“Hillary’s here!”
“I told you by 9:15 p.m. right?” I remind her.
I make my rounds saying hello to everyone, but just as I’m about to sit down I hear a loud vehicle door close nearby. I turn my head to see a guy I think I recognize. He’s not super tall, but he’s not short either. He has a glorious broad chest and short dark hair with sexy day old facial hair. Before I can ask who he is Tess chimes in.
“Hillary, this is my friend Jameson Michaels. I worked with him at Subway last year. Jameson this is Hillary Nowal.”
With his hand outreached, he says, “Hi. You look familiar. I think we had a class or two together. Anyway, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Hi,” I say, returning the gesture.
He’s cute. I think. A smirk crosses my face.
It was a relaxed Friday night. Everyone was winding down from the week; simple chitchat, plans for the weekend, basic stuff like that. I noticed time was creeping up on 11:00 p.m., but everyone was having a good time hanging out and talking, and I was too. I wanted to stay but I had a curfew. Yes, at twenty-one years old I had a curfew, and a rent payment at my own house that I lived in with my parents. Did I mention I’m twenty-fucking-one years old?
I stepped away from the picnic tables and walked towards my car to call my mom so no-one could hear me.
“Ahem, hello?”
“Mom it’s me. I’m at Dawn’s with friends, just hanging out drinking coffee and hot chocolate. Everyone is probably going to stay for another hour or so. Is it okay if I stay?” Tears already prickle my eyes.
I can feel the burn already building in my chest. Twisting my long brown hair with my free hand, feeling the anxiety burning. It pains me to have to ask, just for the simple fact that I am a twenty-one-year-old who pays rent and has a curfew. That’s how much my own mother dislikes me.
There’s a long silence on the line.
“What time is your curfew, Hillary?”
“But mom, we’re just hanging out at Dawn’s? Just give me till midnight and I’ll head home. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive.” I plead.
“Stop whoring around town Hillary.”
Her words immediately bite me.
“Whores get raped and if you get raped I won’t feel bad for you.” She goes on. “Your curfew is 11:00 p.m. If you don’t want to get locked out of the house and have to sleep in your car, you better get home now.”
I’m so pissed I don’t say anything and just hang up. Embarrassment, anger, frustration… it consumes me and I want to scream at the top of my lungs. I turn towards my friends and walk back to the picnic tables.
Push it down. I tell myself. Don’t let them see you broken.
“You okay?” Tess asks.
“Yeah, I’m just tired. Long day. I’m gonna head home now actually.”
“Me too, Tess.” I hear Jameson from behind me. “It was nice to meet you, Hillary. Hope to see you again.”
“You too Jameson. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
I walk towards my car, wondering what I’d done in my short twenty-one years to make a mother despise her child so much that she doesn’t want her to enjoy her life with her friends.
As I drive home, I think back to over-heard conversations, and remembering times my mom has called me ‘Heather’, her youngest sister’s name. I assumed it was because we both started with ‘H’. I heard stories of what it was like moving from the busy New York City life to the small country life, in Massachusetts for my mom’s family.
My grandfather chose to move them all here for a simpler life and his painting business. My mom has an older sister Katy and an older brother Ronny. Heather was the youngest. She was only fourteen when they had moved to Massachusetts. It was the toughest adjustment for her. In her teens, she was into drugs and alcohol. From what I’d overheard my mother say in conversations about Heather’s therapy, Heather blamed my grandmother for her abuse. My grandmother then forever babied her, and my mother hated Heather for that. My Aunt Katy and Uncle Ronny have told me that my mom was the tattletale of the siblings. I am not surprised.
You would think that since she has such a close relationship with her mom and loves her mom, she would want the same for her only daughter. She likes my brother Jerry though. I call him the golden boy; he can do no wrong. Ugh. I can feel the bile rise in my throat as I think about it.
She has said she sees a lot of Heather in me and that’s why she accidentally calls me that sometimes. I guess she sees me as a hot mess. She assumes I drink and do drugs. Does she not believe me when I tell her I’m at Dawn’s drinking hot chocolate and smoking a cigarette? Does she think I’m drinking beer and smoking joints instead?