Silence Protect Me

After some rushed walking Beth and I were standing anxiously at my front door, Beth’s finger jammed firmly on the doorbell. From inside, I could just hear the polyphonic tinkle of the novelty doorbell (chosen by my mother, of course. She thinks it’s just “so precious”, like with other tacky things). Above the computerised tune there was a click, click, the kind of sound that can only truly be made by walking on polished wood in 3-inch stilettos. My hands clenched momentarily, a natural reflex brought on by thinking of my mother and her fake way of life.

Beth saw this, of course. She looked at me quizzically, as she often does when I vent my emotions through my hands. I slightly shook my head, trying to silently reassure her that it was nothing. If she thought I wasn’t right, she wouldn’t stop asking me about it for hours.

The clicking came closer to the door, sounding almost like a complex rhythm. I could imagine what my mother would be doing on the other side of the door. First she would readjust her dress, making sure her newly purchased assets are on show. Then she would reapply her lip-gloss, inspecting the toxic plumpness under her stretched skin. After that it would be her hair, she always gave it an emergency spray with her secret tube of anti-frizz. All in all, it would be about five minutes before she actually opened the door.

I twisted my fingers behind my back, wondering anxiously exactly how badly the argument would be this time. Usually they consist of snide insults flying through the air like poisoned barbs. Occasionally they bring the kids into the argument and accuse each other of not considering their welfare. Actually, though, my mother does most of the accusing. Dad doesn’t like to say anything. Usually he’ll just sit there silently until the verbal barrage gets too before finally snapping and shouting something back. Tyler bursts into tears when the yelling starts, his red maw on display as he roars like a scared lion. They ignore him mostly, or use his crying to take shots at each other. Sometimes Deedee cries too, her face turned down to her plate and little silver tears splashing into her food. I alone stay silent and blank at the table.

The stylish opaque glass door swung inwards, my mother’s cosmetically enhanced face peeking out from behind it. Her dangerously high knife-edge cheekbones had some sort of glitter on them that glinted in the fading light. Typical. Another famous thirty-year-old female that wants to look like a teenager. Without even seeing the rest of her body I could deduct she was probably donning a tiny skirt tighter then a sandwich wrapper. Her artificially widened eyes looked blankly at Beth and I under her grandly decorated eyelashes.

My mother is a Hollywood Housewife to the bone.

“Ivy, how nice of you to finally join us,” she greeted me stonily, ignoring Beth’s existence entirely. Her arched eyebrows twitched slightly- I assume she was attempting to frown at me. Unfortunately for her, with the amount of poison she pumps readily into her forehead, that sort of muscular manoeuvre is quite unattainable.

“We were held up at the park, Mrs Wright,” Beth answered for me, refusing to be daunted by my mother’s cold front. Behind her bravado, however, her lip trembled. Beth is terrified of my mother. I don’t see why. My mother may look imposing, but in all truth she has about as much substance as a rice wafer.

“Oh, hello, Beth. I see we’ve acquired another guest,” my mother said smoothly, her politeness not masking her open dislike for Beth. Beth and my mother rub together like sandpaper, both trying to wear each other down and getting nowhere in the process. My mother is everything Beth hates about society, and my mother knows that. My mother also knows Beth has a considerable influence on me, being truthfully my only real friend. In short, they just can’t stand one another.

“I invited her along, Mother,” I said quietly, refusing to look anywhere but the ground I was stood on.

“’Mother’ is very old-fashioned, even for you,” my mother retorted, using my interest with history as a foothold. “Why not call me Mom, like the other kids? Or even just plain Teresa?”

I didn’t dignify her with an answer, instead sliding past her trinket-covered body into the brightly lit front hall. Beth following tentatively, treating my mother like she would a venomous snake. I could already hear a roar of laughter from the newly renovated kitchen. Obvious it was my Dad and his band mates. I quickened my steps, wondering if I’d be able to tiptoe around my honorary Uncles and newly home father.

No such luck.

The minute I slid into the room I was grasped into a big bear hug, nearly suffocating in someone’s shirt. I heard some shrill laughter and knew instantly that if I looked down I would see Tyler and some other little one wrapped around my legs.

No one ever seems to realise just how much I hate being touched.

“You took your time getting yourself over here!” my Dad exclaimed, putting on a theatrical show for the benefit of his audience. I blankly stumbled through my role in the charade, letting myself be hugged and slapped on the back before wriggling out of the fray. As I suspected, Tyler and little Frankie (Mike’s youngest daughter, just turned four) were zooming around my ankles, giggling maniacally as they chased each other around.

“Frankie, stop trying to tie Ivy’s shoes together,” I heard Mike say calmly as his descendant buzzed around my feet. Dad grinned mischievously.

“Hey Mike, I’m flattered, but why name your kid after me?” he asked, using a joke he had been making for the last five years on every occasion. Mike sighed in annoyance, rolling his eyes to the heavens.

“My wife thought Francesca was a pretty name. That was before she met you.”

Behind Mike, his wife Elise chuckled, patting her annoyed husband on the shoulder.

“Don’t mind him. It’s not his fault he can’t come up with any better jokes.”

“Uh, not true! I have plenty of jokes!”

“Not from what I’ve heard-“

“Hey, quit interrupting! I was still talking to Ivy,” Dad chided, giving me a sly smile. “Where were you? Hanging around the park with Beth again? You guys seem to be hanging out together a lot all of a sudden-“

“Yes,” I replied stiffly. Dad whistled.

“Jeez, all I did was ask, Ivy!” he joked, pretending to nudge me in the ribs. “No need to snap. Is there something going on between you two I should know about?”

He went to nudge me again but I stepped back, alienating myself. I don’t like it when people make jokes like that. Those jokes are silly and unintelligent, the humour of fools. I find enough of that kind of stupid humour at school without having to comply to it at home.

“Okay, Tre, I think he’s had enough of hearing your voice for today,” Billie’s voice loomed from behind me. He placed a hand on my shoulder, grinning at Tre. “You’re the lucky one, Ivy. We had to share a tour bus with that asshole for months!”

“Bill, I’d appreciate if you don’t teach my kids to swear just yet,” Mike remarked, picking up Frankie and balancing her on his hip. Billie rolled his eyes.

“You sound like Adie. They’re going to pick it up some day anyway, you know!”

The conversation faded away to nothing with the appearance of my mother, a slender glass poised delicately between her pincer-like nails. I heard someone audibly groan as she crossed the room, making sure everyone was looking her way before uttering her information for the crowd.

“Dinner’s served.”

That was our cue to file into the dining room, lining up behind our chairs like lambs for the slaughter. I was sat between Deedee and Billie, across from Frankie and Tyler in their special seats (Tyler doesn’t technically need the chair, he just refuses to sit in a normal, ‘grown-up” seat). The chairs scraped mournfully across the floor as the unwilling dinner party took their seats at the notorious table. Next to me, Deedee sighed quietly. She could probably sense there was going to be an argument, however much none of us wished for one occur. I quickly checked the wine bottle in the middle of the table. Three quarters empty, and only my mother would have had the opportunity to drink some of her secret stash in the kitchen. I didn’t know if that bottle was her first either.

My mother waited until every last person had taken their seat at the table before venturing back to the kitchen to fetch the actual meal. Around the table, faces turned to each other and quickly tilted back down again, afraid of aggravating unwanted attention from their fiery hosts. Deedee’s eyes caught mine for a second, shining in the light like polished lapis lazuli. I could see from my seat that her fingers were twitching behind her back as she recounted numerous facts. That is her way of coping, I guess, surrounding herself with knowledge instead of my safe and righteous silence. Everyone needs their own sort of coping strategy at our family table, when the shots start flying over the table.

And of course, the deadly fire always starts just when the food hits the table.