A Not-So-Simple Life Read online

  “I never told you much about Patricia, did I?” she continues, oblivious to my general skepticism.

  I just shake my head.

  “Patricia and I were really close growing up. She was very sweet to me.” She sighed. “Our parents were a mess, Maya. I mean, our dad, mostly… I’ve told you about him before, haven’t I?”

  I nod, but the truth is, she hasn’t told me much. Just that he was a self-centered loser and she couldn’t get away from him fast enough. Not that this news surprised me much. I mean, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, right?

  “That man was one mean lowlife. He beat on our mother fairly regularly. And sometimes, if she wasn’t handy, he beat on us too.”

  I’m not sure whether to believe this or not. “He beat on you?”

  She turns and glares at me with angry blue eyes. “Yes! I’ve told you that before, Maya! Don’t you ever listen to me?”

  I quickly nod again, looking away. Do not engage. Do not rock her boat. “I didn’t remember…,” I mutter.

  “Well, I remember! There are some things you never forget. No matter how hard you try. And I remember a time when I was home alone with the stupid jerk. I was in my room, just minding my own business, and suddenly he bursts in and accuses me of drinking one of his beers.” She kind of chuckles now, and I look at her curiously. “It wasn’t funny at the time,” she says quickly. “But I actually had been sneaking his beers. I was about your age at the time, and I was pretty fed up with things at home. Who could blame me for needing a beer or two to escape the madness? Anyway, he had just slapped me when Patricia walks in and asks what’s going on. So he yells at her and tells her to stay out of it and that I’d stolen one of his precious brewskies. He was about to smack me again when she steps between us and tells him that she’s the one who took his beer. Of course that was a total lie.” Shannon pauses as if to contemplate this. “And then I just sat there on the bed and watched as he laid into her.”

  “Wow, that must’ve been hard.”

  “Yes, it was very hard…” She has a faraway look now, and I’m thinking it must’ve been a lot harder on my aunt, and that Patricia must’ve been an awfully selfless person to take her sister’s beating for her, but hopefully Shannon doesn’t suspect this.

  “He was a monster.” She takes a bite of toast and slowly chews.

  “Is that why you left home?” I know the answer to this obvious question, but maybe it will help her to talk about it, like some kind of therapy. One can only hope.

  “After Patricia left me, going off to college, I was stuck with him and Mom. I was constantly caught in the middle of their never-ending fights, and then there were the beatings… But after Mom died…well, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had to get out.”

  “So…you left after your mom died?” I’m still trying to piece these random facts together. Shannon has never told me how old she was when she left home, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t finish high school.

  She sits straighter now, smoothing her rather wild-looking hair. Because it’s bleached blond, it can look pretty strange if she doesn’t take care of it and condition it regularly, which she obviously hasn’t been doing. “And I was extremely good looking,” she continues, as if talking to herself. “Everyone said so. I knew I could make my looks work for me. And I did. There was a time when I was one of the hottest young things in Hollywood.”

  Okay, that’s a huge stretch, even for her. But maybe she realizes how delusional this is, because her chin trembles slightly, like she’s about to cry. As her lower lip droops and she makes a sad little frown, I notice she’s in need of some new collagen injections. Another expense we cannot afford.

  “I could still put my looks to good use, Maya. That is, if I set my mind to it and perhaps had a bit more work done. Although everyone says I still look fantastic for…for my age.”

  Naturally she never mentions what her age really is. Although I happen to know she hit the big 5-0 last year. Of course, no one else is aware of this top-secret fact. I mean, no one. Not even my dad. I’m not sure if he’s as gullible as he seems about this, or if he’s not good at math, or if maybe he, like me, just wants to avoid the conflict. But Shannon tries to make people believe she’s barely forty. Better yet, thirty-nine-that magical number that never changes.

  “So what would you do?” I know I’ve just stepped onto thin ice. “I mean, to utilize your looks… Would you go back into acting?”

  “You doubt me, don’t you?” Her eyes grow hot blue now, like piercing flames ready to slice right through me.

  “No…” I look away.

  “You do! You think just because you’re young and…well, somewhat pretty…that you’re better than me, don’t you? I can read you like a book, Maya. Why don’t you just admit it? You think I’m too old.”

  “I don’t, Shannon. Really. I just wondered what kind of role you might be looking to—”

  She stands abruptly, dropping her bowl of unfinished yogurt onto the cement patio, where it shatters into shards of blue porcelain splattered with white globs of yogurt and a smattering of red berries that almost look like spots of blood. In a way it’s kind of pretty. I think I could paint a picture of it.

  “What?” Shannon screeches. “You don’t think I could be hired as an actress now? You think I’m too old? Maybe you’d like to see me cast as a doddering grandmother or an elderly aunt or some pathetic old maid.” She’s glaring at me now. “Is that what you think?”

  “No, of course—”

  She slaps me hard across the face.

  Then I turn and run into the house. Still, I can’t escape her cruel words trailing me as she reminds me that I am “selfish, unappreciative, worthless, spoiled, ungrateful…” and some other graphic words I don’t care to write down in this journal.

  My prison cell is hot and stuffy this afternoon. Even with the windows open, the air barely moves up here. I wish I had grabbed my water bottle or some of those strawberries to bring up here with me. Or even a book or my laptop. As it is, I only have this pitiful journal. And the things I want to write on these crisp white pages are not pretty. They are dark and angry and hopeless. What is the point of recording all this? Really, will I ever want to read it again? Will I ever want to relive my life?

  But perhaps someone else will want to know the truth about Maya Stark, only daughter of the renowned Nick Stark. I mean, when I’m gone. And on days like today, I toy with the idea of checking out of here (and I mean permanently). It almost sounds like a good plan. Although I might not be ready for that yet. I still have some fight left in me.

  And so my plan, for today anyway, is to sneak back downstairs and go outside and get on my bike and just ride. But I’ll wait until it quiets down a little. For the last hour or so, Shannon has been stomping about the house like a wild animal, screaming and yelling and slamming doors and throwing things. I can’t imagine the mess she must be making. But I can guess who will be cleaning it up later when she finally crashes…or worse. No school today, kiddies.

  For no specific reason, my thoughts drift back to my cousin again. Kim’s probably in school right now. She’s quite the academic. Her dad even said as much. What would it feel like to have a life like hers? Oh sure, her mom died. And that is sad. But up until then, she had what I would call a rather nice life. And not for the first time, I’m thinking that it’s not fair. But that just proves my theory that nothing about life is fair. Of course, I’m only referring to my own life. There are others out there whose lives are far more than fair—they’re charmed. Perhaps that’s why my life is such a mess. Maybe these things need to balance, like yin and yang. And other than Kim losing her mom, I’d say that she’s one of the lucky ones. I mean, she had two normal, well-adjusted, kind, intelligent, loving parents to raise her. And she wasn’t even their birth child. How does that work? A kid is born in another country, given up for adoption, and lands with a couple like the Petersons. Why couldn’t that have been me? I wonder if I’m too old for adopti
on.

  Now this makes me think of my dad. And really, he’s not such a bad guy. A little selfish, yes. And a little cowardly when it comes to Shannon. But he’s basically a good-hearted person. And I believe that, beneath it all, he actually loves me. He just doesn’t know what to do about it—and to be fair, that has more to do with Shannon than anything else. She makes it nearly impossible for him to be involved with me, other than sending money. More than once she’s threatened to kill him if he ever gives her the opportunity, which he doesn’t.

  But all that aside, he’s pretty caught up in his recently revived singing career. It’s all he thinks about. Even when he e-mails me, which is seldom, he only tells me about how great it is being onstage again. I know it was tough being a has-been all these years. Sure, he’d play an occasional nightclub and a gig here and there in some of the second-rate Las Vegas casino hotels. But as someone who was a big pop star in the eighties and pretty much a nobody in the nineties, he’s more than a little excited to be booking real concerts now. Consequently, he’s busy. Too busy to be bugged by his gloomy teenage daughter complaining about her miserable little life. Although I suppose I could e-mail him and remind him to send money. At least that might make Shannon happy.

  For some reason I think of my cousin again, remembering the time Kim asked me, “Why do you call your mom ‘Shannon’?”

  I think I sort of shrugged and probably rolled my eyes, like, Why not? But she wasn’t satisfied with that response.

  “Don’t you ever call her Mom?” she persisted.

  “Not since my dad left.”

  “When was that?”

  I explained that I’d been around seven and that there’d been a big fight and that Shannon had been the instigator and that she’d probably been high or drunk or something. “So you couldn’t really blame him for leaving. She might’ve killed him.”

  “Wow, that must’ve been rough.”

  “Pretty much.” I pretended to be mesmerized by an article about recycling during this conversation. Playing my familiar role of “earth girl,” I was reading some green magazine that I’d picked up at the mall.

  “Do you see him very often?”

  I set my magazine down and gave Kim my best impatient look. “He’s busy.” I spoke to her like I was explaining something to a five-year-old. “His career is taking off again, and he has his hands full right now.” Well, that pretty much shut her up, at least for the time being. It wasn’t very nice, but it was the best I could do, considering that I wanted to tear into her. I wanted to yell and cry and carry on like a toddler, pointing out that not all parents are like her parents and that maybe she should just keep her mouth shut about me and my mixed-up family, thank you very much! But at least I knew better. I was, after all, a guest in their home.

  Speaking of their home, it was like something out of an old family sitcom. I mean, the rooms screamed “middle-class America” like nothing I’d ever seen before in real life. At first I wanted to make fun of it, but then I actually started to like it. The frumpy and slightly worn furniture started to feel homey and rather comforting—kind of like a pair of broken—in Earth Shoes or a much—laundered pair of well—worn jeans. Shannon thought it was a silly little house—and she even said as much in front of Kim and her dad—but the place really grew on me. And I was touched to see that my aunt had been a gardener too. I felt a real connection with Patricia—something I never told anyone and probably never will…except for right here in the pages of this journal.

  And when it was time to return to California, I felt very sad. Not that I let on. Over the years I have become quite a pro at concealing my feelings. In fact, I’m pretty sure I could be an actress. Not that I’d ever want to. Seriously, I can’t think of anything more revolting. I would rather clean public toilets or sell faux designer purses on the sidewalk or, God forbid, flip hamburgers at McDonald’s!

  But as I sit here in my stuffy little attic room, I can’t help but wish I were someone else…living somewhere else…with a different set of parents…and perhaps a friend or two. Unfortunately, I just don’t think that’s going to happen.

  On another note, or perhaps simply as a distraction to my never-ending troubles, how about another earth-friendly suggestion for my someday green column. Sometimes I feel that caring about the planet is the only positive force in my entire life. Anyway, for what it’s worth…

  Maya’s Green Tip for the Day

  Most people turn on the bathroom faucet and let it run full blast to brush their teeth, Now what’s up with all that nice clean water just rushing straight down the drain while you’re standing there brushing your pearly whites? Why not simply wet your toothbrush, then turn off the water while you brush? Then turn the faucet back on to rinse your toothbrush and so on. Sure it takes a little more wrist energy, but that’s a small price to pay for saving precious water. And if everyone did this, we would save millions of gallons of water each day.

  Three

  May 15

  Shannon is gone again. This time she’s been gone for three days. For all I know she could be dead. Now some people might think that I’d be glad if she was aead, but the truth is I wouldn’t. I actually love my mom. I guess I just wish she loved me. And okay, I know she does…in her own dysfunctional way.

  I’m sitting in her bedroom right now, perched on the worn cushion of the window seat, and writing in my journal. Shannon would be furious if she knew I was in here. Her bedroom is the one place in our house that is strictly off-limits to everyone, including me.

  “It’s my private oasis,” she told me one day when I was very little and had wandered in. At the time I probably didn’t know what that meant, but I heard it enough later to put two and two together. That was back when I had a full-time nanny, a sweet older woman named Jane. And as I recall, her skin was the same color as my dad’s and just a few shades darker than my own. I had somehow escaped Nanny Jane’s watchful eye that day, making it up the curving staircase and into my parents’ bedroom. Correction—Shannon’s bedroom. My dad had another room at the other end of the hallway, but I don’t think I was aware of that yet. Back then my bedroom was downstairs, connected to Nanny Jane’s room. And until that day, the first floor had been my entire world. Well, that and going outside for walks or playing in the yard. Going up the stairs was a whole new experience. But when I found I was unwelcome, I didn’t go up again. Not for a few years anyway.

  Now, as I look around my mom’s “private oasis,” I am surprised at how shabby and dirty it has become. The first time I saw this room, it seemed to sparkle with glistening gilt-framed mirrors and the shining glass-topped surfaces of polished antique furnishings, delicately arrayed with cut-crystal bottles of what I assume was perfume—or perhaps liquor. The room might’ve belonged to a fairy princess. Those were the days when we not only had a nanny but a housekeeper and a cook as well. The cook’s name was Francesca, and the housekeeper was Rosa. I loved them all. And I actually thought they were part of our family. Probably because I saw them more than my parents.

  But by the time I was five, the money was running out. Dad’s records weren’t selling, and no one was calling for gigs. This led to lots of fights between my parents, and one by one, Francesca, Rosa, and Nanny Jane all disappeared. I’m not sure if they quit or were fired. I just know that they all left within a very short period of time…and that I missed them desperately. Especially Nanny Jane. She was the only one who actually told me good-bye. And even when she did, I couldn’t believe she was never coming back.

  “You’re too old for a nanny,” my mom had told me. Then when my dad questioned this, along with her ability to care for her own child, it resulted in a huge fight. I didn’t stick around to listen to the accusations tossed back and forth, but I heard them enough times over the next couple of years to learn them by heart. She would tell him he was a “washed-up, has-been blankity-blank,” and he would point out that she was a “blanking useless blank.” Nice things like that. The only thing I could count on
between those two was that things would get worse.

  I find it ironic that Shannon still keeps photos of my dad, although they are only displayed in her room. It does seem a bit odd, considering how she claims to hate his guts. In fact, she even keeps a handgun in here somewhere, and I’ve heard her say she might use it on him someday. To be fair, she only makes this claim when she’s intoxicated or coming down from a bad high…or when he’s extra late sending money. Over the years I’ve learned not to take her threats too seriously.

  My favorite photo in here was taken when I was six. And although life at home was pretty messed up by then, you wouldn’t know it to look at this picture. It was taken at the studio where my dad always had his album covers shot, and for some unknown reason, Shannon wanted a family photo. I think it was because she was about to turn forty, or so she claimed. Anyway, she insisted we dress up. Although the glass covering the photo is coated with dust, I can see that Dad had on a dark gray suit with a pale blue shirt and a striped tie. And he looks incredibly handsome. But it’s his smile that gets me. It looks so genuine, and his eyes are so bright and clear, like he was really happy. It’s the same expression I used to see when he’d pick me up and lift me high over his head and fly me around the yard like Peter Pan.

  Shannon looks surprisingly happy too. She was wearing a gauzy, pale pink dress with what I think were real diamonds, long gone by now. She seems so dainty and delicate—pale blond hair as fluffy as cotton candy and her wide blue eyes with several coats of mascara to make the lashes appear thick and long. Or maybe she had on false eyelashes. She does that sometimes. But the general effect reminds me of a fairy princess, the type of person who might have once inhabited this room, back when it looked magical too.