Bad Girls

Woke up in the middle of the night and could not go back to sleep for anything. At first, I was anxious about all the things that I've invited to go wrong in my life—Come on in! Fuck right up!—and then I was anxious about being anxious.

But finally I zeroed in on the proximal cause of my anxiety:

One of Annie's novels that I'd ordered for Max's birthday had been delivered to Linda's house, and I had asked Belinda to pick it up from Linda and deliver it to me when she met me over lunch to drop off her tax documents. (Belinda is one of about 15 friends & family members for whom I do taxes regularly.)

We met at the fabulous Hudson Taco.

"I want you to see this," said Belinda about five seconds after we were seated.

"This" was a long text she'd sent to Mrs. Neighbor Ed about Linda.

Bla bla bla... and when I went to pick up Patrizia's book, Linda started raving about how wonderful Patrizia was. But then when she answered the earlier phone message I'd left, she didn't remember I'd been over, & when I mentioned Patrizia's book, she began saying what an awful person Patrizia is and how she didn't trust her... Bla bla bla.

"Of course, that's her disease talking," Belinda added eagerly.

I sighed. "Belinda, why are you showing me this? I know Linda doesn't like me—"

"It's the disease—"

"I know that. But it's hurtful just the same because I was never anything but nice to Linda. I bought her little gifts, I stocked the refrigerator with food when I knew she couldn't go out shopping, I arranged parties for her. I nursed her for 10 days when she had that knee replacement—"

"She's never been the same since that knee replacement—"

"Please do not tell me the mean things Linda says about me. It just makes me sad. And why were you texting that to Pat of all people?"

"I thought I should document Linda's behavior."

Huh?


###

I don't think Belinda was intending to be mean. I think this was just some kind of vestigial behavior left over from her adolescence. Belinda is only a couple of years older than me, but she is of another generation, having grown up in the middle of nowhere where that kind of reflexive, petty, ingrained female spite took a long time to evaporate. Is dew on the morning grass still, in fact.

Linda's dislike is not something I would pay any attention to at all in the daytime.

It's only something that could make me anxious in the middle of the night.

And it does that because it whispers the things I was told throughout my childhood: You're dishonest, you're untrustworthy, you're worthless. Nobody could love you.

My mother's whisper.

###

My mother took about three days to die, and for most of those three days, I sat by her bedside.

Once, she sat straight up. Stared straight ahead with wild, indignant eyes. "I am not a bad girl!" my mother cried.

I wonder who she was talking to.

I wonder if I will do the same thing on my deathbed.

If I do, I will be talking to her.