The Perfect Comeback of Caroline Jacobs (2 page)

“I'm sure that's the case for some,” Mary Kate said. “And I don't want this to go on too long or sound combative. I'm just saying that in the spirit of volunteerism, perhaps you should all ask yourselves if you could be doing more. And if you can't, at least offer a word or two of thanks to the people in the room who are bearing the heaviest loads. A little appreciation can go a long way. That's all. But thank you for the feedback, Jessica. Appreciated as always.”

Mary Kate looked down at the agenda, ready to move on, when Jessica spoke again. “You're looking for a thank-you?”

“Excuse me?” Mary Kate asked.

“You want us to thank you?”

“No,” Mary Kate said, dismissing the notion with a wave of her hand. “I was just saying that some people might be doing a lot, and I worry that they may feel a little underappreciated.”

At this, Pauline cleared her throat. “If you're the first to arrive and the last to leave at every event, you start to wonder where everyone else is.”

“But I also understand that it's beyond some people's means to do more,” Mary Kate said. “I get that. We all have our own personal struggles. But giving a little more might not be beyond the reach for everyone. And we could at least make sure that those who are able to help out the most feel appreciated for the time that they give. It's not easy for any of us. I know. This is hard work.”

“Yes, it is,” Pauline said.

The five women flanking Mary Kate nodded.

Caroline's gaze shifted to Jessica, who looked small and alone. “Sure,” she said, her head hanging a little bit lower than before. “I just don't want anyone feeling bad about not being able to do more. Some people might not seem to be giving a lot, but they might be giving more than you could imagine. I'd hate for them to feel bad for not doing more—”

“Well, you know what Eleanor Roosevelt said,” Mary Kate cut in. “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

Pauline nodded.

Jessica appeared to shrink on her stool. Her hands came together on her lap, like a scolded schoolgirl.

“Wouldn't you agree, Jessica?” Mary Kate asked.

That's when Caroline rose from her seat. That was when she lost her composure. That was when Caroline Jacobs said
fuck
.

 

 

By the time she and Tom were pulling into the driveway, Caroline was weighing her options. She knew she needed a strategy.
Damage control,
Tom would call it. It would require a formal letter of apology to the PTO for her “unfortunate, regrettable, and inappropriate language.” Probably a personal apology as well. Caroline could do that. She could muster a face-to-face
I'm sorry
without much trouble. She'd been doing passive, disingenuous things all her life. What was one more?

It was true.
Passive
was the word that described Caroline best. It was almost her way of life. Avoid conflict at all costs. Be aggressively agreeable whenever possible. Fly under the radar. Don't stir the pot. Acquiesce and move on from difficult situations as quickly as possible, preferably with a smile. These were her mantras. Even her job as a photographer placed Caroline in a passive position, behind the lens, out of the shot, far away from the scene. Lift the camera, peer through the viewfinder, and be instantly transported from any uncomfortable moment to a tiny, encapsulated world. Capture and control. Caroline had been doing this her entire life. Dodging and weaving. Ducking and disengaging. Anything to go unnoticed. Unseen.

But now something else was happening that she didn't quite understand. There was something in the pit of her stomach that she had never felt before. Smoldering embers that had been waiting to be lit for years.

Fire
.

Caroline knew that she should apologize. She knew that she would apologize. But a part of her rebelled against this notion. Part of her—a new part—was almost refusing to even consider an apology. Part of her was still reveling in that PTO moment.

Tonight's events, and the confluence of circumstances that had led up to them, had ignited a fire within her that she didn't think possible. Yes, it was only a flicker, not quite a flame, nevertheless Caroline suspected that it wouldn't take much for it to burst into a roaring bonfire. She could feel it right there, just waiting to ignite.

She wasn't sure if she should be excited or terrified by the prospect.

two

“Do you want to talk about it?” Tom asked, pulling back the curtains and letting sunlight fall upon the bed. Caroline turned away.

“Not now,” she said. “Okay?”

Okay.
Caroline had been using the word, phrased as a question, as a means of garnering approval for most of her life. It had become a habit of sorts—her mother had pointed it out on more than one occasion—and though it had never really bothered her, the word suddenly felt rotten in her mouth.

For the first time in her life, it felt wrong.

“I'll see you later then,” Tom said. He leaned over and kissed her. “Have a good morning.”

As she brushed her teeth and pulled her dark hair back into a ponytail, Caroline's thoughts returned to the events of the previous evening. It had been ages since she had allowed her emotions to get the best of her. She honestly couldn't remember the last time. This was in large part due to her desire to avoid or diminish any situation where she or anyone else might become emotional. Caroline specialized in the suffering of tiny indignities in silence. Not complaining when the woman in the drive-thru handed her a three-quarters-filled cup of coffee. Pretending not to notice when someone cut in front of her at the pharmacy. Never once sending a single food item back at a single restaurant for fear of upsetting … well, anybody.

But there were big things, too. Like agreeing with Tom to have only one child when their original plan was for two. Deciding not to open a photography studio even though she always dreamed of a place of her own. Allowing people like Mary Kate Dinali to walk all over her.

Maybe all of this had finally led her to a breaking point. Maybe she had simply uttered one too many
Okay?
s

Pushing these thoughts aside, Caroline donned a robe and headed down to breakfast. Her heart sank halfway down the staircase at the tinkle of silver on porcelain coming from the kitchen. This was immediately followed by shame.

Disappointment at having to face your daughter this early in the morning was bad enough. Dreading any and all contact with your daughter was almost unbearable. No, it
was
unbearable. But this is where Caroline's relationship with her daughter currently stood: mutually intolerable tolerance.

Through spits and spats and bits and bites, their relationship had devolved into a permanent state of d
é
tente in which both parties avoided conflict at all costs. In many ways, Caroline no longer thought of herself as a mother, but more of a caretaker. Someone responsible for her daughter's safety and upkeep, but little else. It didn't help that Tom had somehow maintained peace with their daughter while a cold war raged around him. Caroline was happy that Polly could turn to her father in times of need, nevertheless she resented his ability to remain in good standing with their daughter when she could not.

Caroline forced a smile upon her face and entered the kitchen with as much spring in her step as she could muster. This morning would be different. If she could tell Mary Kate Dinali to fuck off, she could handle her own daughter, goddamn it.

“Morning!” she said.

Polly was sitting at the kitchen table, head hanging low over a textbook as she hoisted Frosted Flakes to her mouth from a plastic bowl. She was wearing a shirt that Caroline did not like—but this was not uncommon given her daughter's vast and unusual T-shirt collection. This morning's tee was black and white with the images of a seal, a manatee, and a panda lined across the chest. The words above the images read:

THIS SHIRT IS 100% ORGANIC.

65% BABY SEAL. 20% MANATEE. 15% PANDA.

ALL DELICIOUS AND NUTRITIOUS.

Caroline had found the shirt mildly amusing when she first saw it, but that was before Polly began wearing it, and others like it, to church functions, school concerts, and the recent statewide high school debate, where she had placed a surprising second.

The only thing the shirt had going for it, in Caroline's opinion, was that it suited the image that her daughter had carefully crafted for herself perfectly: cropped hair that looked as though it had been cut with garden sheers; an eyebrow ring and stud in her nose (neither one parentally approved); blue jeans covered in ink drawings; a tattoo of the ace of spades on the small of her back that Polly had yet to mention and Caroline had yet to acknowledge.

And T-shirts. Lots and lots of T-shirts. All of them emblazoned with sentiments just as sarcastic and snarky as this one.

Caroline had confided in her closest friend, Wendy, that she thought her daughter was becoming a Goth but had been immediately corrected. “She's not Goth. She's punk.”

Wendy explained that Goth was worse but temporary. More of a phase than an actual lifestyle choice. Goths were sullen and detached. “Purposefully disinterested,” Wendy said, which could be incredibly annoying but almost impossible to pull off for very long. “You can't not care about anything for only so long.”

“Punk,” she had said by way of comparison, “was a way of life.” It represented anger and nonconformity, but punk was still employable. Dateable. Relatable even to the nonpunk. Punk had earned some respect in the world. Punk was slightly mainstream.

“Polly is definitely punk.”

Caroline was not consoled.

When Polly didn't respond to her greeting, Caroline almost let it go, opting to preserve the peace of the morning over the platitudes and pleasantries of proper parenting. Why pick a fight when one could be avoided? On any other morning she would have done exactly that, happy to escape without a full-blown argument. But on this day, Caroline was determined not to let her sleeping-dog-of-a-daughter lie. A mingling of desire to do the right thing, along with an inexplicable willingness to embrace potential conflict, forced her to speak.

“Hey!” she said, trying to maintain a tone of cheeriness. “When someone says good morning, it's nice to say something back.”

Polly's spoon paused on its arc to her mouth. With her head still buried in her textbook, she said, “Did you know that shrapnel was named after its inventor?”

“What?”

Polly sighed. It was one of the things that she did best. She had elevated the sigh to an art form.

“A guy named Henry Shrapnel invented shrapnel,” Polly said. “You know. The stuff that kills you when a bomb explodes. It was named after him. Crazy, huh? Kind of like if mustard gas was named after Colonel Mustard. Except it wasn't. But wouldn't be great if it was?”

“Sure,” Caroline said.

“And I thought George Washington had it bad for having that freakin' bridge named after him,” Polly added through a Frosted Flake mumble.

“You're studying history?” Caroline asked.

“No. Chemistry. I'm not even taking history this semester. Geez, Mom.”

“Chemistry?”

Polly sighed again. “That's what I said.”

“Need any help?” she asked, pouring coffee from the pot that Polly had brewed for herself earlier this morning. A reminder of a dietary battle lost last year.

“Not unless you can explain the noble gases to me in the next three minutes,” Polly said. “I wish you'd let me study.”

“I know a lot about the noble gases. I'm practically an expert on noble gases. But nothing I could explain in just three minutes.” She smiled, hoping for one in return.

“Right,” Polly said, and stuffed another spoonful of cereal into her mouth.

Caroline took a seat across from her daughter, realizing that Polly had yet to even look at her. “I know you don't believe it, but there will come a day when you and I won't see each other very much. You'll be off living your life somewhere, and we're going to regret not spending more time together when you were young.”

“I believe it,” Polly said, still not looking up. “At least the part about not seeing each other every day. I sure as hell don't plan on living here forever.”

“You'd be surprised how quickly things can change.”

Polly finally looked up. “I'm fifteen, Mom. I'm not stupid. I get the whole time flies thing. It's flying by right now.” Polly looked up at the clock and winced. “Fuck, I got to go.”

It hadn't been a great conversation, but at least it had been something. Caroline didn't want to ruin it by bringing up the rule about swearing. Besides, she was hardly one to be making speeches about the use of four-letter words. She remained silent as Polly rose from the table, slung a backpack over her shoulder, tucked the chemistry textbook under an arm, and left the house without another word.

That person used to be my little girl. She used to wear sundresses and love to paint.

Polly's cereal bowl, half filled with milk, was still on the table. Her spoon lay beside it in a small white puddle.

three

The spider had apparently finished with her web for the day. Either that or she'd decided to take a much-deserved break. The gossamer threads stretched from the edge of the brick windowsill over to a teetering shelf, then across to an ancient, wooden stool, where they formed a tiny trampoline of sorts. Charlotte, the admittedly less-than-creative name that Caroline had given the small, black creature, was nestled in the corner of her web, her legs hidden beneath her bulbous body. It wasn't the best place for the spider in terms of composition, but this project had become more about web and light than spider. Lying on her back beneath the web in what seemed like the dust of a thousand years, Caroline pointed her Nikon upward, waiting for the first ray of sunlight to knife through the broken window above.