Page 21 of The Me I Left Behind (Tuckaway Bay #4)

Eleven

The day Maggie’s mother threw her brother’s piggy bank against the wall, shattering the glass and sending pennies flying, was the day she realized her mother was crazy.

Maggie actually remembered thinking those words. She was five years old. Does a five-year-old know what the word crazy means? She couldn’t be sure.

But to this day, she remembered thinking it.

My mother is crazy.

And it wouldn’t be the last time she thought it.

Looking back, she realized her mother had various stressors in her life.

She was unhappy in her marriage and had fought depression for years.

She’d endured a traumatic childhood, mostly in her earlier years, when her mother, Maggie’s grandmother, had abandoned the family.

This left her and two younger siblings under the care of an alcoholic father.

The odds were stacked against her. She had no positive parental role models growing up.

There was more.

Maggie was certain her mother had affairs. Her father, too, which only heightened the tension between them. Their all-night fights were not her favorite lullabies. There was a time when her mom became very thin, and everyone was sure she was anorexic—or taking pills.

But the worse thing—the very worse—was how she could cut you to your core, take you to your knees, with her words. And in doing so, made you feel like the worse piece of shit ever.

Maggie had to wonder how her mother’s madness had affected her own life.

She’d attempted therapy for a while, to cope with the notion of the maternal control Maggie permanently felt, her mother’s disapproval of everything she did, the choices she made—the fact that even her own basic instinct told her she needed her mother’s approval for everything, even though she knew disapproval was more than likely forthcoming.

Even though her parents now lived in California, Maggie still felt the emotional vise grip.

Once, when Maggie shared in conversation—hoping to get some motherly advice—that she was concerned how Max disciplined the kids, the words flew.

They’d argued loud and long, even dragging her father into the fight.

Her mom shouted she should be happy for her situation, that Max had money, that he provided well for them all, and then finally, that she should just shut the fuck up and quit complaining.

She wasn’t complaining. She was asking for advice.

“There could be worse things in life than having a controlling husband,” her mother told her.

Maggie knew though, that there were worse things.

Like a controlling mother.

1992

Staring at the wall of tubes and brushes in the grocery store aisle, Mary Margaret Brennan wondered which one was best for her.

The red tube was supposed to make your fine lashes thicker.

The white tube promised ultra-long lashes to frame your eyes.

But the fat pink tube claimed super-sexy, lush lashes that would practically change your life.

She’d been pondering that for weeks, every time she came to the store.

“Mary Margaret. I’ve got no time to waste here. We need to go.”

She turned toward her mother. “I have babysitting money. Can I get some?” She pointed to the mascara.

Her mother’s face crinkled into an irritated frown. “Hell no. You’re barely thirteen. Mascara is for older women with thinning eyelashes.”

Mary Margaret stared. That was not true, and she knew it.

All the girls in her class wore mascara.

They’d started last year in seventh grade.

And besides, her mother wasn’t that old, and she wore it, too.

She’d seen the tubes in her makeup drawer in the bathroom.

She’d even tried to sneak some once and nearly got caught.

“But I have money, and all the other girls….”

“I don’t raise all the other girls,” her mom snapped. Then she sighed, leaning on the handle of the grocery cart. “I forgot milk. Go grab a gallon and then we’re leaving. I’ll think about it, but you’ll have to ask your father.”

She was off then, pushing the cart in front of her, the boxy shoulder pads of her equally boxy jacket bouncing along with her hurried steps. Always in a hurry.

She stared at the makeup display again. Why ask her dad? What do men know about mascara, anyway? Made no sense.

1993

“Go back and change. You’re not wearing that.”

“Mom! It’s fine!”

She’d been planning this outfit for days.

Her friend, Deni—short for Denise—asked her to go to the high school basketball game with her family.

Tonight. She’d laid out jeans and different tops, finally deciding on a T-shirt, an oversized blouse tied at the waist, some bangle jewelry and her hiking boots.

Everything matched, the colors were magnificent, and she felt awesome.

Even Jack, her older brother, complimented her when she’d left the bathroom earlier.

“Good God, Mary Margaret. That top doesn’t go with those jeans. It’s too blousy and silky. And the T-shirt clashes and is too low-cut. Are you trying to show off what little boobs you have? Hell’s bells.”

“No, Mom. I’m not. I—”

“And don’t you know better than to put two patterns together like that? A print and a solid is what you want. Not a print and a print. That’s stupid. Plus, that bandana scarf on your head is ridiculous. Take it off.”

“But the colors are perfect for each other and they all match….”

Her mother glared. “No daughter of mine is going to leave this house looking like a tramp, or like you went shopping at the Goodwill. Now, find something else to wear. Go.”

Tramp? Mary Margaret looked down at herself. It’s not trampy, is it? It’s what the popular girls wear.

She glanced at the kitchen clock. Deni’s parents were supposed to be there soon.

“But Mom. I don’t have time!”

“Change or don’t go. I don’t care.”

A car horn honked in the driveway. “They’re here.”

Her mother stared at her, hands on hips. “Well?”

“I… I guess I won’t go.”

She turned away.

Her mother went to the back door, opened it and waved, then yelled. “She’ll be right out.”

“Mom! Why did you say that?”

Her mother rushed forward, closing the distance between them, her voice raised.

“Just go. You love your little slutty outfit so much, wear it. You’ll get some attention all right.

Isn’t that what you’re after? I’m sure all the boys are going to look at you now.

Of course, the girls will just laugh. I hope to hell you do not embarrass me in front of my friends.

Now go, get on out to the car. Don’t make them wait. That’s rude.”

Mary Margaret felt the sting of tears but sniffled and pretended they weren’t there. Fake it, Mary Margaret . She’d learned a long time ago to fake things and sometimes the feelings just go away.

Be who you want to be, not who you are.

Heading out the door, she tugged the bandana from her head and stuffed it into her back pocket. With every step she took toward the car, her stomach knotted.

1994

She’s angry.

And if she knew anything, Mary Margaret knew how to watch her step when her mother was out-of-sorts.

They stood at the kitchen sink doing dishes, her mom handwashing them, while she dried and put them away. The dishwasher was broken. Mom had been pissed for a week because her dad hadn’t gotten around to fixing it.

The water sloshed in the sink, her mother’s hands frantically swiping over the plate, turning it over and washing on both sides. She placed the plate under the hot water flowing from the faucet, then handed the wet plate over.

Mary Margaret took it and dried it off, adding it to the stack.

Her mother stopped washing. She stood, looking down.

Staring down. The dirty gray dishwater swirled in the sink while random bubbles spun along for the ride.

Her mother’s hands gripped the side of the countertop and Mary Margaret could see the tiny red veins on her knuckles, just under the thin skin turning white with her grip.

At once, her mother called out in anguish, pushing away from the sink, flinging water, drying her hands on a tea towel, and throwing it across the room.

When she turned and looked at her—when Mary Margaret met her gaze and looked deep into her eyes—she saw the turmoil.

The question. Frustration. Anger.

“Mom, what’s wrong?” She kept her voice low, quiet. When Mom is in a mood, keep things low key.

Her mother twisted away, pacing back and forth in a tight circle. Her agitation was not unusual—Mary Margaret had seen her this way before—but today she seemed distressed. She did not know why.

Pointing her finger, her mother took one big step toward Mary Margaret.

“I’m going to tell you this, and you better listen to me. When you get a chance to get away from here, do it. Leave. Don’t think about me, or your daddy, or Jack. Don’t think about none of us. Just get out of this damn town. Out of this fucking house. You understand?”

Her mother exhaled then, as if letting go of a seriously enormous burden.

The thing was, it felt like it landed on Mary Margaret’s shoulders.

She’s telling me to leave? I’m only fifteen!

Her therapist had asked her once, “Do you see any correlation between the two—your mother and Max?”

It took a minute for Maggie to understand what she meant back then. Today, she could see it plain as day. “I’m not sure,” she’d told her. “Say more.”

“Both crave control. They want, need, to control you. Different reasons, but it’s still control.”

“How so?”

The therapist uncrossed her legs and leaned forward.

“When you were a little girl, it was easier for your mother to control you. You knew only what you knew, and that she was the one in charge. But as you grew older, as your world and experiences and social circles grew wider, you started deciding for yourself. Your mother felt her control slipping, so she fought to hold on to it any way she could. Unfortunately, she did that by making you feel inferior and inadequate.”

“I see.” I think.

“Why would she do that?”

“So you would continue to need her, perhaps. Or maybe because that’s what she, herself, experienced growing up.”

Maggie knew her mother’s upbringing was chaotic.

“Or, maybe… Not to contradict you, at all, but my mother grew up not knowing where her next meal was coming from, if her dad would come home from the bar or not…and she was passed around from family member to family member over the years. She had no control over her life.”

“And then…?”

“And then, once she got married and had me, she tried to control everything in her life.”

The therapist nodded slightly. “Why do you think that?”

“Because maybe then, she thought she would be happy.”

“Was she?”

Maggie shook her head. “No, because happiness doesn’t work that way, does it? Life doesn’t work like that, either.”

The therapist smiled. “Yes. That’s right.”

“Simple, but complicated.”

“Yes, in some respects.” The woman studied her for a moment.

“Max used the same tactics, you know. Belittling you. Isolating you from others. Keeping you in the house and seeing to his needs, rather than out in the work world. He made you feel inferior and full of self-doubt. He counteracted that by making you feel like he was taking care of you—he made himself your provider, keeper, savior. Am I correct?”

She was. “Why have I not seen this before?”

“Because you were too busy complying with, and pleasing, everyone else—even your kids—and not yourself.”

“You think so?”

“I do. Maggie, you’ll bend over backwards and do whatever you can to please him—whether or not you realize it.”

“Or keep him off my fucking back.”

“Perhaps that, too. But you are a pleaser.”

Maggie sighed. “Fine. Maybe I am.”

“Just think about it.”

She did. For an entire week, until their next session.

“You’re right,” she told the therapist the next time. “What do I do about it?”

“One thing at a time. Let’s start with your mother. Can you eliminate her toxicity from your life?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can you divorce her? Completely exclude her? Cut off all ties?”

Divorce? Maggie’s response was quick. “No. Because divorcing my mother means divorcing my father, and I’m not ready to do that.”

While she sometimes blamed her father—he’d done very little to protect her and her brother from their mother’s wrath when they were younger—she also knew her dad often took the brunt of her craziness, too.

Probably why he drank.

She’ll never forget that day with the therapist—when she realized she’d traded one controlling person in her life for another. It all made sense, but she also felt completely powerless.

How could she change things? What could she do about it now?

Am I moving forward, away from all that? Making the decisions I need to make?

She’d escaped a controlling mother and fell into the arms of a controlling husband— from the frying pan into the fire— with only her college years and a few more years of freedom in between.

But oh, those were good years.

And for the first time in a very long time, Mary Margaret Brennan Oliver wanted those years back.