Who needs Dr. Rosario?
“On the latest issue of Cosmopolitan: ‘100 Ways to Satisfy Your Man,’” Charlie reads, flipping through the pages of the magazine. “Now this is what I’m talking about. Ooooh…” She looks up at me, intrigued. “Did you know that a female can have several stages of an orgasm?”
I turn off the gas range on the stove and toss our breakfast onto plates. “And here I thought there was only one.” I smirk.
“Well, it’s been a long time since you…” She wiggles a finger, pointing toward my lower waist. “You know.”
She always has to go there. I glare, warning her to cut it out. “Thanks for the reminder.” She catches the plate as I slide it her way.
Charlie raises her hands, palms forward in surrender. “Look, last remark about this subject and then I’m finished.” She waits for my approval. When I sit down across from her and silently start eating, she takes it upon herself to go on. Leaning over the counter with her hand cupped around the side of her mouth, she faux-whispers, “They have magical toys to help you reach any stage you desire.”
Just as I’m about to toss a piece of toast at her, my mother steps into the room. “The last thing I want is to walk in on my daughter and her friend discussing sex toys,” Mom remarks.
Why does this keep happening to me?
With wide eyes, both Charlie and I watch as my mother gracefully passes us, opens the fridge, and removes a container filled with green juice. She never misses a morning without having her self-made, healthy energy drink. She’s wearing her workout gear and the silky strands of her red locks are tied back perfectly in a ponytail. “You girls are up early,” she points out, pouring herself a tall glass of the green tar.
“More like still awake. We haven’t slept yet,” Charlie responds.
My mother nods in acknowledgement. “Ah. That explains the dark circles under Jenna’s eyes.” I laugh at her judgmental remark. This woman can ruin my day and make my blood boil within a split second. Why? Why does she feel entitled to say anything at all?
Angrily, I clink my fork against the plate, stabbing my scrambled eggs. I refuse to allow her to bring me down. I refuse to let her words ruin my perfect morning. With my mouth full, I keep my head low and enjoy my breakfast as Charlie tries to make light of the situation.
“So, Mrs. McDaniel, I see you’re going for your daily run. Keeping the body in shape for Mr. McDee, huh?” My best friend never fails to amaze me, but at this point even my parents are aware of her bluntness.
“Charlie, we’ve been through this numerous times. I’d like it if you’d refer to me as Laura. Mrs. McDaniel just seems a bit old, don’t you think?” Ha. I snort, silencing the room. I peek up to find my mother’s piercing eyes narrowed in on me. “Is there something you’d like to share, Jenna?”
Because I feel it’s my daughterly duty to be a total bitch when she is to me, I respond with an arrogant smile. “Well, Mother, last I remember you’re not getting any younger. In fact, a fiftieth birthday is slowly approaching, isn’t it?”
There it goes. My mother has a thin vein on her forehead that shoots across from the base of her left eyebrow and disappears into the right side of her hairline. When she’s upset, it pops out a bit more than usual. When she’s furious, it pulses. Right now it’s popping, not quite pulsing just yet. But I know I hit a nerve. Well done, Jenna. Well done. She knows how to push my buttons, and I know how to push hers. When we’re together, we’re lethal.
My smile falters as I watch the look in her eyes slowly change from ticked off to competitive, challenging even. Her stare still glued to me, she finishes her drink, places the cup down, and flashes a knowing smirk. “Dr. Rosario rang.” My heartbeat hammers rapidly at her statement. “You're going back. No question about it.”
The stool screeches along the tile floors as I stand abruptly. My heart feels like it’s struggling to break free of my chest. “I thought there was a confidentiality agreement between her and me.”
My mother's smile brightens. It’s a fake, mechanical, smile, like that of a Stepford wife. “Yes, anything spoken between the two of you is most definitely confidential. But when I'm paying for the weekly visits, it's her duty to notify me when and why she stops charging my account. It was an agreement we had.”
I can’t believe this. It’s just another way for her to control me. “I'm not going back,” I say sternly. I want to make her very clear of my intentions.
I’m. Not. Going. Back.
“Jenna, yes you are. These therapy sessions are good for you.”
Good for me? “You have no damn clue what's good for me!” My face heats in rage as I lean over the countertop. My fingers grip the edge to keep me from lunging at her. “You waltz around here, claiming to know everything, but you don't. You don't even know your own daughter. I question if you even knew Brooke at all.”
“Jenna, stop,” she demands.
Uncontrollable anger rushes through me. “Or maybe that’s it. You knew Brooke so much more than me. You paid so much attention to her that you failed to see that you had two daughters, not just one. You make it very clear, Mother, that I’m a lost cause, that I’m useless in your life, in this family, and in this home. You manage to make me feel everything ugly—not only on the outside, but also on the inside. You make me more broken than what I am.”
“Oh, honey,” she says softly, eyes filled with pity. “You need to stop blaming others for your failure.”
“Mrs. McDaniel…” I hear Charlie gasp in pure shock.
I’m furious. She does this. She knows how to hit every single nerve of mine. She knows how to make me ill and disgusted with a simple look in her eyes. She knows how to work me up. The question is why. Why does she continue to do this? Why does she feel the need to control my life? Does it make her feel powerful knowing the control she has over me? Is it because she’s so desperate to push me away she’ll do anything to manipulate my emotions?
“Jenna…” Charlie’s voice is distant. I barely make out what she’s saying. The voices in my head are overpowering everything—even my own thoughts. “Breathe,” I hear her say faintly. I can’t. It’s hard to breathe. My fingers grip the granite, my eyes are unfocused, and my body is trembling as I try to fight for air.
She doesn’t love you, She never has, She hates you, Why would she love you, You’re a pig, You’re disgusting, She wishes it were you that was dead, not Brooke, She would’ve rather buried your body six feet underground, You’re a waste of space, Why are you even here, Go kill yourself already and get it over with, She doesn’t care what happens to you, She’s never cared…
The evil voice continues to dominate my thoughts. Every time I try to fight through it, I falter. It roots itself down deep within. Running. Running usually works. I push away from the counter, turn around, and dash out of the kitchen, into the foyer, and out the front door.
You stupid fucking bitch, You’re a joke, No one cares about you, They all think you’re crazy, because you are, Just do it already, Kill yourself, Do it, Do it, Do it, Do it, Do it. DO IT!
I scream at myself to sprint through the voices. I need the voices to go away. I need them out of my head. They’re invading my mind. Houses, trees, parked cars all dash by in my peripheral vision. They all seem to be zooming by quickly, yet I feel stock-still, like I’m in a slow-motion movie. I’m not running fast enough. Forcing myself, I push hard, one foot in front of the other, faster and faster. Each long block fades in the distance with each one I pass.