Queen of the Weirdos

            by Celeste Swain

 

The patent leather strap of my school bag was digging into my shoulder. Two other bags filled with clothes and practice jerseys were draped awkwardly around my body. A couple of my jackets that I had taken off when the deceptive fog disappeared as the day proceeded, were propped over my head and consequently blocked my vision. I looked down at my feet to keep my balance and noticed that my legs were covered in bruises (the little kids I coach tend to believe that my calves are the soccer ball) and they had goosebumps thanks to the icy cold evening breeze. The sun had just gone below the horizon as I impatiently made my way down the path to my front door. I was so thrilled to be home.

            After dropping my heavy explosion of bags and sweatshirts in the front hall, my body felt like it was floating. I floated for a good 10 seconds before I was vaulted back down to earth when I heard motion upstairs. Assuming it was the dog, or one of the cats, or perhaps the rabbit, I started to walk toward the kitchen. But then I heard shifting, heavy footsteps, and a loud thump. My parents were both at work and my sister was at her friend’s house. Desperately questioning whom it could be, I slunk my way around the hallway. I was ready to begin a detective-like tiptoe up the stairs when to my surprise my mom came bolting right past me. Her frizzy hair bounced with each step and she wore the velour leopard print pants I thought I had hidden from her in the back of her drawer.

            “WHERE ARE MY GLASSES?!??” my mom yelled while tripping over my mound of bags at the front of the hall, too preoccupied to care about my great mess.

            “Mom, aren’t you really late for rehearsal?” I asked, looking at the green-lit clock on the front of my cell phone.

            “Am I? Shoot. I knew that clock was wrong,” she said, gesturing to the dining room clock that hadn’t worked for weeks.

            She mumbled on and on about nothing as she frantically scanned the entire household for her glasses. She looked under couches, the piano, and toilets, panting in exhaustion. I drifted around the living room, pretending to help, secretly observing this spastic woman who claimed to be my mother. Finally, I casually walked over to the chair where she kept her purse and looked inside.

            “They’re right here mom, in your purse.”

            “Thank-you, thank-you. There’s some food in the fridge leftover from my lunch,” she said before slamming the front door behind her.

            All the commotion had increased my appetite and I was curious to see what kind of food she had left for me. But before I could make it into the kitchen, the door swung open and she was back again.

            “My script, my script!” she yelled, prancing over to the table where her purse had been. The door slammed again and I heard her car drive off.

            I finally made it into the kitchen and opened the large white fridge that seemed too modern in our old wooden kitchen that my mom continuously promised we would re-do, and there sitting directly in front of me was a crisp, white to-go box. She finally did something right. Pulling the box from its delicate position in our fridge, I noticed immediately that the box lacked its usual heft. In horror, I un-flapped the opening only to find a half of a soggy grilled panini with three, what looked to be, slobbery bites taken out straight from the center. I dumped the contents of the deceiving white box in the blue food bowl on the ground and watched my dog engulf the specimen in a matter of seconds. At least someone enjoyed my mom’s thoughtfulness.

            I knew she tried. She always tried. Tried to find her glasses. Tried to make me dinner. Tried to be a good mother. Most of the time she blamed her imperfections on her “artistic mind.”

            “Celeste, what you don’t realize is that my mind is up in the clouds, dealing with far more abstract ideas than you could ever imagine,” she told me one afternoon following one of her crazy episodes. She was right: I could not imagine.

            I decided that macaroni and cheese would be the way to go for tonight’s meal. A pot of water sat on top of a vigorous flame, motionless. I waited for five minutes until I was certain that watching would only prolong the process. Leaving the kitchen, I felt the urge to observe the display of photographs that I tend to look past on a daily basis, so I stopped in the middle of the hall. My eyes traced the array of theater photographs, all sharing a brief selection of the thousands of characters whom my parents have disguised themselves as for most of their lives. I focused in on one of my mom. Hands and knees on the ground, eyes staring straight ahead. Her passion radiated through me, but I was not convinced. I knew she was a great actress, famous in the area and is constantly acclaimed for her outstanding performances. Yet after years of watching her perform, I’ve struggled to observe solely the character she pursues and rather I’ve seen my unmasked mother, seeping through her costume.

            I heard the faint rattle of the steam rapidly spewing out of the pot and rushed back into the kitchen. The stale orange Kraft cheese that came in the packet creeped me out, so I decided to eat the elbow shaped noodles plain instead. With a bowl of lumpy dry macaroni in hand, I retrieved my homework from the pile in the hall and took out my math notebook. I couldn’t seem to eliminate the image of my mom in the picture. Her translucent mask danced in my mind. Before I could open the calculus book, I found myself drifting through memories that have followed me through the years.

***

Five years ago, my favorite play was tainted by a woman in a silky gold dress and a long blonde wig; my mom. The California Shakespeare Theatre presented Shakespeare’s A Midsummer’s Night Dream, with my mom as Titania, queen of the fairies. “Queen of the weirdos” is what I called her for the duration of the run.

            “These are the forgeries of jealousy,” she projected across the outdoor amphitheatre. Yet, as an audience member, all I could hear from my plastic green lawn chair was “Theeeeese har theeee forjuuryyyyyys of jelooowwsssssy.”  I couldn’t let go of her nasally annunciation that felt so awkward in my ears. Not only did her voice interrupt the Shakespearian quality of the drama, but her actions did as well. Quite often she’d make a maneuver that I recognized from home. She would reach out for her donkey love, Bottom, and I’d immediately be reminded of her daily yoga exercises on the living room floor, purple spandex and all. Or she’d let out a yelp and the numerous times she’s banged her funny bone on the kitchen cabinets would pop into mind. The people surrounding me didn’t appreciate my random outbursts of giggles, especially because they were for the wrong reason at the most inappropriate times. I felt the glares burn into my back and sides, and heard the faint whispers that were probably saying, “Who is this girl and why is she interrupting our Shakespearian experience?” I slouched further in my chair.

***

            My parents came home from rehearsal later that night at eleven thirty. I was in my room, still working away at my homework. They had just begun rehearsals for an upcoming play and I could hear my dad bickering about the low budget theater from downstairs. I heard light footsteps coming towards my room about ten minutes later. My mom walked through my door with a cup of hot tea that she had made for me.

            “Thanks mom,” I said with surprise.

“You’re welcome.”

 

 

When the flyer first emerged in our house a couple weeks later, I was initially intrigued by the title. “Hysteria” it read across the orange, glossy card. Since the sixth grade when I decided to dedicate my year-long writing project to the terrifying Ebola virus (resulting in extreme embarrassment after my mom creatively told the Oakland Tribune in an interview that her eldest daughter was not able to act because she was too busy with science – a horrifying identification for a sensitive twelve year-old at a new school), I have been fascinated with infectious diseases, scientific phenomena, and the word “hysteria” piqued my interest. Although the title appealed to me, the flyer that advertised the play meant nothing. As a senior, theater was at the back of my mind. My overflowing daily schedule offered no time to watch my parents run around a stage for three hours. And besides, rumor had it that my dad was in his tighty whities for one scene and my mom in her panties for another. Hell no.

            “Mom. I’ve told you already. This weekend I have a soccer tournament and next weekend is Sarah’s birthday and I just have too much to do.”

            “But there’s only two more weeks, you’re going to miss it.” She continued to plead for my attendance. The lower lip quiver wouldn’t cut it for her this time. Only I could get away with that kind of trick.

            I rolled my eyes at her. A childish gesture, I know, but I felt it summed up my frustration with her constant nagging. “Oh, Peter, Peter. I forgot to call him about the couch…” she mumbled as she walked aimlessly away.

 

            The following weekend I found myself running down Milvia at 8:07 in the evening. Parking in downtown Berkeley on a Saturday night is a nightmare so my spot happened to be seven blocks away. I was late to the 8:00 performance of Hysteria. Frankly, I didn’t care. I ran only because my new turquoise flats gave me blisters and running helped me forget about the pain.

 

***

            I had yelled upstairs to my mom earlier that evening as I gathered my car keys and wallet, telling her that I was going to hang out with some friends.

            “Wait Celeste, wait!” my mom replied as she scurried down the stairs. “Tonight is closing night and I’d really appreciate it if you came.” Her tone of voice was whiny and I couldn’t deal with it. We had been in a fight for the past few days over money and my allowance so I was short with her.

“Mom, ask yourself these questions. Have you ever come to one of my soccer games this year? No. Do I ever whine to you about it? No.  How do you think it makes me feel? Awful. I don’t want to go to your STUPID play. I’ve never wanted to go. I hate the theater!” My voice escalated and echoed throughout my creaking house.

Her eyes showed no emotion as I nearly slammed the front door in her face.

 

I sped away as fast as my dad’s dog-smelling Subaru Outback could manage, blasting the over played T-Pain song that happened to be on the radio. After about five minutes of ferociously making my way down the Arlington, my phone vibrated, it was my dad.

“I just wanted to let you know that your mom has been crying for the past few minutes. She feels really bad.” I could tell by his monotone dialogue that she had forced him to make the call.

Despite her influence over my dad, the image of her crying punctured deep within my skin. I had only seen her cry a few times (not counting the kajillion times she’s cried during movies including childish ones like Shrek), and each time has sent chills down my spine and provoked tears of my own.

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell,” I quietly responded.

“I’ll tell her you said that.” 

Right before I was about to close my phone, an uncontrollable voice from within my regretful subconscious blurted out, “I guess I’ll come to your play then.”

“Thanks bud,” he said with enthusiasm.

I cringed as I finally slammed my flip phone shut. Why did I say I would go? A good U-turn spot in the road approached and before I could think again, I was headed back home. When I called to tell my friend that I wouldn’t be coming over until later, I told her that it would only be a couple hours because I knew that I would be leaving at intermission.

***

When I finally arrived outside the Aurora theatre, the woman in the will-call booth had begun to close the screen. She recognized me from when I was younger and noticed that I was out of breath. She handed me the ticket that my mom had given her to pass on to me. Written across the ticket were the words “Darling Celeste,” with a surrounding outline of a blue heart. She is so bipolar.

The play hadn’t started yet but everyone was already seated. I squeezed my tall, lanky body past knees and canes to reach my seat that was way off to one side of the small theater.  I was always given the reject seats because those were the only ones left.

 

The lights dimmed then refocused on an oriental rug-draped office and an older man getting a shot from a doctor. The man fidgeted uncomfortably in the leather reclining chair he was sitting in. I could see it all: a wise man is hurt and he relives his influential life stories, blah, blah, blah. I looked around the theater. The old woman with the smelly perfume sitting a few seats down had fallen asleep already and it was only the first thirty seconds. Oh god. But then the lights dimmed again and in the shadows I could see her.

She wore a blue dress, rain boots, a hat, and her hair was soaking. She stood in the study that belonged to the revolutionary psychoanalyst, Sigmund Freud. The colorful lights were woven together to project a glowing light around her narrow frame. Through her impatient nature and frantic dialogue with Freud we understood that she was searching for something. She was searching for an answer. I was searching for an answer too.

“All I can taste is salt,” she screamed across the stage. I never once imagined the way my mom never puts salt in any of her cooking. No. I could see her character, Jessica, with a mouth full of salt.

She was questioning Freud about a past patient, a woman who had been sent by her husband for psychiatric help. My mother’s character wanted to know what exactly Freud had told this woman, although seemingly cured of her hysterical symptoms, that had eventually led her to commit suicide. She convinced Freud to re-enact a series of sessions from a journal she brought, which is later revealed to have been her mother’s.

When I wasn’t laughing (along with the other audience members this time) at my dad’s hilarious portrayal of Salvador Dali, the 20^th century surrealist painter (twirly mustache included), I was looking at my mom and my eyes scanned her up and down. Her face seemed to scare me. It was foreign. I was staring at a British woman with a disturbing life. Who was this being taking over my mom’s body? I watched on.

“She remembered. She remembered. The mess on her breast and her fingers and the taste of salt… The taste of salt was the taste of her father’s semen. The filth on her breast that she tried to clean off was his.” Tears rolled down my mom’s face. Tears rolled down mine.

Applause erupted in the small theater at the end of the play. I couldn’t believe it was over. The two long acts had came and gone, and the highly anticipated underwear scene had never once made me uncomfortable. I had ignored the various, “Where are you?” text messages I had received from friends throughout the play. I was still lost in a world of abstract Dali paintings and was moved when my mom looked me in the eyes as she took her final bow. Jessica had left, and those eyes burning into mine were my mom’s.

            “That’s my mother!” I wanted to yell as I sat in my seat clapping away with the others, “That’s my weirdo mom.”