Lessons I’ve Learnt
I fucking hate my mother.
I hate her and I will never, ever be able to forgive her. Not now. She’s locked me in again. Locked me in my own bedroom like a naughty four-year-old.
“I’m fucking TWENTY-SIX, Mother! TWENTY-SIX YEARS OLD! Unlock the door! UNLOCK THE FUCKING DOOR!” I kick the door for emphasis, but I know it won’t achieve anything, it just leaves me feeling hollow and defeated. Nothing I do now will help, it all just lines her pockets some more. Last week, in desperation, I tried to take the final way out – and I know how stupid it sounds now, but I was desperate, I couldn’t think straight – by running a safety pin down my wrists until I bled, but she found me out and by the next week the magazines were full of it: “Bernadette’s Grief: “Life without Darren Just isn’t Worth Living”, EXCLUSIVE!” . . . How stupid I was. Even if I did manage to end it all, it would only make her richer. I can see her now, black hat, white handkerchief, dabbing at eyes filled with crocodile tears. Even if I did die, even back when I was in hospital, I’ve now made her rich enough to retire now, more than comfortably.
It all started weeks ago, not that I can really remember much. For our honeymoon, Darren and I had booked two week’s in the Philippines. Not a traditional destination, I know, but Darren was the adventurous type and on the assurance of a Filipino workmate, we booked two weeks through a grassroots/adventure travel agency, but upgraded our accommodation whenever possible. I didn’t mind. Life with Darren was always interesting and exciting; he was into adventure sports, and frequently travelled abroad to pursue an adrenaline rush. So off we went, and from what I can recall, the first few days were gorgeous . . .
Next thing I remember is waking up in hospital. My mother was there. So was a reporter, and a cameraman. My mother took my hand, with uncharacteristically maternal concern, looked deeply into my eyes, tears welling at the corner of hers; she told me how glad she was that I was alive, how she didn’t know if I would pull through, she was so happy . . . I asked what happened, and she took a big sigh, more tears welling, and a dainty, manicured hand wiping them away. Then she told me. When I watched the footage back later on, it seemed more that she was reciting from script, a main role in her own, lucrative drama, but at the time, the pain and the shock blocked out all consciousness to all but what she had said.
“There was an accident, love. You and Darren were on a ferry, and it sank. You were the only survivor. You survived, but I . . . I’m so sorry, love. Darren’s gone. I’m so sorry . . . “ Choking with tears, she grabbed me in a vice like hug as my world collapsed around me. I briefly caught glimpse of the reporter grinning and nodding to the cameraman, her mouth silently saying good, good. My world collapsed, and the reporter asked me how I felt. I sobbed. I couldn’t form words. The camera kept rolling . . .
I found out later that mother started the bidding war whilst I was still unconscious. Channel 10 won the exclusive rights to either my waking moments, or, should I not make it, to my funeral. The latter would have meant less for mother in the long run, but still would have made her a nice profit. The women’s magazines, however, were where the real money was. My story was gold for all involved. Being the sole survivor of an overseas catastrophe made headlines as it was; playing up the honeymoon aspect, providing photos of the beautiful bride and her dashing groom, mother sent them into frenzy. She managed to capture the imagination and sympathy of publishers – and by extension – thousands of women all over the country, who all read in horror, telling themselves “That could have been me!”.
My mother was well-educated, and has worked for many years as a finance officer in a large law-firm, a position she still holds. Both she and my father, himself a commercial lawyer at the same firm, were highly successful and held in high-esteem by those in their respective fields. As their only child, I was provided with the best of educations, pony club on the weekend (conveniently, a photo of me with Buttercup, my mare, appeared in Woman’s Day the edition after I regained consciousness), and all the other trappings that come with that sort of lifestyle. After Dad’s death six years ago, my mother started investing with the money he had left to her, making herself very wealthy. My mother was smart, she knew the ins and outs of things; whilst I was still unconscious, based on the prognosis that I might not survive, or should I regain consciousness, might have sustained brain injury impairing my judgement, my mother successfully sought enduring power of attorney over me. Now, every interview published, every word, every photo, all the proceeds go to her. Every false move I make, she spins it into another heart-wrenching episode for the glossy pages. I am her best investment to date, and she is milking me for everything my tragedy is worth.
Darren’s funeral was held whilst I was still unconscious. I have spoken to his parents once, but although they’ve always been congenial to my face, they have never really liked me. My friends have sent cards, but I lost touch with many of them since I moved in with Darren last year, and his friends have sent their regards, but are mostly silent memories now. I still have my Miffy, although she’s getting old and snappy, even for a Maltese Terrier. The hole Darren has left in my life has been filled with anger and anxiety; regardless of how I express or suppress it, the vultures and their cameramen are waiting at the gates. Mother has tied my hands beautifully. At least, here locked in my room, I have the time and privacy to grieve for just a brief moment, and I can feel the sobs rising in my throat again.
“Calm down, darling . . . you have make up in four hours and you don’t want your face to be all puffy!” She calls through the door. Oh yes. How could I have forgotten? Channel 7 outbid Channel 10, and tonight’s all new exclusive interview will be on Today Tonight. This will be the first interview without my mother present, answering for me, but it doesn’t matter what I say, really, she stands to benefit. “Foul this up, and New Idea have already got exclusive rights to the story; however, my girl, play your cards right, and you could have a new career . . . those nice people at Channel 7 have their eyes on you, a beautiful, well-spoken girl like you . . . there’s a new travel show with your name on it, if you just be a good girl and do what they ask . . . “
I tried to point out the irony of me hosting a travel show, but Mother just laughed. The thought makes me feel sick in the stomach. But I don’t know what I can do. She is already talking about movie rights, or telemovie at the least. She has spun our courtship into some sort of fairytale; Darren and I met at one of mother’s cocktail parties, and we just hit it off, much to her approval. Yet, what to me seems like the most mundane of relationships, in the magazines appears as a beautiful tale of star-crossed lovers, he the son of a humble tradesman and me the beautiful daughter of a successful lawyer, mourning the recent loss of her father. Firstly, although Darren’s father did originally start off a tradie, he actually owned his own company, and was more a wealthy businessman than your typical tradesman. Darren and his brothers certainly did not come from a struggling family, as their $2.26m mansion along the banks of the Yarra could attest. Secondly, Dad had been dead three years when I met Darren, and although I did – and still do – miss Dad dearly, I was hardly the lost little girl I’ve been portrayed as. But Mother has me well versed, I know better than to quibble on these minor points, and all the other convenient minor points. My mother has successfully re-written my personally history into a marketable product, and I feel powerless to break out against it.
If I had friends still, someone I could trust, perhaps I could escape. I know where Mother has hidden some cash on premises for safe keeping, more than ample to skip the country . . . if only I knew where she had hidden my passport. I could change my appearance and flee interstate, but I know she would look for me and there is no guarantee I wouldn’t be recognised anyway. My room is now like a cell: she has taken all sharp, dangerous or ingestible items away, my phone, my mobile, even pen and paper are gone. She leaves me magazines, having taken all my books away and stored them in my study; I’m supposed to study them, so I know what they are looking for. I hide them under my bed, but my mother still fishes them out and replaces them on the bedside table. I’m watched constantly, and when I’m not locked in my mother never lets me out of eyeshot. I’m too precious to her now.
God, I don’t know what to do . . . I have even started thinking of ways to kill her, in my idle and bitter musings, playing around with the idea of vengeance like an amusing little toy, but even if I do, someone still stands to make money from me. That thought takes all the joy out of my daydreams. I sit here, or lie on my bed, replaying scenes, travelling back in time through my mind, telling Darren, no, how about Tahiti instead, how about Paris . . . but it never changes . . .
© Molly Cule, 2005
