Shout Her Lovely Name Read Free

will scream that you are doing this to her. Don’t cry or she will call you pathetic again. Remember that your daughter is in there, somewhere. Tell her you love her. Refuse to drive until she buckles in to the back seat. Wonder if there is an instant cold pack in the first-aid kit. Wonder if there is a car seat big enough to contain her. Yearn for those long-ago car-seat days. Think, We’ve hit bottom. Think it, but don’t count on it. Then remember the last C: compassion.
     
    For some reason, driving suddenly frightens you. When you must change lanes, your heart thunks like a dropped pair of boots, your hands clutch the steering wheel. You shrink down in your seat, prepared for a sixteen-wheeler to ram into you. You can hear it and see it coming at you in your rearview mirror. Nearly close your eyes but don’t; instead, pull over. Every time you get into your car, remind yourself to focus, to drive while you’re driving, to breathe. Fine, fine, fine, you will be fine, chant this as you start your engine. Be amazed and frightened by the false stability you’ve been living with your entire life. If this can happen to you, anything can happen to anyone.
    When your husband leaves town for business, worry about being alone with your daughter. Try not to upset her. When she tells you she got a 104 percent on her French test, smile. When she tells you she is getting an A+ in algebra, say, Wow! Don’t let her know that you think super-achievement is part of her disease. Don’t let on that you wish she would eat mousse au chocolat, read Simone de Beauvoir’s Le deuxième sexe, and earn a D in French. Begin to think that maybe you are always looking for trouble, Munchausen by proxy. Be happy when she has a ramekin of dry cereal before bed.
     
 
© Stephen Vanhorn | Dreamstime.com
     
    Hug her before you remember she won’t let you, and don’t answer when she says, “Bitch, get off me.”
    In the middle of the night wake her and tell her that you’ve had a bad dream. Ask her to come and sleep in your bed. When she does, hug her. Comfort her. Comfort yourself. Remember how she smelled as a toddler, like sweat and graham crackers. Remember how manageable her tantrums used to be. Whisper over and over in her perfect ear that you miss her. That you love her. That she will get better. Know that she needs to hear your words, believe that somewhere inside she feels this moment. In the morning, look away while she stands purple-lipped before the toaster.
     
    When your husband dedicates every Saturday afternoon to your daughter, taking her to lunch, shoe shopping, a movie, use the time to take care of you. Kiss them both goodbye and say with a forced lilt, “Wish I could come too.” Quickly shut the front door. Try not to register their expressions, the doomed shake of your husband’s head, your daughter’s eyes flat as empty skillets.
    “Take some me time,” your childless friend urges. “Get a facial . . . a massage . . . a pedicure. Take a nap, you’re exhausted. Read O magazine . ” The magazine counsels:
     
     
What to Do When Life Seems Unfair
Do you ask, “Why me?”
Or do you look at what your life is trying to tell you?
How you choose to respond to the difficult
things that happen to you
can mean the difference between a life of anger
.  .  . or joy.
     
    Instead, take a long bath. Light aromatherapy candles and incense. Pour in soothing-retreat bath oil. Even though it is only eleven o’clock in the morning, mix a pitcher of Manhattans.
    Play world music and pretend you are somewhere else. Except of course you aren’t. You know you aren’t somewhere else because as you were filling the tub you noticed raggedy bits of food in the drain.
    Wouldn’t she vomit in the toilet? Your daughter must be terrified for herself to leave behind these Technicolor clues. Get in tub. Continue adding hot water. Drain the water heater. Notice as the water level climbs, covering first your knees, then your thighs, and