I listen for another minute or two. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. Who was she talking to? The only friend I’ve heard mentioned is Mills, and that was by Paul. Was it Mills? Did he just reject her? Shit. That’s all she needs right now. I know it’s a crush, but she could use a friend closer to her age. Even if it’s a high school kid. She’s barely wanted to get out of bed the last two days, and now this. Finally, I open her door. She’s standing in front of her full-length mirror, shoving tissues in her bra. As I enter, she rushes to her bed and grabs her pillow, covering herself. “Can’t you knock, Mom?” she snaps, her voice quivering with anger.
“I-I’m sorry,” I stutter. I look to the floor, unsure of what to do here. Should I leave or should I stay and discuss what I’ve just seen?
“I’m a teenager. I deserve privacy.” She’s upset with me. And embarrassed. But she shouldn’t be. All women have been there at some point; been that young girl desperate for womanhood, but stuck in that in-between stage where our bodies don’t look as sexy as our minds think we should or as sexy as society tells us we should. She’s not doing anything wrong. I just want her to understand it’s normal to feel this way.
“Sweetie, I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re always doing that!” she shrieks. “You’re always just walking in without knocking. I’m not a little kid anymore.” Her voice cracks with emotion, her lip trembling. Then . . . the tears start. She flops down on her bed and yanks the tissues out of her bra, tossing them on the floor.
I take a moment to pick my next words carefully. I’m pretty sure no matter what I say, she’s going to yell at me. Looks like we’re having one of those classic teenage daughter-mother moments. If it meant she’d live, I’d take a million a day just to keep her here. “You know, boobs aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” I murmur as I take a few steps inside of her room. “Bras are so damn uncomfortable and boobs just want to flop around when you run or work out.”
She doesn’t look at me as she uses the back of her hand to wipe at her nose. “I don’t care,” she gripes. “I want them.”
“I know you do. Every girl your age wants them.”
“Yeah, well I’ll never have them so it doesn’t matter. I’ll be dead before I even have a chance to grow boobs.”
I close my eyes. Keep it together, Clara. “You don’t need them, honey. You’re beautiful. Boobs don’t equate beauty.”
She flies off the bed and flings the pillow to the side. She’s wearing a tiny, white bra and pajama pants, revealing her frail body and thin arms. Each one of her ribs is defined, her pale skin stretched across them. “Look at me, Mom!” she shouts, her eyes glossy with tears as they stream down her face. “Look at me!”
My throat is tight and I blink as tears form in my eyes. “I’m looking at you, Neena,” I insist, my heart cracking.
“This,” she motions at herself, “is not beautiful.” She dances her fingers under her sunken eyes, before dropping them to her lips, that no matter how much ChapStick she puts on, always seem dry and cracked. “This is . . .” she turns and stares at herself in the mirror, “this is ugly. This is me.”
“Neena . . .” Her name comes out as a desperate plea. I need her to see what I see. I need her to understand she’s the most beautiful person in the world to me and to so many people. Inside and out. She rubs the dark fuzz on her scalp. Her hair has just started to grow back. “I’m tired of looking ugly,” she whimpers. She stares at herself some more, her eyes red with tears.
I furrow my brows in concern. Maybe this is a classic teen moment. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe she’s depressed. Understandably so. Or maybe she’s sick. Sick and tired of what she’s going through. All I know is she’s in pain and her sadness is palpable. But her being ill is my first concern. Instead of responding verbally, I go into mother mode and within seconds have her head in my hands, my mouth to her forehead. She pulls free from me before I can really tell if she has a fever or not.
“I don’t have a fever,” she yells.
“I just wanted to check. You seem agitated. And you haven’t been feeling well. You’ve been in bed for two days now. If it’s not a fever . . . Maybe you’re depressed. We have a prescription—”
“I don’t need rest,” she groans loudly. “I need you to stop treating me like a baby!”
“Neena,” I gasp. “I just don’t like seeing you like this. So upset. Why are you so angry with me? I only want to help you.”