Worth

The word vicarious seems closer to vicious than to victorious, does it not?

One should have known there was something a foot. Connie told me about a 'professional opportunity' with her cousin's son in Miami; "It's a distance but I'm sure your mother and stepfather would help get you there". The 'stepfather' title made my mother begin coughing and choking while Quinn rubbed her back and smiled. Too funny! I told her I would think about it and we left. As soon as I got home I rushed up stairs and changed clothes, pulling my hair into a ponytail that I wrapped into a bun. I popped back into the family room and asked, "Mommie, could you give me a ride somewhere?". "Anywhere but here dear..." she chided. She then turned to look at me over her shoulder, "To the gymnasium?" "No...the women's shelter-" "NOT again!", her volume startled Quinn who had been cuddling tete-a-tete with her on the sofa. "Moping about in UN-suitable clothing; worrying lines into your face about people you cannot help! Did you learn NOTHING from the years I spent counseling and working in the system?!" I swallowed hard to calm myself, "Then you know it is futile to attempt to stop me from doing for others when it burns within me." We continued to stare each other down as Quinn pointed out how much I was like my mother; he was actually siding with me.

I thought of how I'd lied about my whereabouts the time I was here in 2006, until the fundraiser where I was outed by a family friend. "M.~ is the most like you, Nyah...she has been volunteering at the shelters for months!" We'd argued and reconciled over Hermes scarves and chamomile tea. "We have trunk shows to attend." "I will make sure I come back home by tomorrow morning". In 2006...she thought I was clubbing when I did not return home; I was spending the night at the shelters sometimes to comfort, sometimes to babysit. We were quite silent on the ride there. I knew she was only trying to save me from the heartaches and sympathies that 'burned her out' during the years when she was at work more than home. She won accolades and recognitions...but we just wanted to see her face before school. We were old enough we did not need laptime, and we felt selfish for wanting her home. "Don't bring your work home with you", she warned as I leapt from the car and ran inside. I remembered how stories of regret begin and ran back out to yell, "I love you!". She signed the same back to me and drove off. Just after my arrival I made arrangements with the car service to pick me up at ten PM.

I awakened the next morning at five-thirty AM to a call from my friend- you know...the one who bespoke too soon? There were many 'I miss you terribly's and 'I am truly sorry to have offend you's. I appreciated them all, however, my candor invited his lasciviousness later in the conversation, and I ended the call, rolling my eyes. The quality of linens at my mother's home is spectacular; so much so I tend to bathe in the evenings and sleep in the buff. Our adjoined rooms, separated only by a frosted glass door (with a lock and shoji screen only on HER side of the door), is further secured by my lack of clothing while sleeping and my mother's desire NOT to see me as she first saw me enter this world. One dozed off again only to be awakened an hour later by a short voice on the intercomm that said, "Breakfast Princess!" I assumed it was Mommie. As I pulled on a lounging outfit and a robe, then trotted down the back staircase, I heard my nephew Genesis cooing. I walked over to his basinet and asked his mother while tickling him, "What are YOU doing here?" HER answer, "Mommie called me over to make you breakfast". "I know how to cook!" I pouted. "Are you SURE~? Because I have been cooking for you since I was fifteen!" "Mommie-!" "MOMMIE what?! We all know the drill: the princess must be catered to because she is Mommie's favorite" my sister taunted me, mimicking my mother's air and diction. I picked up Genesis and kissed his infant forehead, "To be sure, I am not. Is your nanny sick?" "Day off", she answered curtly.

My younger sister began banging pots and pans around and glancing at me less than pleasantly from the corner of her eye. "Where's Imelia?", I asked trying to coax conversation from her. "She hasn't worked here in a year; the new housekeeper is ANNA." Now I REALLY felt like a horse's bum; sure, I'd noticed there was a different woman keeping the house tidy but in all the hustle and bustle I neglected to learn her name. My sister stopped and stared at me, "Have you ever gotten tired of having everyone cater to you? I have TWO children now, but heaven forbid I tell our mother I REFUSE to come over early in the morning to cook FOR YOU!-" "If you really want to burn her britches I know how..." I interrupted, wanting to wet down my sister's fury. "How?" "Let ME cook for US." It never ceased to amaze me that I'd been married and engaged, yet everyone acted as though I had never been in a kitchen (or a bedroom). It was all just a side effect of a deeper maladjustment: my mother's need to live three different lives through her three very different daughters.

As I cooked, I explained to my forgetful younger sister the 'why?' of all this: "YOU are our mother as the virtuous young wife, knowing only one man and married to him. Devoting your life to children, husband and home. Never allowing the professional world to keep you from your duties. Tiffy is our mother as the alpha-female: in business she is highly successful and her husband and children are cheering her on. She has attained heights in the professional world our mother wanted to gain but feeling the tug of home relinquished." "No such problem for Tiff", my sister observed. "Then there is me: I am our mother had she taken another path completely. Having loved and committed but not being teetered to the ground by a family; instead flying away wherever and whenever she chose-" "You mean as a childless, well-loved gypsy in couture?", my sister could not resist biting. I self-consciously looked to the floor, "Yes...I am she." My sister's face took on disappointment, "So you DO regret being carefree, sometimes?" "Fatimah Selena, I have DREAMT of sitting on a sofa in a well-decorated home, watching a handsome but dorky man debark from a minivan with four children that look like us, and that thought has filled me with longing for what could have been- but not regret." "M.~...I have bad news...that IS regret." We sat and ate, occasionally sharing knowing smiles, while watching television and the baby as he slept.

The trunk shows were a whirlwind for me! We bought so many billowy dresses from one designer they couriered a rolling garment rack to our home. My memorable acquisitions: a distressed leather gym bag; a lemon yellow gym bag (that will be used as an avant-garde handbag for me) and eye pillows all from Lululemon; a beautiful set from Piranesi, courtesy of Quinn; five tunic dresses and a Garcelle Beauvais-Nilon dress from the Jubilee Collection (she is one of my fav poupée Haïtienne célèbre); of course there was that two days of frenzy at H. Stern's shows that left my mother and me wide-eyed and euphoric. Mommie and Quinn were QUITE generous; this normally doesn't make one suspicious except it was not my birthday or any other gift-giving holiday. Then the reason was found in one phrase: "M.~ sweetie, put on something sexy we have company coming". I foolishly assumed it was Miguel, our neighbor's son, then I recalled my mother's reaction to him. "Who might that be?", I asked nonchalantly. "Connie's cousin's son...", she was in the other room awaiting my tantrum; it disappointed by not arriving. "I thought I said I would think about it?" "How much thinking can an unemployed houseguest do?" Touche'! I frowned slightly, "Why 'sexy' then?" Without looking up from her Departures magazine she said, "The bulk of your duties require being pretty...it's sort of like a Vanna White position only you get to speak more often..." I was appalled my mother would place me in such a position, "What on earth will I be doing for him- Geisha, Escort, LAPTOY?!" Still undisturbed my mother said dryly, "You should be ten years younger for those positions...you will help him sell condos off Collins- that's all." "I'm not licensed-", I began as she finally turned toward me, "You need only be as useful as you are presently to your male admirers about town, sweetie, so chop-chop!" As I entered my room I heard my mother's voice over the intercomm, "Put on a bikini so he can see your form". I refused!

I descended the stairs to my mother moaning, "Did I not tell you to put on a bikini?!" "I will NOT display myself in that manner-" "THIS from the girl that sunbathes next to the golf greens!" "I lie next to the enclosed pool and Fatimah stands watch!" "Oh let me look at you!" I was wearing the tiniest white stretch-cotton short shorts I could find, a Ralph Lauren navy blue Julie long placket polo shirt and Christian Dior 'Miss Dior' sandals (uber-sexy camel sheer strappies at almost five inches). This was the extent of my pandering: if he couldn't see the goods in THIS he was blind! "Put on some David Yurman and go lounge by the pool!" What my mother gets me into MUST be a crime in some state. As I 'lounged' my mother told me about how beautiful this man thought she was; "Even though none of you girls really LOOKS like ME~...well, you are the closest to the essence of me." I was praying for another coughing fit, the likes of which seized her when Connie referred to Quinn as my stepfather; no such luck. When he arrived she showed him into the pool area grandly. As she spoke I knew my cue to stand and stroll over to him, "THIS- is my daughter M.~!" "Ooww! 'M~' so mysterious!" "Not know that you have met me", I answered sickening myself with my feigned charm. I gave him a once over: he was attractive (which is why my mother cared so much about his compliments to her) and well-groomed to a fault. He reminded me of someone else...someone from my past. The connection escaped me. My verdict: I STILL would not date him for a job! The answer to the 'what?' of my job description came as soon as he glanced at my feet: "Ohmigawd! WHAT size shoe is that?!" "A six- but she is actually a five-and-a-half!", my mother answered for me. "OHhh! Your feet look so yummy in those Dior's I could just eat them! Honey, if I were a lesbian I'd date you!", he finished with a wink. I was to be his skirt it seems; some woman so ultra-fem she made him look metro-sexual to those whom are still bigots about sexuality. For some reason, this made me feel a bit more useful than what I presumed. My salary is an outrageous fortune for learning a few floorplans and interior design vocabulary words. I thanked Mommie profusely! "Mommie always knows best sweetie! Mommie knows what beauty is worth!" As I bounded up the stairs, I stopped at this comment, remembering the conversation with my younger sister a few mornings prior, and thought with a heavy mind, 'Yes...and this DNA will always gain its worth'.


One should have known my mother would not overtly 'pimp me out' in such a manner, but as they get older...one wonders...