A Change of Scenery

The beach house was the last place I wanted to be. Mom's friend Marcia Grayson had offered over the timeshare residence for a long weekend so that I could "get away from it all." And, of course, Mother dearest had pounced on the opportunity, citing a need for a vacation for herself as well as a reprieve for me after being released from the hospital. I know I probably sounded like an elitist little brat who spat out the distaste of silver spoons feeding me peeled grapes, but after a mental breakdown your priorities ran a bit different. No matter what my psychiatrist might have told you, I probably could have survived with just Netflix and a pint of Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream.

Instead, I sat with my toes in the sand as I watched jet skis puncture the ocean view. Out in the distance, a small fishing boat bobbed along, and I felt my stomach churning as if I too were out at sea. Mom was off to pick up groceries to sustain us for breakfast and lunch, despite my telling her multiple times that I had very little appetite to justify her usual grocery shopping blitz.

"Tara," Mom had said in her no-nonsense way, her index finger pointing at me, "you can't have an empty stomach with those meds you're taking. You heard the pharmacist say—"

"I'm well aware, Mother," I said, not resisting the urge to snipe as I usually might have. "I'm not a toddler."

My mother's lips pursed in that way she did when she didn't like my attitude but let it slide given my "circumstances." "I'm just worried about you, sweetheart. You really scared me this time."

Avoiding her gaze—which was sure to turn teary any moment—I let my eyes trail out the window as we continued our drive into the Outer Banks. "I don't really want to talk about it," I said, and I hoped that would be the end of it.

And it was, for that moment, because all my mother did was let loose a little sigh.

Now, clad in beachwear as I watched the waves lick the shore, I felt the knot in my chest begin to grow less and less tight. If I allowed myself to breathe in the salty air and let the sun's rays do their magic in boosting my serotonin, maybe I could make it through four days with my mother here. Maybe if I were convincing enough she might actually leave me alone a little more too.

I shouldn't have hoped because soon enough I heard my name being tossed on the wind.

"Tara! I brought some of your favorites for you if you want to come up and see!"

Frustrated, I stood and rumpled up my beach towel. "Okay, okay! You can stop shouting!" And being totally embarrassing to boot.

When I trekked my sandy feet into the house, Mom frowned down at the display but said nothing. Then her face brightened as she showed off her bounty of plastic bags bursting with what looked like food enough to last a few weeks rather than just a few days.

She's trying, I tried to tell myself as I felt my annoyance begin to rise up again. She's trying so hard, and you're not giving her any credit.

I tried to smile but stopped when it felt too fake, enough for my face muscles to resist. "Wow," I said. The word just hung there, like a loose balloon drifting lazily in the atmosphere.

My mother's smile fell ever so slightly. A beat passed before she rustled through the bags and pulled out a tray of fresh shrimp with cocktail sauce. "I thought we'd have a treat! We can sit on the deck and watch the ocean for a bit, then maybe come back inside and watch that new Marvel movie you wanted to see—"

"Mom." The word cut through all her plastic cheeriness and tone-deaf vibe of all-togetherness. "Just stop."

Now my mom looked ready to cry. "Tara, honey, I'm just trying to make you feel better—"

"You can't just press a restart button and trick me into thinking everything's fine now!"

The words tore out of my throat, all the things I'd wanted to say ever since I got moved from the psychiatric ward under suicide watch to a regular room. And I still remembered the first time Mom was allowed to see me, how she had nearly gasped when she saw how thin I had gotten, like I was a ghost haunting her instead of the daughter who had survived her own dance with her demons.

But now I was out in the open, back in action, ready to try and do the work necessary to cope with life in healthy ways. Most people would have envied having support like my mom was trying to offer, but right now? It just felt suffocating. She wanted to press the rewind button and pretend everything had gone back to normal now that I had pills to "fight off" the bad feelings.

Instead, I felt angry and irritated, like a wound on the edge of festering and causing a body-wide infection. I was a rotting tree that needed to be salvaged from one healthy branch cutting, but it would take time to grow back to my former height. My mom needed to give me time and space, but she didn't seem to get that.

I breathed in and out through my nostrils, trying to calm down instead of lashing out again, but Mom did the one thing she hadn't done in such a long time: she stepped forward and drew me into an embrace.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice sounding like it was on the verge of breaking. "I'm so sorry, baby. I didn't mean to make things harder for you. I just don't know what to do."

My first reflex was to push her away and storm off to my room. But then I registered how she was trembling, her whole body shaking, and I could tell she was crying. And that made me want to cry. Me, who hadn't shed a tear since the day Dad left us.

I ended up awkwardly draping my arms around my mother, who seemed so much smaller like this. Back when I was little, she had seemed like a goddess who was so tall and beautiful and nothing like I was. I had looked up to her so much. I had wanted to be her. Where had I gone so wrong?

"It's okay, Mama," I said, reverting back to the way I had addressed her once upon such a long time ago. "It's okay."

And there we stood, caught in a patch of sunlight, but all I could smell was the tang of saltwater and the softness of my mother's perfume. We stayed like that for a long while, not talking, just holding each other as if we were each other's anchors in the storm.

Somehow, it would be all right. Somehow, we both would heal.