as passionate about music as myself or my older brother were, typically preferring instead to drive without anything playing. It drove me absolutely nuts (I couldn’t wait for the day I had my own car and could blast my music as loud as I pleased), but I was pretty used to it.

I nearly jumped when I heard the click of the stereo button being pushed. I had not been expecting her to turn on tunes, not on this night when she could instead punish me with her silence. Maybe it was as unbearable for her as it was for me. I waited to hear what she put on, expecting NPR or an oldies station turned way down low. To my surprise, she switched to the CD player which contained a mix playlist my brother had put together.

My throat tightened again as I opened my eyes to look at her once more. Mom knew I loved this CD, and in particular the first track - “The World at Large”, by Modest Mouse - and now she had gone out of her way to put it on. What did it mean?

I’m angry, and I don’t know how to communicate with you right now. But I’m your mom. I still care about you. And we’ll get through this.

Mom couldn’t stand this song. I knew it, because she told me every time I asked her to put it on. She found the guitar riff repetitive and the whistling motif near the end of the song annoying as all get out. But I adored listening to Issac Brock’s crooning voice, and loved to sing along with half of the words wrong, usually with a hand out the window. Mom might complain, but she never turned me down when I asked to listen to it.

This was a sign, I was sure of it. A peace offering, perhaps.

I told myself I wasn’t going to cry on this ride home, and yet as I listened to the lyrics about feeling lost in the world and struggling to find your place in it, I felt the tears begin to pool. The words hit especially close to home today, at a time where I was having a hard time communicating how I felt and why I was making the decisions I was making. I decided not to fight it, and let the tears fall down my cheeks despite my resolution.

I sniffled softly, not able to help it, and I could see in my periphery that my mom had noticed.

I’m sorry. I really am sorry. For lying. For struggling and not knowing how to ask for help. For putting Dad in a bad mood. For all of it.

I thought the words so loudly that I thought for a moment I might have actually said them, but I knew my throat was too tight now to make a sound even if I wanted to. It didn’t matter. At the next red light, I felt her hand reach out to my shoulder, gently rubbing her thumb against my arm in a comforting way.

I know. It’s going to be okay.

More tears now as the song came to an end. We weren’t too far from home now, and I could only hope that Dad was too tired to lay into me too much. Hopefully it could wait until tomorrow.

I took in a deep shuddering breath. Mom hit the back button on the stereo and let my song play again. A new wave of tears fell, and I saw her own eyes glistening as well.

I love you. No matter what.

We both thought it.