A New Shell
by Leeza Pantano
I’m home this weekend, and the anxiety that comes with tugging on and zipping up an old skin has been refamiliarizing itself with me all afternoon. Last night, as my father drove me home, the atmosphere had stayed light, and our conversation never strayed past fun, so I had hoped the rest of the weekend would stay that way; it absolutely would not. There is tension in my house; it’s only a matter of which mine in the field is stepped on.
Water is slowly coming to a boil in the red electric kettle my mother bought in Kentucky on our last road trip. She is enamored with all red things, red metal things to be exact. For the rest of us, it means every time a red metal item crosses our path, it must be bought. There’s a small, red, metal antique tractor on the shelf near the TV, and a small, red, metal rocking chair on the shelf with the photo albums. A mini red grand piano that holds jewelry in its belly lives on a wooden square of the shelf nearby. A red Kitchen Aid and espresso machine sit in our kitchen. She always tells me it’s because she likes the color, but I know my mother, and she is a stubborn, superstitious woman. An old Soviet tale claims carrying a red wallet will lead you to more money, and my mothers had her red wallets for as long as I can remember.
She has one open now on the table before me. Cards are piling up on the tabletop as she rifles through its many slim, hard to pry pockets. I think she’s looking for her ID; my parents are going out tonight, and places in the city card.
“Лиза, ты видела мой ID?”
Right on schedule. I nod and walk up the stairs and into her bedroom. The ID is sitting under a red wallet my mother retired two years ago, right where I knew it’d be. I saw it there last night when we talked about what we (I) would be cleaning in preparation for my grandparents visit. One of the best things about being part of an “old school” family was that only I, as a woman, was allowed to touch and use cleaning supplies. Awesome, right? I used to try and argue, but there’s no parenting your parents, I’ve come to find; they’re far less malleable than you ever expect. I knew the old spiel backwards and forwards, could give it myself, so as she talked, I had let my eyes roam. I spotted her ID there but didn’t say anything, knowing that at some point I would be called upon to locate it, and praise always awaited the hero. Now, I grab it and leave the room, closing the door as I go.
On my way back down the stairs, I hear the kettle click off; the water has boiled. I hand my mother her ID, Cпасибо, моя сладкая, and go over to the kettle. I grab the red mug my mother bought at Disneyland a few months ago; it has an attachable lid, and a convenient hole for straws.
“Мама, ты будешь чаи?̆ ”, I ask her.
She shakes her head no, adding that she has just finished her cup and that my dad was almost here to pick her up. He was driving my brother back from his two-hour piano lesson; he has a performance coming up, so all his lessons run long and late in the evening. We’re all excited to see him play again.
My mother starts to remind me of where they’re going, but I’ve already been debriefed a few times, so I can’t help but feel annoyed. Why would I forget? It’s my dad’s birthday, and there’s a surprise waiting for him at the Italian restaurant in the city. The clasp on my mother’s red bag blinds me as she turns around, and I blink to reset my vision.
I place the earl grey teabag in my cup as she talks, paying attention to her tone. Steam rises from the water I pour into the mug. I walk over to the fridge to grab milk; Downton Abbey has reminded me of milk tea.
Usually, being able to read my mother’s moods is a gift that keeps on giving. I am, after all, her biggest champion. Recently though, it has been a curse. I know a tsk is on the way even before I make it back to the tea.
“Зачем ты кладешь молоко в чаи?̆”
The red mug in my hands reminds me all too suddenly that the color has also stood for all too many dictatorships. My mother has been on a new diet recently, and it’s working well. I’m happy she’s happy, and so is the rest of my family, but that’s not enough. To her, it means everyone should be guilt-tripped into it. Normally, I wouldn’t have even gotten the milk, but my time away has made me less inhibited. But really, I should have known better.
In this house, I’m forever seventeen; I itch under my old skin.
I take my time adding honey to the black tea, letting her question hang in the air. The milk carton stands on the counter in front of me. I look past it, at her accusing eyes.
“I want milk tea, mama. Is that okay? Can I do that?”
They are ridiculous questions, and I feel dumb asking them, but I see no other way around a lecture.
She stares at me, disappointed, but mostly annoyed. I understand– after all, I get my control issues from her. I hate that they’re what still fit after all this time.
I pick up the carton and pour milk into my tea, but its less than I normally would. It appears she’s won this round, but she’ll never know my sacrifice. I’m inflamed under my old skin; it really doesn’t fit anymore, but even though my sides are forming blisters from the friction, I cannot bring myself to take it off.
If I was truly a crab like my zodiac says, I wouldn’t still be this. My home would have changed long ago, when I truly outgrew it. I wouldn’t be as I am now, still trying to fit into last year’s armor.
My mom gets up to leave, a text from my father on her phone. We say goodbye. Пока, мама, have fun, I dutifully say as I close the door behind her.
My tea is forgotten in the kitchen. I end up pouring it down the drain anyway; the milk had curdled, and was floating in meaty chunks at the top of my drink.