Born That Way Read Free Page B

I know it has something to do with me. I slide down against the wall and sit on the floor.
    Mom says, “There’s an article in Psychoanalyst Review about girls and horses.”
    â€œYou’re kidding,” says Dad.
    The kitchen door is ajar, and I can see through the louvers if I find the right sight line. I can see Dad’s feet. He’s still wearing his good shoes. They are my favourites with rich red-brown leather that shines even in the shadow under the kitchen table. There are little leather tassels on the top of each shoe. I would love to have shoes like this, but Dad says they are extremely expensive so I have to wait until I am a grownup with a job and money of my own. I told him that I’m old enough to have a part-time job but he snorted like he didn’t believe me, then said there was no reason for me to be in such a hurry.
    â€œApparently riding offers ways of fulfilling and working through wishes and fears that are displaced from parents,” says Mom.
    â€œHow do they figure that?” says Dad. His feet slide back under his chair then perch on their toes. Ballerina feet.
    Mom is wearing her lambskin slippers which are a million years old, all saggy and thin-soled, but I know she loves them—she’ll never throw them out or replace them. She slides them out in front of her and crosses her legs at the ankles.
    â€œWell, Freud identified a number of developmental stages—”
    â€œOh, not this again.”
    Mom starts tapping her toes together. “All right then, I can skip all that, but to put it on a practical level, perhaps she’s afraid we’re going to divorce.”
    Divorce? Why would they divorce? Have I missed something? Fortunately my dad says, “Where would she get that idea?” The tassels on his shoes are vibrating.
    â€œI run into this issue all the time at work—lots of kids worry that their parents are going to break up.”
    Sure, but not my parents.
    Dad grunts. He doesn’t seem to buy this either.
    â€œAnd I know you have no interest in the theoretical background, but it’s also possible that riding is an early adolescent phallic activity.”
    I make a mental note to look up “fallick” in my dictionary. It doesn’t sound like a bad thing, but then I hear Dad say, “Oh give me a break.”
    â€œAnd that it’s a substitute for conscious masturbation.”
    Masturbation I don’t have to look up. That was the topic of one of the more embarrassing talks I’ve had with Mom, so it’s burned into my memory forever.
    â€œShe’s thirteen,” says Dad.
    â€œFourteen,” Mom corrects him, thank goodness. “She can’t stay your little baby girl forever.”
    Dad’s feet go flat on the floor. “Why would I . . . you’re the one who—”
    â€œAnd while we’re talking about this I should also warn you that, according to the article, there’s a correlation between women’s interest in horses and idealized relationships with unavailable fathers. Which is why I thought you taking her to gymnastics would be a good idea.”
    â€œGymnastics is not going to work,” says Dad. “All she wants to do is hang from the bars and stretch.”
    â€œSee?” says Mom. “She’s obsessed with becoming taller and growing up. She wants to be an adult. It’s so Jungian. She wants to marry you.”
    â€œEvelyn,” says Dad, which is not a good sign. Usually he calls her Evie, or when he’s kidding around he says it more like “E.V.” which he says stands for “extra voluble”. I keep meaning to look this up but haven’t done it yet.
    â€œIt’s classic Electra Complex,” says Mom.
    â€œOh right,” says Dad. “So she’s going to murder you and marry me, is that how you see it? Hey—isn’t this like one of those Shakespeare plays?”
    Murder my mother? Marry my